Page 40 of Devil's Vows
She’s definitely never seen a real man without a loincloth, and half of me wants to drop the towel just to watch her reaction.
“See something you like,moya ptichka?” I ask softly as water drips from my still-wet hair over my clavicle, down my pec, barely side-stepping my nipple before it falls to where I’m slowly tenting my fucking towel.
Her eyes follow the droplet’s progress until it hits the bull’s eye. She jerks her head up, and with a sharp inhale, turns away, no longer looking at me.
“You have tattoos. This morning at the park, I—I…didn’t notice any.”
Oh, she’s one of those tattooed-man-is-bad-man types. Not wrong, actually. I’ve never pretended to be good. I’m in the fucking Bratva. If she really gets to know me, she’ll realize I’m as good as the Devil himself. I’m going to burn in Hell for everything I’ve done, and as they say, I’ve just started. The Petrov Bratva is mine now, and nobody fucks with what’s mine.
I don’t have tattoos for the sake of having them, as art on my body. They’re a family tradition, inherited from the origins of my great-grandfather’s organized crime ring. The prior generations of men, fathers, uncles, and brothers, who walked a very different path than mine. Men who spent a shit ton of time in prison or labor camps—but who laid the bricks for the road out of Russia for my father to come to the US when the Soviet Union started floundering. Men with long-term visions I’ll build on, honoring their sacrifices, and making the Petrovs one of the most powerful families outside of Russia, as I vowed to my father I would do.
No wonder Chertnikov wants the Petrov Bratva for himself. He feels threatened. As he should. The deal with Darya fell through, and I might not be entitled to more, but I didn’t sign up to have a wife likeher. You only fool me once.
This little one would do just perfectly. Shy, untouched, as clean and sober as the day she was born.
“My tattoos are for your eyes only, Gabriella.” I step up to her, and I’m not sure why my little bird hasn’t fluttered to asafer perch yet. The ink on my skin is sacred. I don’t flaunt my tattoos; in fact, I keep them hidden.
She’s frozen on the spot, and I reach for her chin gently, making her look my way.
“Why don’t you have a proper look,moya ptichka?”
21
GABI
Little bird…
I should say something—anything. Ask him whatmoya ptichkameans, but I’m caught. A hummingbird in a spider’s web, wings seemingly glued, too tense by this sense of danger to open them and fly off. Even worse, the more I struggle, the tighter the web will wind around me.
It’s his alpine scent, fresh from the shower, his body hot and wet, distracting me, making my legs powerless. It’s the perfect contours of his arms, each muscle accentuated by shadows that fall from the bedside lamp he switched on. His body encapsulates pure male strength, contained power…and now…and now he istouchingme, so gently, as if the smallest force could break my bones. His eyes search mine, and I’m drowning in their blue of an endless ocean.
With the slightest quirk of a brow, he instructs me again, if silently, to have aproper look.
And I want to so badly, I ignore how wrong all of this is and breathe him in, allowing myself to stare at his perfect male body, basically the rabbit hole to lust. My gaze roams. Takes in, soaks up, inch by inch, the wide expanse of his chest. The finedusting of hair over his pecs and his darker nipples, pebbled like my own.
I can’t stop myself, even if the thought heats my cheeks up even more, because if he looks down, he will see how my breasts press against my nightshirt, my nipples embossed against the fabric, seeking friction, seeking touch. It’s a novel feeling, because I’ve always been able to suppress my sensuality, but I’ve never been in the presence of a man like him.Ivan. A man who is barely dressed…
But he isn’t looking down. He is gazing into my eyes as I peruse him, taking my time to tally all the black ink on his skin. Stars on his shoulders, a skull with daggers on his one pec, on the other writing in Cyrillic script I don’t dare decipher now or I’ll give my lie away. On his sternum, there’s an eye that stares, unblinking, at me. The eye that sees everything. It sends a chill down my spine.
As if Ivan feels my physical response, he brushes a tender line along my jaw with his thumb, and I burst out in goosebumps that rush down to my sex.
“Breathe,moya ptichka,”he instructs me then, his thumb on my lips, gently smoothing over the bottom one.
I drag in a soft rush of air as the featherlight brush of his thumb cascades down to rest between my thighs.Oh, no?—
“Good girl.”
At his soft praise, an intense pulse shoots through me, fueling the building need I always suppress. Two simple words, but they jolt something in me… and his tone…his tone makes me want to be everything but a good girl, especially not when wet heat flushes in my core as if he commanded it.
Oh, yes…
I blink at my body’s reaction to those two little words. Then I register his tattooed eye on me, watching, seeing—knowing.
My mind hits the wall, built sturdy and high through years in a system that chantsthis is sin.In a flash, I’m reminded why Ialways fell back on that fucked-up doctrine, simply because it’s the easiest way to flush away memories in the moment and not relive my trauma.
I tear my gaze away. I must step away from him, push back at my body’s reaction to his. I can’t…I can’t feel this. Not for this man. Not for any man. Ever.
With a forced and painful swallow, my gaze travels up to the hollow at his throat and the smooth lines of his clavicles, which underline the strength of his shoulder muscles.
