Nikolai has that constipated look on his face that usually means he’s impressed but doesn’t want to admit it. “What about Igor? You’re sure he’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if I were Boris, I’d have gutted him the first chance I got.”
Nikolai sighs. Then he finishes his vodka and salutes me with the empty glass. “We can nail the fucker to the floor. As long as we can stay clear of… distractions.”
I grimace. Subtlety has never been Nikolai’s strong suit. But, for all his other flaws, he knows when to take his exit.
After he’s left, I wander upstairs, intending to go straight to my room. But somehow, I end up in front of Alyssa’s door instead. Nikolai’s words keep reverberating in my head. As much as I hate to admit it, Alyssa has become a distraction.
I thought that sleeping with her would curb my desire, but it’s had the exact opposite effect. The more I have her, the more I crave her.
I made a promise to myself a long time ago that, when it came to my older brother, I would do everything in my power to prove him wrong.
Today is the first time I’ve intentionally broken that promise.
Instead of moving on like I ought to do, I rip open her door and walk in. She’s spread diagonally across the bed, having kicked her cover sheet right off. Which is why I can tell immediately that she’s naked.
She’s sleeping on her side, her breasts squished between her arms. Tiny, fragile—fucking beautiful. My semi turns into a raging hard-on. My body is demanding it gets the fix it’s looking for.
Might as well make use of the pill. This will be the last time.
But unlike the first few times I made that promise to myself, I don’t believe it anymore. It’s become laughable at this point. I strip down and get into bed beside her. I caress her gently until she’s half-awake and blinking at me in confusion.
“Uri…？”
There’s an open-eyed innocence in the way she says my name. It does shit to me that no woman’s words ever have before.
I kiss my way down to her breasts and suck on her nipples until her body is wrapped around mine. She starts kissing me back, her tight little body pushing closer and closer.
Apparently, she hasn’t had enough either.
So for the second time in one night, I push myself inside of her. I mean to be fast and hard. I mean to split her down the middle, get mine, and then cast her aside. That’s what’s for the best, right? That’s the kind of man my Bratva and my responsibilities demand that I be.
But my body has other plans.
We rock back and forth together—slow and measured. Gentle. Tender. At one point during the fucking that doesn’t feel like fucking, I meet her eyes and hold her gaze.
I tell myself this doesn’t mean anything. I tell myself what I told Nikolai: she’s just my plaything. I’m in control.
But my heartbeat is strumming a different song. And it sounds like a warning.
It’s saying…
You’re fucked.
34
ALYSSA
You’re gonna be okay, Alyssa.
Those were the first words Ziva said to me after her diagnosis. The doctor walked out of the hospital room and the first thing she did was grab my hand, look me in the eye, and say those words.
That’s when it struck me that I was the one crying even though she was the one dying.
I didn’t even question it at the time. All I could think was, How was I ever gonna be okay without her?
Towards the end, she made me promise to live for the both of us. Travel the world, Aly. Throw yourself into life. Be brave. Be curious. Be wild. Be reckless. Do it all. Really live, okay? Do it for the both of us.
That’s what I always thought I was doing. Traveling was my way of keeping my promise to Ziva. But lying here in a bed that’s not mine, in a house that’s not mine, I’m forced to reconsider.
No—meeting Uri has forced me to reconsider.
Because the truth is, not until a few days ago did an ugly thought start to fester in the back of my mind: Have I been hiding behind my career? I may have seen almost a hundred different countries, but have I made any new friends? Have I had any significant relationships? Have I explored my sexuality? Have I discovered who I really am?
Last night, I wore a vibrator to dinner and had public sex with a man I’ve only known for a few weeks. Sure, there was an element of recklessness, of danger, but none of it felt uncomfortable. None of it felt wrong.
It makes me wonder if Ziva’s death caused me to recede so far within myself that I started to feel uncomfortable in my own skin. The amateur therapist in me seems to agree.