Page 18 of Ruinous Need
“I could.”
I want her to feel the force of my presence. I want her to acknowledge that her heart is beating rapidly right now, like mine is, however clear and steady those sea-green eyes are.
“Is that supposed to scare me?”
Obviously. “It should scare you.”
“No. I refuse to be afraid of you, pretty boy.”
Pretty boy? I stalk closer to her, my shoulders tense. I fold my arms over my chest, my fists balled tight.
“What did you just call me?”
“Pretty boy.” She swallows once. The first sign of fear. To my surprise, she reaches out a finger and traces my cheekbones gently.
The trail of heat surges in an intoxicating wave through my body as I stand, stock-still. Once again, unable to control my response to this girl. “You have gorgeous bone structure.” Her voice is unsteady now and I take that as a win.
“There is nothing pretty about me, Lisette.” I trap her hand against my face and pause for a second before I rip it away. I back away. She knocks me off-kilter.
“You try to hide it. With muscles and tattoos and frowns. But you have a kind face, Viktor.”
“You are a hostage. Not a guest. Remember that.” I scrub a hand over my face as though I can erase the heat from her touch. Erase the fact that she ever touched me.
I grab my car keys without another word.
Fucking typical from Semyon.
Putting me in charge of a hostage who’s some superhuman test of self-control. This is just another one of his mind games.
I slam the door and head out without breakfast or coffee. Just to get away from her.
Another messy day.
The first interrogation ends with our SUV riddled with bullet-holes after we missed an entire safe-house full of Irish soldiers. How they knew we’d be in Manhattan, across the city from their territory, is a mystery to me.
Everything feels messy at the moment.
Semyon’s intelligence isn’t as good as it used to be.
Every step we take into Irish territory feels like an uncalculated risk. I’m half-expecting a land mine to explode under our feet.
“Are you alright?”
Markov’s looks at me expectantly. “You seem… Moody.”
I fix him with a scowl.
“I didn’t sleep well.”
“How’s the hostage?”
I give a weary sigh. “Fine. She’s fine.”
“Not the reason for your mood?” It’s like he can see right through me sometimes.
“Obviously not.” I let my tone turn clipped, trying to close out the conversation.
But Markov can sense he’s hitting a nerve. “I can’t imagine you like having someone in your space.”
