Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
And we didn’t do what we’d agreed to tonight. Take a selfie and post it on social media. Right now, Natasha was curled on my custom couch, practically swallowed whole beneath a fuzzy Dodgers blanket, barefoot, hair loose, wearing my gray sweatshirt. The matching pants rolled at the waist. Our clothing had smelled like an ashtray an hour ago. She’d washed her hair and had put it into a tight knot at the top of her head. And we’d knocked back a whole CPK pizza. Well, she had two slices.
“My dad used to make me heart-shaped blini. Every Valentine’s morning. Even when things got complicated. Blini are Russian pancakes, by the way.”
I watched her, quiet.
“I’m sorry. Food makes me nostalgic. Shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“You’re a daddy’s girl.”
While we’d discussed everything under the sun, I needed to learn more about Vassili Resnov. To corner him. Yeah, corner the Bratva Tsar. Had to understand the man whose blessing I planned to take if I couldn’t earn it.
“Yes and no.” She swatted my bicep. A love tap. Then she murmured through a gorgeous smile, “I can’t live without my momma. I told you about chemo. When my hair started falling out, I didn’t take the plunge.”
She was hesitant to show childhood photos. Mam had shown her everything already. All my blackmail photos. I’d resembled an overstuffed bratwurst after a peanut allergy. No holds barred. But I’d understood where Natasha came from. She’d exhaled in relief when I suggested she share her childhood pictures when ready.
“Momma rocked a smooth, bald head first. She held me every time a clump of mine came out. And Pop?” A small smile curved her lips. “He bought an inflatable punching bag. He’d give a wimpy punch. The thing barely moved. I’d go berserk. Tried to knock the air out of it.”
I raised a brow. “Didn’t move?”
“Oh, it did,” she said with a laugh. “The second time. Turns out Pop tied a string to it. Uncle Sim hid behind the door and yanked it so my teeny-weeny punch mimicked a Mike Tyson knockout. Pre-bite night.”
“Bite … you said bite?”
I chuckled. “Yeah. Bite night. Mm-hmm. And you can say I’m an uncle’s girl too.”
I scrubbed a hand over my jaw, warmth blooming through my chest at how loving her family was. To me? The stories? They sounded like monsters. Despite my growing up under a kingpin, those were my thoughts. Rumor had it that Simeon was reckless. If you had to approach the Resnov Bratva, you tackled the lesser of the two evils. Should I—
“Hey”—her eyes softened—“I guess we’re not dressed for that perfect, #Lachasha selfie?”
“Lach and Tasha?”
“It’s nothing, whatever.” She shook her head. “Is that what you were thinking?”
Not in the slightest. This might be one of those situations Baby Jake understood. The little things, a perfect picture. But I didn’t give a crap if she took a picture of me with morning breath or with her bed head. She could post them everywhere. But I could tell this perfect selfie was important to her. And I’d never play her. Not just because of her father—Natasha’s heart was too sacred to me.
“Tomorrow night?”
She grinned. “You wanna squeeze in another date before preseason practice?”
“Definitely.” I needed to collect as much of her love as possible. Before distance, the season, and the media tried to wedge us apart.
“I like that,” Natasha whispered. “We’ll go out. Offer an organic display of our lo—ahem.”
“Show that we luv each other.” I finished, losing myself deep in her hazel eyes.
She offered a sleepy smile. “Aw …”
Time slowed. Her head eased on the cushion, lashes flickering. A breath. Then another. She was out. I didn’t move at first. Just watched her sleep, memorizing every line of her face. I told myself I’d drive her home. Swing by with her car in the morning.
I didn’t.
Because all I could think was? How right it felt. Her here. With me.
I stayed up, thumb brushing my lips, thoughts circling like vultures. I used to think I had it figured out. Sex was easy. Emotions? Optional. Love? Out of the question. It meant nothing. This—her—meant the world.
Sometime later, I’d climbed into bed, recalling Montana’s skepticism. Dude thought the ring burning a hole in my pocket denoted cause and effect: screwing Natasha.
The lad had no idea.
I wanted to love her. Love on her.
For the rest of our—
A scream shattered the stillness. I bolted upright. “Natasha!”
Adrenaline tore through me. My feet hit the marble like gunfire, slipping, skidding—didn’t matter. I ran. She was home plate, and this was game seven.
Another cry. Softer. More broken. I slowed into the living room, heart hammering.
Then I saw her—curled on the couch. Moonlight streamed over her clenched fists. Face contorted in fear. No attacker. No danger … outside of the confines of her mind.
The nightmare swallowed her whole.