Page 22 of Paved in Hate

She gives me a quick nod, face flushed and fingers fidgeting with the bottom of her sweater. It has not escaped my notice that it’s ridden up a bit, revealing more of those thighs I’m dying to explore. Her legs are shapely and look like they’d feel pretty damn good to have wrapped around my waist.

Pushing the thought aside, I run the warm cloth over the first foot and then slowly start inspecting each cut for tiny shards of glass. When I spot one, I grab the tweezers and remove it while she gives a soft whimper that goes straight to my dick. Raising my eyes to hers, I watch her parted lips suck in another lungful of air, and when her tongue peeks out to wet her bottom lip, I nearly let out a whimper of my own.

Forcing my attention back to her foot, I finish my inspection before checking the other one. When I spot another sliver of glass, she lets out another soft moan and tries to jerk her foot away. I grip her ankle to stop her, but she’s still wiggling, and the movement causes her dress to rise up even more, and when I catch sight of a pink pair of panties, I forget what the hell I’m supposed to be doing. I’m frozen in place by a pair of fucking pink, cotton panties. I’ve seen women in all kinds of lingerie, and none of it has ever affected me like this.

Maybe it’s the modest innocence of it, maybe it’s knowing that beneath that thin scrap of fabric is an untouched pussy, or maybe it’s the small wet stain I see blooming between her thighs the longer I keep staring. I’m guessing it’s a combination of all three. The perfect trifecta that makes me want to kneel between her spread thighs and beg her for the opportunity to bury my head between her legs.

“Vitaly,” she whispers, drawing my eyes back up to hers. Her blue eyes still look scared, but there’s something else there now, something that has my cock straining against my jeans and my heart rate speeding up.

I can’t fuck her. I scream the words in my head over and over again and force my eyes away from hers and back to her bleeding feet.

“Try to hold still for me.” I grab the tweezers again, but before I can pull out the piece of glass, she tries to wiggle away again. “Katya, I have to pull this out.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“How long have you been drawing?” I ask, trying to take her mind off what I’m about to do.

“You saw my sketchpad?”

“I did last night, yeah. You’re very talented. I really liked the magpie.”

“You did?”

She seems so surprised by it that I briefly look up to meet her eyes before looking back at the cut with the small piece of glass sticking out of it. “I did, yes. I remember seeing them in Moscow all the time.”

“They’re my favorite bird.” She hisses out a breath when I start to pull the piece of glass out.

“Why?”

“They’re really smart.”

I can tell she wants to say more. I lift a brow at her. “And?”

She winces when I pull the shard of glass out. “And they can recognize themselves in mirrors.”

“And?” I ask, trying to hide my smile because I can tell she’s avoiding telling me why she’s really drawn to them.

“And they mourn when their mate dies,” she finally says.

“They do?”

“Yeah, they mate for life, and when one of them dies, they’ll act differently, and they even sing a special mourning song.” She gives a small shrug. “I always thought that was really sweet, to have someone love you so much that they’ll mourn you when you’re gone.”

I’m not sure what to say to that, so I don’t say anything. The fact that there’s been so little love in her life that she finds the idea sweet that someone would actually mourn the death of someone else bothers me way more than it should. I didn’t grow up with loving parents, and I’ve never been in love, but I’ve always been surrounded by it because of my brothers. We may not say it or get all lovey-dovey with hugs, but it’s definitely there. I’d die for any one of them without a second thought, and I know with absolutely certainty that they’d do the same for me, but Katya’s never had anything like that.

“What happened to your parents?”

“They were killed by a rival Bratva when I was ten. My brothers raised me.”

“What the hell did they do to you?” The question is out before I can stop it, and she looks just as surprised by it as I am.

“Nothing,” she quickly whispers, trying to tug her foot free again so she can get down and run away from me and the questions she doesn’t want to answer.

“Relax, I’m not going to force you to tell me, but I hope one day you’ll choose to.”

What the fuck did I just say?

One day?

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