War (Romanian Mob Chronicles Book 5) (9 page)

“But you do. Kill and take it lightly,” I said.

He shook his head. “No, I don’t. I accept it as a necessity, but I don’t take it lightly.”

I went silent, trying to absorb this conversation. This was so far outside of anything I had ever experienced or ever thought I would, I could barely process it. But the truth was, Tiffany was dead, and I was with a man who sounded resigned but not remotely bothered by killing.

And with him was exactly where I wanted to be. I wasn’t sure what that said about me, but I did know it was nothing good. I also knew I didn’t care.

“So why not send me away?” I asked.

“My resources are stretched. Right now, I don’t know who I can rely on. You’re with me until that changes,” he said.

“You’re responsible for the shooting?” I asked. That he might be hadn’t crossed my mind, but now I felt foolish for not having considered it sooner. He’d told me he was a criminal and seemed completely unapologetic about it. I’d assumed that him getting into my car was out of desperation, but maybe there was another explanation.

I watched him, saw how he gripped the steering wheel a little tighter before he loosened his hold. But even though his fingers were now loose, his grip not giving anything away, the tic was still jumping in his jaw.

“Someone is trying very hard to make it seem that way,” he finally said, his voice still silky, but now threaded with steel.

“You don’t know who?” I asked, searching his face for a reaction to my question. He didn’t give one, kept that same stoic expression, but what I knew of him, precious little though it was, told me that not knowing was an unfamiliar position for him, one he didn’t enjoy.

“I will. Assuming he doesn’t find me first,” he said.

That sentence sent a shock of fear through me even stronger than the one I had felt when he’d first jumped into my car, all at the thought of him in danger.

“The person you’re looking for, the one who’s looking for you, you think he had something to do with Tiffany’s death?”

I asked the words as a question, but I knew the answer. Still, I wanted Priest to confirm what I already knew.

He nodded. “There’s no other explanation.”

“And if I had been there, I’d be next to her. Like you said at the police station.”

“I don’t apologize often, Milan, but I’m sorry for that. What I said back there,” he said.

I shook my head. “Don’t apologize. That’s what I needed to hear. I needed to get the hell out of there and not die. You made that happen. But what’s your answer to my question?”

“Yes. He would have.”

I went quiet then, my mind buzzing with his words, buzzing with the realization of how very close to death I had been. How had I not thought of that? How, even now after Tiffany, did my own tenuous existence shock me? I realized then what Priest had been trying to tell me, what Tiffany’s death should have shown me. I was on precarious ground, caught up in something I didn’t yet understand, something that could wipe me from existence.

That was a terrifying feeling, one that made me feel vulnerable. Strangely, it also made me feel if not powerful, then aware. I may not be able to control what happened, but I wouldn’t be taken by surprise either. That was worth something.

“So this guy,” I finally said a moment later. “The one who would have killed me and who killed”—my voice broke over the word and I paused for a moment to swallow back the tears and then continued—“Tiffany. What are you going to do to him?”

“I’m going to kill him, Milan,” he said.

Two days ago, I would have been shocked, terrified, looking for any escape. But two days had been a lifetime ago, and now all I felt was joy. I’d never thought I’d be happy to contemplate someone else’s death, but whoever killed Tiffany deserved everything Priest would give him. I wouldn’t entertain a moment’s regret for being happy about that.

“And after?” I finally asked.

“After, you’ll go back to your life.”

“It’s as simple as that?” I said. I wondered if it could be, doubted it could be.

Priest didn’t.

“It’s as simple as that,” he replied.

P
riest

M
ilan was
quiet for the rest of the trip. Probably necessary since she was absorbing something so new, so outside of the world as she had known just days ago.

The adjustment was a lot for me to process as well.

It had been so long since I had been in the company of someone like her, someone who wasn’t a part of my world, someone who didn’t understand it, it was difficult for me to put myself in her shoes. I had forgotten what it was like.

I hoped to return her back to hers intact, but no matter what, I would take some of her with me. I wouldn’t change, couldn’t, but I would appreciate the few moments with her, the time with someone who was so untouched by the life that I lived.

I watched her from the corner of my eye, unable to keep my gaze off her for any period of time. She impressed me with the way she was handling this. Those moments of rage, entirely justifiable, at the police station had passed, and right now, she looked almost content. Maybe it was my promise to avenge her friend’s murder. But whatever it was, this Milan, calm, almost serene, was breathtaking.

“It’s up here,” I said, speaking if only to break the direction of my thoughts, which were again veering into the dangerous territory it didn’t seem to be able to resist, the one that had me picturing Milan underneath me.

