Kostya: A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva) by Nicole Fox (my reading book .TXT) 📕

But for one moment, it feels good to be so lighthearted. To be … happy, or something akin to it. Despite the danger posed by the Whelans, danger I should be addressing rather than mooning over Charlotte, here I am, watching the door.

In she walks, slamming the door closed behind her. The smile falls from my face. Something is wrong. It doesn’t take a genius to know that this ache in my gut means I care.

Weakness.

“What’s wrong?”

She walks past me without so much as a glance. “Nothing.” Her murmur is soft, but it’s the loudest lie I’ve ever heard.

“If you’re worried about the Whelans, you don’t have to be. I can protect you.” And I will. As will the men I’ll make sure surround her.

At least she stops walking away so I don’t have to chase her through the living room. When she turns to face me, her eyes flash. I can’t decide if she’s angry at me or at her own fear.

“How do you plan to do that? They certainly seemed to get into the hotel without trouble.” Her words are clipped, and her posture is ramrod straight. So it’s anger then. Not fear.

“Excuse me?” I have a little pent-up hostility of my own. I still didn’t know how exactly the Whelans managed to get into the hotel or where they got their intel.

“How do you plan to protect me? And Tiana? Or did you forget your daughter?” She crosses her arms and her gaze remains pointed at the wall to my left.

“Do you have something to say, Charlotte?” My tone is level, but I leave in a note that says challenging me will not be to her benefit.

She still doesn’t look at me. “No.”

Another lie. This one blatant. And I can tolerate a lot, but not lying. “Charlotte,” I growl.

And again, she points her defiance at me. It’s in her eyes. On her lips. In her stance. And then it’s gone and I’m watching every emotion—the grief gamut—roll across her face. Sadness. Anger. Disgust. Fear. Shame. And contempt.

Her anger is palpable, a living, breathing entity in the room, and I want to help her work it out. I want to teach her how to focus that rage into something she can use to grow stronger. It’s a hard lesson, one not for the weak, maybe not one for Charlotte, but she needs it perhaps more than even myself.

I cross to her and haul her against me. If I can’t goad her into smiling, into not glaring at me with hatred in her eyes, then I’ll kiss away her anger. Caress away the sadness. Nibble away at the rest until she’s moaning my name and begging me not to stop.

I use my tongue to pressure her lips apart then slide my hand up her rib cage as our mouths meet and her body warms against mine.

Her breast is heavy when I free it from her bra, and she whimpers when I roll her nipple between my finger and thumb. She’s beautiful and expressive, passionate, and about one breath away from becoming a very long after-lunch dessert.

When she arches her back then twists around so her shoulder blades are against my chest, I give her more, slide my hand down her stomach to her jeans and flick open the button. She throws her head back against my shoulder as I kiss a line down her throat and press a finger inside her pussy.

For all the anger and rage burning inside of her, she’s wet and ready, knees bending and straightening as she rides my hand.

But, as right as this is, she freezes, her body tense and stiff. She stops grinding against my fingertips, pulls away, and swipes her hand over her mouth as if kissing me has left a bad taste there she wants to wipe away.

“I’m sorry.” I can’t tell what for. But before I can ask, she runs out of the room, leaving me with a hard dick, a brain full of mush, and endless frustration.

Just a few short months ago, I might have sent Yelisey to the club to fetch me someone wet and willing to relieve me of these achy blue balls. But now, the mere thought is revolting. I don’t want just anyone.

I want Charlotte.

God fucking dammit.

I want to tear this room and every other in the house apart, but I don’t, because I’m in control of my volatility if nothing else. And even if my cock is still straining against my pants, I’m going into the office, because there, I can bring my thoughts around to where they belong. Here, this house, is already too full of Charlotte, and I can’t stop myself from knowing she’s only down a hallway, won’t stop myself from going to her and pulling her against me, kissing her until she gives in.

Right now, we both want that, but neither of us can bear it.

Work will save me, and there is always plenty to be attended to. Contracts to be read and negotiated. Supply leading to demand. Schedules to work around. I hope the drive to my office will help clear my head.

The first hour flies by. The second is not as fast, but by the end of the third hour, I’ve done everything I can do, work that would’ve usually taken two days.

As I stand to leave, Yelisey pokes his head in the door. “You’re here late.” He walks in and takes the chair across from my desk.

I shoot him a stare that says I don’t need his casual observances or the hidden inferences behind them. He holds up his hands.

“Someone has to do the work. Whelan needs to be dealt with.” I look him in the eye. “I want Jack Whelan’s head in a box.”

Yelisey raises his eyebrows. “When? Where?”

“I don’t care.” And I really don’t. “Just see to it.”

“Kostya—”

I don’t have the patience today for his questioning of my orders. “For fuck’s sake, Yelisey! I don’t give a fuck about the