He embraces me, reaches out toward the bedside lamp, and turns it off. It’s not a particularly meaningful thing, and I don’t know why, but him turning off that lamp is the last straw for me. I decide I’ve had enough. Enough of everyone being shocked by the fact I like him, enough of people telling me there is something wrong with me, but most of all I’m done with him thinking he’s not good enough and denying my touch. I sit up, grab the lamp, turn the blasted thing back on, and spin around to face Mikhail.
“This stops now. I will touch you wherever and whenever I want. If I want to kiss you, you don’t have the right to turn your head.”
Mikhail pulls himself onto his elbows and regards me with his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Baby . . .”
“No. Do not baby me now. Sweet talk won’t get you anywhere this time.”
“Sweet talk?” he raises an eyebrow.
“No more pulling away. No more hot and cold. No more long sleeves.” I point my finger at him. “If I see you in another long-sleeved shirt around the house, I am going to tear it off you.”
Mikhail is very good at keeping emotions from showing on his face, but I catch the surprise flashing in his eye as he tilts his head and watches me.
I don’t care if I first met him only a month ago. I don’t care that our marriage was arranged as a business deal without my say in the matter. I. Don’t. Care. He’s mine, and I’ll fight anything and anyone who would try to keep him from me, even if it’s Mikhail himself.
“And I get to kiss you everywhere. You got that? I will draw it for you if needed. Everywhere. Yes, your eye is fucked up. I want to kiss it anyway.” I grind my teeth and stare him down. “And you are going to let me.” I poke him with my finger in the center of his chest, then continue, “Because I am in love with you. Every part of you. Your grumpy personality included. Fucking deal with it.”
I take a deep breath, cross my arms, and watch him as he stares at me without blinking. He is so still that, for a moment, I wonder if he stopped breathing, then he suddenly lunges at me, and I find myself on my back with Mikhail’s body sprawled over mine. He still doesn’t say anything, just presses his palms on either side of my face and bends his head until our noses touch. His right thumb traces the contour of my cheek and chin, and then comes to rest on my lips.
“Tell me again,” he whispers, regarding me carefully, like a hawk, as if he’s searching for some deception. I look at him right in the eyes and hold his gaze, willing him to see that what I'm saying is true.
“I am . . . so in love . . . with you,” I say, and the next second, Mikhail’s mouth crashes down on mine.
His arms come around my back as he rolls, taking me with him until I’m laying atop of him, never breaking the kiss. He’s squeezing me into him so tightly that it’s hard to breathe.
“Ya lyublyu tebya vsey dushoy, solnyshko,” he says into my ear. “Ya ne pozvolyu nikomu zabrat' tebya.”
I smile and lean in to kiss his left eyebrow. Then I move to the right side of his face and trace my finger down the line of the thickest scar, from the top of his forehead, all the way to his chin.
“You are . . . so badass . . . husband.” I kiss his right eyebrow, then the corner of his right eye. He doesn’t move away. I kiss it again.
“And you are so crazy, dusha moya.” He sighs.
“Only . . . for you . . . Mikhail.”
He places his finger on my lips. “Enough. Stop hurting yourself.”
I smile and slide my hand down his chest. “Make . . . me.”
Chapter 17
I read the message from our Mexico contact and call Roman right away.
“Angelo Scardoni is moving the product,” I say the moment he answers the call. “What do you want me to do?”
“Do you have an ETA when they’ll cross the border?”
“Sometime Thursday night.”
“Find a good spot to intercept them after they cross. Blow them up.”
“Are you sure?”
“Bruno torched down my warehouse. Anton is still in the hospital with third-degree burns. I want that product gone.”
“Alright.”
“And make sure they know it was us,” Roman says and cuts the call.
I put my phone back into my pocket, take a chair and place it in front of a man sitting with his hands and legs tied in the middle of the room. His palms are turned up, showing his red, blistered skin.
I sit down, lean back, and regard the Italian bastard in front of me. Early twenties, a bit overweight, wearing jeans and a designer T-shirt. He doesn’t look like a street thug. Probably someone’s nephew—a few steps removed and looking for a way to rise in rank by taking on a job of burning down the Bratva’s warehouse. Idiot. And based on the way his eyes are staring at me, huge and unblinking, scared shitless.