by Nicole Fox
“I never said that,” she sighs. “I’m sorry. I just can’t bear to think about it, Jamie. What if a kid is killed? Why won’t your dad stop if the Russians aren’t even attacking anymore?”
“Because he’s a fucking asshole!” I shout. “We both know that!”
Molly softens. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I think this wine’s gone to my head. The wine and … you know, the other thing.”
She winks at me, letting me know she’s good to let this altercation slide and change the subject if I am. And I am, because this makes me feel awkward as hell.
“Mr. Mysterious,” I say, nodding, trying for a smile. “But you don’t need to be sorry. It’s fine. You’re right. We both know you’re right. But it’s just too dangerous. Even if somebody heard us talking about it …”
She sighs. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. Come on, let’s finish the movie. I wanna see if these two finally get together!”
We sit back, turning to the TV, but I find it hard to focus. The whole situation is beyond messed up.
18
Andrei
Over the next week, I just manage to stay strong. But it takes far more effort than I ever would’ve guessed.
Once upon a time, it was easy to keep my distance from women. At the club, there was no shortage of girls throwing themselves at me. I didn’t give a damn what their motivations were—my money, my wealth, my presence. They meant nothing to me. Trifling distractions to use, discard, and never think about again.
It’s not like that with Jamie. It’s hard. For the first two days, she still visits. And I make myself cold. I make myself as callous as I should’ve been the night my parents died.
I kill the weakness in me.
But, when she’s standing at the door after I’ve answered her in grunts and monosyllables, I feel a pang of something that might be guilt. She looks vulnerable. I want to hold her. I want to hear her sigh when I move my hand through her hair.
Worse, she doesn’t punish me, though we both know it’s well within her power. She doesn’t order the guards to beat me. I eat better than I have since first arriving here.
On the third day, she stops visiting. I should be glad about that. I’m not.
One night, when I can’t sleep, I find myself wondering what she’s doing. An image appears in my mind. Jamie in a night club, hot as hell in a tight-fitting dress, with some asshole grinding on her.
I imagine throwing him across the bar. Grabbing Jamie by the shoulders and lifting her off the floor. Kissing her, hard, until both of us are trembling with desire. And more than desire. Not love, exactly, but something related to love …
I leap to my feet, pacing up and down, fists clenched. I feel like a lion trapped in a zoo. One week, now, since our confrontation. I thought it would get easier as time went on.
But it hasn’t.
I launch into push-ups. But the ache in my body is nothing compared with the weight in my chest. Every time I think of Jamie, it gets tighter.
Seven days since the argument.
Five days since she was last here.
Do I miss her?
The question should be outright absurd. But, as I jump onto the pull-up bar and do slow, slow sets, it feels genuine. I might miss her.
Miss her sassy tongue.
Miss the way she listens.
Miss pressing our bodies close together, how hot she is. Physically boiling up from the inside.
These are all things that should make me realize how much I need to keep my distance. All roads that could lead to weakness. And yet they don’t. They make me want more of her.
Soon, it’s morning. I haven’t slept. I don’t care about sleep. I just keep working out. I work out for an hour, grab some food and rehydrate, and work out again.
By the time the door opens and Jamie walks in, my whole body is burning. But the burning only intensifies when I see the look on her face. With tears in her eyes, she looks devastated. I feel like I’ve been sucker punched. It takes every modicum of self-control not to jump at her. To brush the tears from her cheeks.
Fuck.
She stops at the edge of the workout area, eyeing me. “Andrei,” she says.
“Printsessa,” I answer gravely. The nickname just comes out. I don’t even try to fight it.
“Still working hard, I see,” she whispers, trying to smile. But the smile falters. She frowns deeply, sighing. “I would say sorry for not visiting you lately, you know, but you didn’t exactly seem pleased to see me last time, so …”
It’s bait. Clearly, she wants me to tell her I’m glad to see her now. I imagine growling, And I’m not glad to see you now. I’ve made my feelings clear. But I can’t. The pain she’s in is too clear to me. Plus, I am glad to see her.
But I can’t tell her that. So I just stare.
With a huff, she snaps, “Look, I came here because I’m confused, okay? Something really messed up happened and I wanted to talk to you about it. But I can’t talk to you if you’re gonna keep pretending …”
She paces toward me. I should snarl at her to get back. I should remind her that I want nothing to do with her. I should remind myself, too. But I do none of that.
Instead, I take a step forward. Because I want her. How badly I’ve missed her is evidence enough of that.
“Pretending what?” I growl. Even if I think I already know.
She rolls her eyes at me. Suddenly, she looks cute and feisty again. The sassy Jamie is shining through her sadness. Her tears have smudged her makeup, revealing her freckles. She looks all the more beautiful for it.
“I call you the Beast, Andrei, but we both know you’re not. We both know there’s way more to you than meets the eye. So, if it makes you feel big and tough, you can keep pretending to be this emotionless asshole. But I’ve seen parts of you I’m guessing nobody else has. And, right now, those are the parts I need.”
My mouth falls open. The clear, aching emotion behind her words touches me deeply. Deeper than I would ever care to admit. “What happened?” I ask after a pause.
