Page 89 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

More to the point, it's proof that she feels this animal thing between us, too. She just can't fight it off as well as I can.

“It would be easier to kill me,” she whispers.

Her breath is warm on my face. “Maybe. But it would be much less fun.”

Belle licks her bottom lip, and I want to take it in my mouth. I want to taste every part of this confounding woman.

And based on the way her eyes are taking me in, I think she feels the same way.

Suddenly, she exhales sharply and pulls back. As far as she can while still being restrained, anyway. But when she jerks away, I notice her wince.

“Are you hurt?” I ask, stepping back to assess her.

She shakes her head. “It’s just my ankle.”

I look down at her leg. It’s obviously injured. The swelling I noticed in the stairwell has doubled since I tied her up and her ankle is pressing tightly against the ropes.

I grab my knife off my desk—the same one I plunged into a man’s neck not even an hour ago—and cut the ties around her right leg. As soon as she’s free, Belle straightens and bends her knee. Then she tries to roll her ankle, but winces again.

“Stop moving,” I bark.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Just let me go.”

I ignore her and turn to my minibar. It looks like a normal wooden cabinet, but the bottom drawer is a freezer and the top drawer is a refrigerated liquor cabinet. I reach into the freezer and pull out a handful of ice.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m not making you a drink, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I wouldn’t accept it anyway,” she hisses. “Might be poisoned.”

“There are much more interesting ways to kill you if I chose.”

I drop the ice on my desk and start unbuttoning my shirt with damp fingers.

“What are you doing now?” she asks again with even more urgency in her voice.

“Why?” I taunt. “Interested in filming a sequel?”

Her top lip curls in disgust. “You’re a pig.”

I peel my shirt off, not missing the way Belle’s eyes trail over my chest and abs. Then I tie off the end of my shirt sleeve and drop the ice into it.

When I turn back with the makeshift ice pack and kneel in front of her, Belle presses her knees together.

The urge to part her legs and make her feel better in an entirely different way is almost overpowering. But I resist the desire and press the ice pack against her ankle instead.

She winces but lifts her foot slightly as I secure my shirt around her leg, one of my hands gripping her lean, smooth calf. Her skin is warm against my fingers, her muscles trembling.

“You can stop shaking. I’m not going to kill you, Belle.”

She forces her body to still. “I know. I’m not scared of you.”

“I didn’t say that.”

She looks down at me, her brows pinched together. “Huh?”

“I said I won’t kill you. I didn’t say you shouldn’t be afraid of me.”

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