Milan perked and peered out the window at the small ranch house in an up-and-coming neighborhood. I had purchased this home and this location specifically to lay low. I didn’t come here often, but the neighborhood was such that the infrequent visits did not raise any suspicion.

She glanced at me, surprised.

I felt myself smiling, the expression uncommon enough that I noticed it. “Not what you were expecting?”

She smiled, the expression as breathtaking as the woman. “I hadn’t gotten that far. Thought this was another one of those late-night drives you seem to be so fond of.”

Then she giggled, the sound pleasant but giving away some of her strain. I was glad we had arrived. She was probably exhausted, needed rest, and now that I had her with me and knew she was safe, I’d be able to think more clearly.

I pulled into the garage and Milan stayed behind me as I quickly searched the house. Everything was in place.

“So this is supposed to be your house?” she asked when we returned to the living room.

“Yeah. It’s supposed to be,” I said.

“But you don’t live here,” she replied, frowning.

“Why do you think that?” I asked.

“It’s not right. Too…” She trailed off and looked around again, gaze settling on the empty glass on the coffee table and the tablet next to it.

“It’s too what? Maybe I was here and left quickly,” I said, leading her to the obvious conclusion, curious as to how she would respond.

She looked at me, her lips turning up and her eyes brightening. “I get it. It’s supposed to look like that. But it’s staged.”

I nodded, impressed with her instincts. “What made you see that?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t quite put my finger on it. It just reminds me of those shows on TV where they bring in the fake furniture to show people what a house could be like. It’s supposed to look like the house, but it’s more of a showroom.”

I nodded my approval and then went to the refrigerator and retrieved a bottle of water and then handed it to her. “There are people who are trained to look for things like that and they wouldn’t have seen it,” I said.

“What can I say?” she said, shrugging, “The last thirty-six hours have been a crash course in crime. I’ve always been a very good student,” he said.

“I’m sure you are,” I said, not intending the depth that went into my voice, nor the heated look I gave her.

“You should rest,” I said quickly, trying to cover my still-wayward thoughts.

“Okay,” she said, standing. “Just go anywhere?”

“Make yourself as at home as you can be.”

She moved down the hall, and I followed her, stopped when she turned into the first bedroom.

“And no one—” she started, but I cut her off.

“No one knows we’re here. You’re safe,” I said, my voice giving away my emotion. She watched me for another moment and then nodded.

“Okay.”

M
ilan

T
his place was inauthentic
, fake, the furniture and decorations bland, nondescript, and definitely not a place Priest would call home.

But he’d said I was safe, and I believed him.

I also believed, knew, that if I didn’t touch him, I would die. That drove me to him, carried me across the small distance to stand in front of him.

I reached for him and fell against him, my strength leaving me.

I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream, but more than anything, I wanted to touch him.

So I did. I wrapped my arms around his chest, pressed my body flat against his. Almost instantly, I felt better.

His warm, solid chest against my face, the smell of soap and man, the strong thud of his heart against my ear, all of them, together, made me feel as good as was possible.

After all that had happened, I might never feel right again, never be right again, but here, now, against him, I could pretend I was.

I squeezed him even tighter, and a tremor went through me when my breasts pressed his chest.

He shuddered, his chest hitching. At least I thought it had, but I couldn’t be sure, so I did it again, pressed myself even closer until I was flat against him.

I felt it again, that tremor that went through his big body, and when I brought my hips forward, I was greeted by his hardness against my stomach.

I wanted more of that feeling, so I moved even deeper into his arms, my eyes closed shut, my mind empty except for the sensation being against him was creating.

A sensation I wanted more of, so I pressed even closer still, his hardness against my soft stomach sparking a pull in my sex, one I hadn’t felt in far too long.

My face was still against his chest, and I loosened my hold and trailed my hands around his back to move up his sides.

His shirt was soft, expensive-feeling against my hands, and the barrier of it between my skin and his was somehow even more arousing.

The situation was insane, this entire thing was insane, but what felt so right and what couldn’t be ignored was what I needed now, so I moved my hands up over the slab of his chest, lifted them even higher until my fingers rested against the hard ridge of his collarbones.

His shirt was open there, a single button out of place where he had taken off his tie, and so I opened my eyes and looked at that spot and then moved my fingers to touch it.

His skin was warm, smooth, and my fingertips tingled where we touched, but that small contact wasn’t enough.

So I reached for his button, pulled it open slowly, then another, then another until I had made my way to the center of his chest.