“Can we sit down?”
I sigh. “Okay.” I was going to say, I don’t think that’s a good idea. But five days apart from her has had a profound effect on me. Missing her has felt completely unique. I have never missed anybody like that. Not when Osip died. Not even when my parents died.
What does that say about her? About us?
We go into the living room area. I find myself getting her a glass of water without thinking about it. Our fingers brush when I hand it to her. She bites her lip at the contact. A similar thrill runs through me. With days spent apart, even that quick contact has significance.
I sit down. “Something is clearly wrong,” I say. “What is it?”
“So you care now?”
I flinch. “I’m not going to beg you to tell me, Jamie. But something has clearly happened.”
She reaches out like she’s going to grab my hand. Then she pauses, hesitating. I don’t know what urges me. Or maybe I do. Maybe it’s how beautiful and vulnerable she looks. How it’s like she wants me to protect her and yet is fiercely independent at the same time. Whatever it is, I clutch her hand. Holding onto her tightly, we meet eyes.
For a long time, we say nothing. We just sit here. Both of us knowing that it’s extremely complicated. Both of us, for the time being, not caring.
“There was an attack,” Jamie says finally. “An Irish attack. It was meant to get one of your lieutenants, apparently.”
“It was unsuccessful?” I say, relieved.
“No. It—they got him.”
“What was his name?” I pray that it’s not Egor. “Jamie?”
“I don’t know!” she snaps, flustered. “I’m sorry. Declan was bragging about the attack. He didn’t give me a name and the newspaper article didn’t mention it. I’ll try to find out.”
I decide to leave it for now. “But why have you been crying? What is a Bratva man to you? And what do you mean, me
ant to get him, if they did get him?”
She laughs strangely. Almost like she’s trying to laugh so she doesn’t cry again.
“The attack happened in a restaurant, in a booth. Apparently, he got the wrong booth at first, just shot into it without looking. It was an elderly couple, Andrei. Two innocent old people who’ve never hurt anybody a day in their life. The owner somehow ‘lost’ the security footage. And, surprise, surprise, there are no witnesses.”
We both know what she’s saying. The Irish Mafia have threatened and coerced everybody into silence.
“Did they die instantly?” I ask.
She scowls. “What difference does that make?”
“It made a big difference to them.”
“The woman did,” she sobs, voice breaking. “The man—he was alive for, like, five hours after. They couldn’t save him.”
“And my lieutenant?”
“Instantly, too.”
I nod. That’s something, at least. I don’t think it was Egor. If the lieutenant was killed alone in public, he must’ve been one of my lower-ranking men. I’m sure Declan told her he was high-ranking to try and seem tough. But my officers always have at least a few men with them. Especially during wartime.
“I just don’t get it,” she hisses.
Somehow, she has ended up in my lap. If you paid me a million dollars, I could not tell you how. Either she climbed or I lifted her. But now that she’s here, I don’t care. I just wrap my arms around her tighter.
“Don’t get what?” I ask.
“You’re not attacking Dad. The Russians, I mean. But he still goes after you? And attacking public places? Civilians? Isn’t that against the code or something?”
“There is a code,” I agree. “But it’s an unspoken agreement to keep the nastier sides of this life private. Before Timofey betrayed me, your father and I were allies. But that doesn’t mean we were friends. He always seemed to expect that I treat him like my superior.”
She huffs. “Yeah, welcome to my world. That’s how he treats everyone.”
“I thought as much,” I agree. “But I would never stoop for him. He resented it. I could tell he resented it the day he tried to play me, telling me some pathetic lie about shipping costs, and then squirming when I called him out on it. Now that he has the upper hand, he isn’t going to stop. Not until the Bratva is completely wiped out.”
“But that’s fucked up.” Her head is resting on my shoulder. I can feel her tears on my bare skin. With me shirtless from the workout, she feels so close right now. “You wouldn’t do that, would you? The Bratva wouldn’t just keep going if they weren’t under threat?”
“That is a difficult question,” I muse. I move my hand through her hair. I know she loves that. It relaxes her. And it relaxes me, seeing her lips turn up into a tired smile. “Sometimes, there are people who must be dealt with. A few years ago, a rival Bratva from Moscow tried to move into the city. We found out they were trafficking underage girls and, even when we got the upper hand, we had to finish them.”
“But this isn’t the same,” she points out.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Can’t anyone keep him in line?” she says suddenly.
She jumps to her feet, full of frantic energy. The same way she gets when she’s had a eureka artistic moment. Only now, there’s an undertone of dark intensity. She paces up and down, fists clenched. I would not want to be the person that anger is aimed at.
“It’s pathetic!” she snaps. “These men just strutting around, killing innocent people and getting away with it! Dad, Declan, Jerry! All of them! And everybody’s too scared to say anything, because, if you do, they’ll just do the same to you!”
“Your father is a coward and a sadist, Jamie,” I inform her.
She spins on me. I see that she has the urge to defend him, even though he’s a monster. That is how family can fuck a person up. Even now, she has to visibly stop herself. “I don’t see how rubbing it in helps,” she says instead.
