Mine to Keep

by Rhenna Morgan

  Decision made, he headed for the third floor and the guest room opposite his master suite. He made it all of three steps past his room when he reconsidered and backtracked to the master. Yes, Evette had done an excellent job of decorating and making his town house actually feel like a home, but his bedding was far superior to the others, and his mattress was one of the few purchases he’d gone over the top with. She deserved something comfortable. Something indulgent. And sleeping in the guest room across from her would certainly be no hardship for him.

  With only the moonlight through the wide picture window to guide him, he strode to the king-size bed and laid her out on his side of the bed. She rolled to one side as soon as she made contact with the mattress, her back to him and her knees drawn tight to her chest.

  Odd how seeing her there felt right. Perhaps not so withdrawn and curled in on herself, but just to have her there—safe and secure in his own space—eased the tension in his shoulders. Perhaps if he gave her time to sleep—to let her mind process the things she’d been through in a protected environment—she’d be comfortable enough to shed her shoes and jacket and slip beneath the covers.

  He grabbed the plush gray throw draped along the foot of the bed and covered her with it.

  For just a moment, he gave himself time to merely stand there and study her. The rise and fall of her chest with each breath. The deep auburn of her hair in the moonlight. How fragile and delicate she looked without her defenses in place.

  He would help her rebuild. Get her past whatever made her think she wouldn’t be a welcome addition to their family. Help her find a path she could be proud of and give her a foundation to build on. He’d just have to be careful to keep his distance as he did so. She’d already made it clear she wanted to live a law-abiding life. One free of questionable practices and secrets. She’d already seen firsthand tonight what he was capable of. If she ever learned just how prevalent that part of his life had been before moving to New Orleans, she’d never come within screaming distance again.

  Biting back a sigh, he stepped away from the bed and crept as quietly as possible toward the door.

  “Roman?”

  He paused at the threshold, the hesitancy and pain in her voice rekindling the need for vengeance he’d barely banked. He faced her.

  Braced on one elbow, her chin was tucked close to her chest, but the fear and desolation on her face pierced his heart. “Could you...” She pinched her lips tight and took a shaky breath. “Would you mind staying? For just a little bit?”

  Distance.

  He was supposed to keep his distance. Ensure she felt safe around him. Keep her well removed from the ugly truth of who he was and what he’d done in his past.

  But in that moment, he didn’t want distance. Wanted to stretch out beside her, tuck her close to his side and let her lean into his strength. To promise her things he had no business even thinking about. Let alone speaking aloud.

  He nodded and prowled back to the bed, angling for the opposite side so that when he returned to the guest room he wouldn’t rouse her. He piled the pillows high and reclined against them, his long legs stretching toward the end of the bed.

  Bonnie scooted closer, her position the same as before, but near enough her knees grazed his hip and he had no choice but to lift his arm and make room for her head on the pillow beside him.

  “Thank you. Just...” Her shaky whisper was all innocence and gratitude. But when she placed her trembling hand on his chest just above his heart, something in him shifted. Something fierce, yet also protective. “Thank you.”

  She trusted him.

  Despite everything—what she’d seen and what she’d felt—she’d chosen to trust him. To lower her guard and let herself be vulnerable.

  The realization rocked him. Left him stunned and shaken more than any of the dangerous situations he’d encountered in his life.

  One tiny woman.

  One spitfire who’d fought and clawed to keep herself whole and healthy despite the nest of vipers and narcissists she’d been born into had humbled him and left him speechless like no other.

  Yes. He would protect her. Help her and give her cause to believe in herself. If for no other reason than to thank her for this moment. For sharing her trust and her vulnerability with him even if it wasn’t deserved.

  As foreign and unforgivable as the act may be, he allowed himself one indulgence and smoothed his hand down the back of her head. “Sleep, moya malen’kaya koroleva. I will keep you safe.”

  Chapter Nine

  The sun was up.

  A simple thought. One Bonnie wanted to ignore in favor of the deep and peaceful place that held her. No tension in her body. No desire to move. Just sweet, comfortable peace.

  Resting on her side, she snuggled deeper beneath the covers, blocking the light from the backs of her eyes. God, she was warm. Cocooned with the perfect amount of weight and softness. Surrounded by a delicious scent that made her think of snow-covered forests, evergreen trees and log cabins with a roaring fire.

  Crisp and clean.

  Earthy.

  Deeply masculine.

  Her eyes snapped open and her heart jolted even though the rest of her body stayed locked solidly in place.

  This wasn’t her bed.

  Wasn’t her room.

  It’s Roman’s.

  Hoooly shit. She’d fallen asleep next to him. Had cuddled up close to him like some terrified puppy.

  And then what?

  She had absolutely zero details beyond that. Only a rapid-fire replay of all the stuff that had happened before Roman had appeared and how terrified she’d felt when she’d realized he was about to leave her alone.

  Geez. The guy probably thought she was a lunatic with the way she’d behaved. Or weak. She’d wanted to ask questions on the way home. Remembered trying to focus her mind and get her shit together, but hadn’t been able to get her thoughts or body to cooperate. She’d just sat there. Unable and unwilling to move. So much so the guy had actually had to carry her into his house.

