Page 26 of Kidnapped By the Mafia Boss
Opening my eyes, I see Voronov regarding me in dark shadows, and my pulse slows. I stop fighting. The room is almost black, only a hint of dawn creeping in through the windows, so it takes me a moment to realise I’m in his bedroom, under smooth white sheets.
“You were having a bad dream,” he tells me in a rough low tone. “It was just a nightmare.”
“It wasn’t a dream…” Everything from the past day flows back. How kind Voronov was. The answers to my questions, even when I could tell he didn’t want to say anything. The way he listened to me, and made me feel like the centre of his attention. Our first date that was perfection.
His expression goes droll. “It’s possible I hallucinated that you were screaming, and all mixed up in the bedsheets. Just not very probable.”
The mattress feels even more comfortable, and his arms snugger and stronger. I’m in the right place.
But still… “No, that happened. It was a memory.”
His brow furrows.
“I’ve remembered what went on the night of the date. Not perfectly clear.” I couldn’t identify the knife in a lineup, but I know for sure Howard had one. And I remember our conversations. And most of all, I recall Voronov’s voice coming through the door straight after I made that plea for help. “He lured me to his room saying he had a sick puppy.”
Voronov smooths a hand on the small of my back soothingly.
Realisation dawns. “You were my first kiss.”
“I know I was,” he replies patiently. “I’m glad he didn’t kiss you, but I’m the first you chose. That’s all that matters.”
Sudden awareness slams into me. I’ve kicked off the covers, but Voronov’s lithe, muscled body is close to mine in bed, and my leg brushes cool denim. He hasn’t been here for long. We’re both on our sides, in bed, and he has his hand on my upper arm, caressing me slowly. My nightgown is white silk that skims my bottom and caresses my nipples. He’s naked to the waist.
He’s big, and intimidating, and I’m his captive.
Was.
He told me I could leave when I recovered from my amnesia. And there’s one thing I’m certain about with this kingpin—he’s a man of his word.
I was getting rather used to being here with him. I know it sounds unhinged, but I want to stay. All the fantasies I’ve had are about a man exactly like him, taking exactly what he wanted from me. Chasing me down and making me his.
I close my eyes and wish, wish, wish myself back to sleep. To deniability. Maybe I pray for Voronov to have amnesia?
Could I sneak out of bed and hit him on the head? Could I fall back asleep and pretend this didn’t happen?
“Jenna,” he murmurs.
Voronov isn’t asleep. He’s reached up and is stroking my hair, his massive biceps a protection against the world. I could cry for how nice it is. But this situation is like waxing. It will hurt and be so messy if I delay or try to do it gradually. I have to rip it off. Immediately.
I sit up and steel myself.“You said I could leave when I got my memory back. I want to go.”
He blinks slowly. “When?”
“Right now.” Before I bottle it. Before these memories begin to eat me alive. Before I beg him to let me stay.
Before I fall in love.
My heart squeezes painfully. Too late.
Voronov reaches over and flicks on the bedside lamp, bathing the room in yellow light and making the outside seem pitch black. He lays back on the bed, revealing a chest covered with tattoos and looks up at me, brow furrowed. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is.” I choke out the lie as I take in the tattoos that cover his arms and pectorals. At his left wrist there are fir trees pointing up to his elbow, then hills that give way to more trees, and higher-peaked mountains. At his shoulder a sun shines around the clouds. Roses and thorns climb over his back and down his chest, merging the design into the forest and cliffs.
He’s sharp and lyrical, this Russian mobster. He’s beautiful. A work of art. And then the parts without tattoos are just as compelling. A smattering of hair over his solid muscles, and a trail that leads down to the waistband of his partly-buttoned jeans.
He was sleeping naked, and threw them on when he heard me having a nightmare and came to comfort me, I realise.
My stalker is the kindest man I know. The only person to be generous and understanding to me in years, or maybe my whole life.