I went to continue, but his hands on top of mine, huge, warm, strong yet gentle, stopped me.

I looked up, met eyes that were still fathomless, but different now. There was something in them, desire that I knew was reflected in my own.

“Milan, you’re in shock,” he said.

“Maybe. But maybe not,” I replied, continuing to unbutton his shirt.

As I did, I put a fraction of space between our bodies, but I moved my head forward, pressed my lips at the center of his chest, and then breathed deep.

That scent, soap and man, was stronger, his skin against my lips smooth.

I brushed my lips against that smooth, warm skin, barely grazed it as he had barely grazed my lips with his own that first time.

But when I felt that hitch again, felt it intensify when I moved my lips against his flat nipples, I moved my hand down to grasp his hardness.

The first touch of his hardness brought a moan from me, one that was desperate with longing even to my own ears, and as I stroked him through his pants, the tug at my womb increased, and my sex fluttered with the need for his touch, the need to be filled by him.

He put his hands on my wrist and pulled my hands away, holding both of mine with one of his.

I looked up to meet his eyes, stared at him intently, and in a moment’s breath, he was kissing me.

This kiss wasn’t like before, a gentle, light touch.

This kiss was possession, lips and tongue and teeth ravishing my mouth, making it impossible for me to do anything but feel.

He still kissed me, but dropped my hands, and brought my body close to his, grinding his hardness against me.

I reached out, curled my fingers against his chest, and then stroked my hands down his sides, over the ridge of his tight stomach, back up again, desperate to feel as much of him as I could.

I pushed the shirt off his shoulders and touched the bare skin of his back as he kissed me.

Then he was gone, my heaving breaths the only sounds in the room.

I looked at him, saw, as he watched me, the desire playing out on his face the same as mine.

I moved closer, stood up on tiptoe to brush my lips against his collarbone, his neck.

“I want you,” I said, and then I stood taller, my body stretching along the length of his as I kissed his strong jaw, his chin, and then finally, his lips.

His arms were under my butt and he lifted me, and I wrapped my legs around his waist automatically, moaning when the hard ridge of his cock settled at the apex of my thighs.

Unable to stop myself, I rocked against him, the sensation driving me high but not nearly high enough.

I squeezed my legs around him tighter, wrapped my arms around his shoulders, and then kissed him, coaxing his lips with mine until he returned the kiss.

When he did, I was again taken in the storm that was his touch.

Then we were moving, his lips against mine, his hand against my back as he moved up and cupped my breasts.

I opened my eyes and pulled back, locked my gaze with his, saw the desire and determination in it, and I thought I might come from the intensity of just looking at him, being held by him.

“I want you inside me,” I said.

My voice was thick, rough, and his chest shuddered again.

He narrowed his eyes, and I saw the moment when the decision was made.

He laid me down flat on the soft bed, and then before I could even react, he was working at my jeans, had them down and around my knees in an instant.

The cool air against my pussy was an incredible, odd sensation, one that only made an already intense moment that much more intense.

When he kneeled next to me, eyes locked on mine, I squeeze my thighs together, seeking some relief from that intensity.

He brushed his hand down the outside of my thigh, and then circled my knees, pulled them as far apart as the jeans would allow, and then began to make his way back up the inside of my thigh.

With each second that passed, each inch closer to my tight, needy, core, my heart began to pound, the desire threatening to send me apart.

When he finally touched me, I trembled, the first brush of his thumb against my protruding clit stoking the climax that whirled through me.

He had me climaxing in a way I never had before, the intense feeling of it making me feel as though I was being ripped apart. My emotions had been running high for hours and all of those feelings were reflected in the total decimation of the climax that raced through me.

I reached for him, held his strong shoulders as I cried out my pleasure. Squirmed beneath him and only after the sensation had started to retreat did I finally manage to look at him. His eyes were calm, intent, satisfied.

When I finally calmed, I sat up and pulled my panties up but took the jeans off.

He had barely touched me, and I had come apart like I never had before.

I was too embarrassed to look at him, but he reached for my chin, turned my head until I again met his eyes like he had before, when he had first gotten into my car, but different.

Because I hadn’t known him then, had been afraid of him.

I didn’t know him now, but I wasn’t afraid.

I wanted him. I didn’t understand it, couldn’t explain it, didn’t know what it said about me, but even though I had just had the most intense orgasm of my life, I still wanted him.

He wanted me too. I knew enough to know that, but he made no move to act on the passion that was still thick in the room. Instead, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss against my lips but then broke all contact between us.

“You should rest,” he said.