“He attacked me after a business meeting,” I argue. “He turned my own second-in-command against me. He’s painting this city in blood because it makes him feel powerful. What else would you call him? You yourself just called him pathetic.”
“I know!” she hisses. “But he’s still my dad.”
“If he was my father, I would slit his throat in his sleep.”
“Wow, you’re such a tough guy.”
Suddenly, I’m on my feet, standing over her. I move so quickly, she doesn’t even have time to react before I am there.
“There is nothing tough about killing a man in his sleep,” I say in a low rasp. Maybe I’m trying to frighten her. Trying to make her see how impossible this is. Again. Even if all my previous attempts have failed. “But sometimes, it’s necessary. Sometimes, we have to do repulsive things to stop even more repulsive things from happening. But you wouldn’t know about that, Jamie, because you have been shielded your whole life.”
I put my hands on her shoulders and squeeze, lightly. I enjoy the thrill that moves through her, lust and fear mixed. Mixed with what else, though? Affection? Respect?
“Reaping the fruits of this life without ever having to participate,” I whisper.
“You really expect me to kill my own dad?”
“Just help me get out of this cell,” I tell her. “And I will handle it myself.”
A dark look passes across her face. She makes to move away. I hold onto her. Her eyes are wide. She wants me and I want her. Neither of us can deny it.
“I can’t,” she whispers. “You know I can’t. The double-lock system.”
“Get the code from Garret when he’s upstairs. I will handle the guard down here.”
“No! People will get hurt. Enough people have been hurt already.”
I laugh gruffly. Our bodies are almost pressed right up against each other now. The heat and the mutual desire are overpowering.
“Who are we talking about, Jamie?” I ask. “Who has been hurt?”
“The …” She falters. “The elderly couple. What’re you talking about?”
I try to fight it. Truly, I do. But every tendon in me is aimed toward her. Every instinct is telling me to grab her and kiss her.
So I do. I wrap my arms around her and pull her close. Her lips are rough, welcoming. They feel like home as she stiffens for a second, taken off-guard. But then she moans. Loudly. Gorgeously. I can feel her breath in the moan, infusing the kiss.
She moves her hands down my back. Breaking it off, she shoots me a sour look. At least, it’s supposed to be sour. Her smile ruins the effect.
“So, what? You kiss me and I’m supposed to just forgive you?”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I tell her. Our lips are close. Each word creates a little pocket of warm air, tingling. “I’m not asking your forgiveness.”
She laughs sarcastically, putting her hand on my chest. “Well, you should be!” she snaps. “You’ve been a jerk all week!”
It’s a testament to how badly we want each other that she can laugh right now. Our affection is that strong. It bothers me. And yet I don’t want to go back to being gruff. To being the jerk she has rightfully called me.
“Do you want to argue, Jamie?” I whisper, moving my hand slowly up her inner thigh. I watch the tremors move across her face. Perfect and enticing, I can’t look away. As always, the control wavers between us. “Or do you want me to keep moving my hand like this?”
She bites her lip. Then, letting it go, she informs me, “You can’t just fuck me and make me forget.”
I pause my hand near her sex. Smirking at her, I shrug. “Tell me to take my hand away, then,” I whisper. “Tell me and I will.”
She makes a sound that causes tension to burst into my manhood. I have not touched myself since our confrontation. A week’s worth of lust floods into me. I’m white-knuckling it not to bend her over my knee and spank her raw until she climaxes.
“We both know I don’t want you to do
that,” she whispers.
She grabs my wrist, guiding my hand toward her. I can tell by how hard she’s gripping me that she wants me badly. Perhaps as badly as I want her, though I doubt it. I inch my hand up, feeling her wetness and heat.
Then there’s a knock, and I freeze.
“Yes?” Jamie calls.
“I’m sorry.” It’s Garret. “Your father needs to see you. Now. It’s urgent.”
19
Jamie
As I walk through the house, I silently curse Garret for interrupting. It’s not just that he stopped me and Andrei from properly reconciling. Oh no, it’s also the little inconvenient fact that I took three pregnancy tests last night.
Pop quiz: How many of the pregnancy tests were positive?
A: one.
B: two.
C: three.
Yes, C? Is that your final answer?
Ding-ding-fucking-ding, correct!
I’m pretty sure—and by pretty sure, I mean absolutely certain—that it was the pregnancy tests combined with the elderly couple’s murders that made me cry when I went down to see Andrei. Really, it was most likely the test that made me break our five-day staredown, since the attack happened a few days ago and that didn’t do it.
Was I going to tell him about our baby before Garret interrupted us, or was I just going to lose myself in him? Oh God, “our baby” sounds so real!
Either way, I’d much rather be with Andrei right now than standing outside my dad’s office. When I knock, he yells so loudly I’m almost certain I feel the walls trembling. “Come in!”
I walk in, wondering if he somehow knows about the pregnancy tests. I haven’t let the full weight of it hit me since I took them. I’m still in the numb stage, I guess. Because it’s really, really messed up. If Dad found out, I don’t even know what would happen. I know one thing, though: there’s no way in hell Cormac O’Gallagher would allow a half-Russian grandchild to be born. So maybe I do have some idea what would happen, actually.
