Page 139 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

I laugh. “Is that what you think of me?”

“It’s what I know of you,” she corrects. “But you agreed to his conditions. You wanted Elise to work. Somehow, you knew what was best for her when I didn’t.” A cloud settles over her face, dimming her smile.

“It’s always easier to solve a problem when you’re on the outside of it,” I say gruffly. “I’m not emotionally invested.”

“Because it’s my sister or because you’re never emotionally invested?”

“I learned early how to make decisions based on logic. Based on what would serve me best.” I shrug. “My emotions don’t control me. Only I control me.”

“Must be nice,” Belle scoffs. "I'm controlled by everything. My emotions, my sister's emotions, the need for money and security… Hell, I'm only awake right now because I can't stop thinking about a donut.”

"A donut?"

"Or a muffin," she sighs. "Maybe a jam-filled pastry. Ooh, or ice cream. Or chocolate."

Her eyes are dreamy, focused on the middle distance like she’s staring at a mirage of desserts floating before her eyes.

I snort. "Sugar. You want sugar."

"Desperately.”

"Then call room service."

"I tried, but the kitchen closed early tonight."

"And?"

Belle blinks up at me, her hazel eyes a fitting shade of caramel brown tonight. "And… it's closed. There's no one to make or deliver food. Unless I want to change out of my pajamas and hunt down a bakery somewhere else, that's all she wrote."

“To be honest, I’m offended.”

Her face creases. “What? Why?”

"After everything we’ve been through,” I say, shaking my head, “after everything you’ve seen… you really think a locked door can stop me?”

She bites her lip in a nervous smile. I stand and offer her my hand. “Come on.”

Even though no one in the building—in the world, really—has the authority to stop me from breaking into a kitchen I rightfully own, Belle still insists on whispering like a thief as I unlock the door.

“Maybe we can still charge everything we take to the suite tab in the morning,” she says. “I’ll call and tell them what I took. Or maybe you can. Or—”

“Jesus Christ, woman. Get inside and grab whatever you want.”

I flip on the lights. Belle scurries towards the industrial-sized freezers like a mouse caught in the act. A mouse in a very tantalizing silk pajama set, to be specific. The shorts are high around her thighs, and I can’t stop staring at her tight ass beneath the shimmering fabric.

I told Belle my feelings don’t control me. But right now, that feels like a lie.

Because all I can think about doing is tearing that silk off her and devouring her right on the kitchen counter.

“Where are the bowls?” she asks, popping her head out from behind the freezer door. “The ice cream tubs in here are huge. I just want a bowl. A little bowl. And then maybe a baggy of toppings. Are there chocolate chips anywhere?”

I grab a metal rolling cart and wheel it into the walk-in. Then I start loading it up. “We can take a gallon of vanilla and a gallon of chocolate. Give me that whipped cream. Do you like chocolate syrup or caramel?”

“Nikolai! This is too much!”

“Both, then,” I say in answer to my own question as I add two jars of homemade sauce to the cart. Then I wheel the cart back into the kitchen and head to the pantry.

“That’s enough,” Belle hisses. “Nikolai, c’mon!”

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