  And she’d let him.

  No, that wasn’t right.

  She hadn’t just let him. She’d completely curled herself into him and let go of everything. Had given up completely.

  But he’d been there. Had put her in bed, thoughtfully covered her with a blanket and lain next to her when she’d asked. No complaining. No fidgeting. Just gently stroked her head and assured her she was safe.

  Roman Kozlov—the big badass Russian—had cuddled her. The same man she’d watched cripple one man in smooth, practiced movements, and disarm and stab another without any hesitation.

  Seriously. What the fuck was she supposed to do with those little nuggets? And more than that, how was she under the covers now? Because she sure as hell didn’t remember crawling under them herself.

  She wiggled her feet. No shoes, but her socks were on. Her jeans were still on, too, but her jacket was MIA. So, was it him who’d gotten her in bed? Or had she somehow done it herself in a blacked-out state?

  Risking a peek at her environment, she lifted her head out from behind the heavy comforter.

  Bold, beautiful sunshine poured through a huge picture window. Deep fern green curtains made of some thick expensive looking material lined each edge. The wall behind her was painted the same color as the drapes, but the others were a soft dove gray. The comforter stretched over the bed was charcoal gray and looked like it belonged on an emperor’s bed.

  But no sign of Roman.

  She pushed herself upright and leaned against the sinfully plush pillows. The rest of the room’s details were equally upscale—masculine furniture stained in taupes and grays with a weathered finish, a huge dark gray Belvedere rug that stretched out from beneath the bed and soft gray carpet beneath it. In front of the window was a small table with velvet covered green chairs on either side that did
n’t look big enough to hold his weight. Her jacket was neatly folded on one of them and her boots perched on top.

  Guess that answered who was in charge of getting her under the covers, because she sure as hell hadn’t been in any state to be that tidy.

  She flattened the covers over her lap, folded her hands on the top of them and let out a heavy sigh. So, now what should she do?

  Um, getting your ass to work would be a great idea. If the sun’s that bright, ain’t no way you’re the early bird today.

  Shit.

  She scrambled out of bed and patted her pockets. Where the hell was her phone? Her backpack? Hustling to the chair, she set aside her boots and checked her jacket pockets.

  Nothing.

  Okay. No reason to panic. Roman probably put her backpack down when he was carrying her in. Hard enough to navigate a dark house while lugging a woman around. Freeing up a little extra weight seemed reasonable. So, she’d just hit the restroom, see if she couldn’t get what felt like fuzzy socks off her teeth with her finger and head downstairs. Easy peasy.

  She did her business in the bathroom, only marginally gaping at the fancy details she found there. Like how the vanity appeared to have once been a wide dresser from an historic home and was topped in a gray marble that perfectly matched the accents in his bedroom. Or the bathtub that was capable of letting a man his size plus a few friends soak for however long they liked. And the shower...gee whiz. Yeah, she’d seen commercials on TV where people had more than one shower head, but actually seeing it in person was a trip. Did he actually use them all at once? Or did he favor the wide waterfall one at the top?

  She shook her head, wiped her mouth with the hand towel she’d found waiting on the vanity and folded it back the way she’d found it. “Rich people are weird.”

  Boots and jacket back on, she eased open the bedroom door and listened.

  No sounds greeted her, but the unmistakable nutty scent of coffee hung thick in the air. Really freaking good coffee by the smell of it. The kind that hit you with that rich, caramelized warmth you got whenever you walked into a coffee shop.

  She eased forward, slowly taking in the details as she went. Pale gray walls. Brushed silver accents. Tasteful pictures and more of the gray carpeting that muffled her every step.

  Yeah, be careful about sneaking up on him, yo? Or have you forgotten how easily he stuck that knife in that dude’s back?

  She shook her head and made her way down the stairs. No, she’d never forget that. Not as long as she lived. Or the raw fury and wildness on his face as he’d done it. Roman Kozlov was absolutely a dangerous man when crossed. No doubt about it. A fact she’d be wise to remember going forward.

  He would never hurt you.

  The thought whispered through her as her feet hit the first-floor landing, a surety behind it that seemed incongruent with the violence she’d witnessed.

  But he had been kind to her.

  Protective and patient.

  She shook off the internal debate and focused on getting her bearings. Nothing else mattered right now. Only getting to work and figuring out what the fuck she was going to do next.

  To her right, a simple, yet tasteful living room full of ivory and gold décor stood empty, so she turned for the kitchen with the Travertine floors in soft taupes and grays on her right. The space was nowhere near as large as Evette and Sergei’s kitchen had been—more of a long gallery with a cooking space on one end and a cozy nook at the other with a wide window overlooking the street. The details were nothing to sneeze at, though. The stainless steel cooktop and oven with its massive overhead exhaust looked like it had been picked for a giant, and all of the other appliances were equally shiny and new. The cabinets were stained a deep cherry and looked like they’d cost a mint.

  But there was no sign of the Russian.

