Page 43 of The Enforcer's Vow
This time, I don't resist. I let him pull me closer, let his hands roam down my back and settle at my waist. The champagne glass slips from my fingers and shatters on the hardwood floor, but neither of us stops to look.
"I need to know," I whisper against his mouth. "About Damir. About why he really came here."
He pulls back just enough to study my face. "Why do you think he came?"
"Because he's my brother. Because he's family." I press my palms against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my hands. "And if he's family to me, then maybe... maybe you'll show him mercy because I'm your wife now."
His expression shifts, becomes unreadable again. "Is that what you want? Mercy for your brother?"
"I want the truth."
"The truth is complicated."
"Then uncomplicate it."
He stares at me for a long moment, and I can see him weighing his options. Finally, he speaks. "Your brother is in deep with people who don't forgive mistakes. The batch that killed Alexei—it wasn't random. Someone wanted him dead, and they used Damir's supply to do it."
"You think Damir knew?"
"I think Damir has been playing a game none of us understood." His hands tighten on my waist. "And now he's running scared."
Damir, my brother who raised me, who taught me to survive in this world—could he really be capable of murder? Could he have looked the other way while someone used his drugs to kill?
"I don't believe it," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know they sound hollow.
"Belief doesn't change facts."
"And facts don't change family."
He studies me for another moment, then nods slowly. "No. They don't."
The admission feels fragile between us, a small crack in the wall he keeps around himself. I want to push further, want to ask more questions, but something in his eyes stops me. Instead, I reach up and touch his split lip again, and this time, he doesn't pull away.
"Does it hurt?"
"No."
"Liar."
His mouth curves slightly at the corners. "Are you going to kiss it better?"
The question is teasing, but his voice carries an edge of something deeper. Heat spreads through my chest, settling low in my belly. "Maybe."
He backs me against the wall, his hands braced on either side of my head. The plaster is cool against my shoulders through the thin silk of my dress. His mouth finds mine again, and this time there's no hesitation. I taste blood from his split lip, metallic and sharp, but I don't pull away.
His hands slide down to my waist, then lower, gathering the fabric of my dress. The silk whispers against my skin as he lifts it, his knuckles brushing against my thighs and when his fingers trace the edge of my underwear, all rational thought disappears.
"Zoya," he breathes against my neck, and my name sounds different in his mouth. Not the harsh consonants I'm used to, but something softer. Something that makes my chest ache.
I reach for the buttons of his shirt, my fingers clumsy with need. He helps me, pulling the fabric over his head and tossing it aside. His chest is lean and defined, the tattoos on his arms extending across his shoulders in intricate patterns. I trace one with my fingertip—a skull wrapped in thorns—and feel him shiver under my touch.
He steps back and runs his palm down the front of my dress, eyes fixed on where the silk clings to my skin. “Take it off.”
I reach for the straps and ease them over my shoulders, letting the fabric fall to the floor in a soft puddle around my feet. The lace beneath feels too delicate, too bridal. He stares like he’s already stripping it away in his mind.
“Turn around.”
I shift under the weight of his voice and pivot slowly, letting him see me from every angle. His hand lands at the base of my spine, firm and possessive as he walks me toward the nearest wall. I plant my palms against it when he stops behind me.