  Tucked to the right of the wide sink, a fancy-looking coffee maker sat with a half-full pot of coffee. Her stomach grumbled in encouragement, but the blue neon clock on the display doused any hope of lingering for a caffeine jolt. If it was already 11:45 a.m., she was already nearly four hours late to the station. First order of business was finding her phone and talking Roman into a ride. “Roman?”

  “In here.”

  She padded through the kitchen to the exit at the far end which put her back out in the main hallway. The soft click of fingers on a keyboard sounded in the room across the hall. His office—and a really nice one at that. Lots of books and masculine details. Kind of like one of those old bookstores you’d expect in London or some other England hidey-hole. Sure enough, Roman sat behind a desk fitting for a man his size.

  Whatever he’d been working on, he stopped as soon as she came into view. The look he gave her was the stuff reserved for lazy Sunday mornings after a rowdy tumble the night before—and Lordy, did it do weird things to her insides.

  She cleared her throat and crept forward, wiping her hands on her hips. “Heya. Sorry to bug you, but I need my backpack and my phone. I’m really late to work at the station and I need to call my boss before I get fired.”

  Roman’s gaze dipped lower, locked on her throat. Every ounce of warmth in his expression evaporated and his mouth got frighteningly tight.

  Oh, right. The scratch. She’d cleared off the dried blood around the minor cut, but with her fair skin, she’d have red marks for a while. She ran her fingers across it. “It’s fine. Looks worse than it really is from me cleaning it. Barely broke the skin.”

  His attention latched back on her face. “It is not fine. And you will not be going to work. You will stay here.”

  Say what? Was he high?

  “Um, I have to go to work. It’s my job. I have bills to pay. A car to fix. Not to mention, I need to check on my stuff.”

  Roman dipped his head toward the corner behind her. “Your things are here. Prints have been gathered and what furniture you have is being moved into my garage. Your landlord has been advised that you’re ending your lease effective immediately.”

  “What!” Given how much he’d done for her the night before, the sharp explosion probably wasn’t the most appreciative way to respond, but seriously. Who did that kind of shit without asking? “You can’t just move my stuff and end my lease without talking to me. I have to have some place to live! I have to work! It took me forever to find a decent lease in a place close to where I work.”

  “Your things are here. You will take my room and stay here.”

  “I can’t live with you!”

  “You can and you will.” As if he hadn’t absolutely just upended her life, he shifted his focus to the massive computer screen on his right. “Kir is researching the plate on the car your attackers drove last night. Prints are being run through connections with the police department.”

  Un. Fucking. Believable.

  She was horribly late for work. Had apparently been moved overnight, with zero input, and was now living with a mobster who had connections with the NOPD.

  Well, what did you think was going to happen when you called Cassie?

  Right.

  Actions always had consequences, and it seemed this time she’d raced down the rabbit hole. She pulled in a slow breath and tried to sound reasonable. “Look. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me. For saving my ass last night and being über decent when I lost my shit after...but you’ve gotta know...you’re freaking me the hell out right now. You don’t just move someone without asking. You don’t get rid of where they live. And more than that, you don’t put their jobs at risk.”

  A tiny yet highly amused smile that should have pissed her off crept onto his face. He punched a few buttons on his keyboard, stood and prowled toward her, his faded jeans and fitted T-shirt only adding to the danger in his gait. “You returning to your apartment is not only foolish, but dangerous. You being anywhere—including work—without someone to guard you not only pu
ts you at risk, but endangers those around you as well.” He stopped right in front of her, the same comforting scent that had wrapped around her this morning drawing her in once more. “So, you are wrong, moya malen’kaya koroleva. To keep you safe, I can and will do all of those things whether it angers you, or not.”

  Her brain flatlined. Wouldn’t offer up one single thought to fight back with. Partially because, once he called out the facts, he was probably right, but also because he’d gone well past private space and into hers. So close all she’d have to do was lean in a fraction and she’d be pressed tight against him. When she spoke, her voice was just barely above a whisper and practically vibrating from all the power coming off him. “I can’t just stop my life. I’m not a free loader. I need a job.”

  “Then I will give you a job.”

  The statement rattled her enough to push her back a step and cleared away the sensual fog his nearness had created. “You’ll what?”

  “I will get you a job.”

  It had to be a language issue. Some kind of Russian to English translation thing. “Just like that, huh? You’ve got jobs just lying around ready to dole out.”

  “Yes.”

  “A job I can do? Me?”

  “I operate a restaurant—André’s.”

  “That swank Italian place in South Shore?”

  “No, the new expansion in the French Quarter.”

  “You own it?”

  “No, Sergei does. But I run it for him and we have need of an experienced person behind the bar.”

  She hesitated, replaying their ludicrous conversation in her head. When she processed the same fat zero she’d come up with before, she twisted for a gander at the boxes stacked up in the corner behind her. “And I’m supposed to live here? With you?”

  “As I said. You will have my room, and you will be comfortable.”

  Oh. My. God. Had he seriously just demanded that she be comfortable? Who the hell said things like that?

  Before she could smack her head with the palm of her hand and see if she could wake herself up from the bizarre dream she’d found herself in, he kept going. “We will discuss what other needs you may have later. Now, you must get ready. I will carry your boxes up and you will be ready in one hour.”