Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Fuck, that was good.
It was odd, experiencing something for the simple pleasure of it. “What is this?”
“It’s called marry me chicken,” she answered. “And I don’t know if it bothers me. The bratva is known for its brutality, but is there really any difference between the bratva and any other rich motherfucker? At least you aren’t hypocritical about it. If I ask you questions, will you answer me honestly?”
“I will answer as honestly as I can. I’m not going to tell you anything that’s going to get you hurt or put you in any kind of danger.”
“Have you ever hurt someone for fun?”
I took a deep breath.
Her question was direct and to the point. Part of me had to respect that. She knew what she wanted; she knew where her line in the sand was and what she was and wasn’t willing to forgive.
“As part of my job for the family? No,” I answered. “I’ve hurt people, but never for enjoyment. At least not in the line of duty. Now if we’re talking about on the ice as part of the local hockey team, that’s a different story.”
“That’s not work, that’s war,” she said with a sexy smile.
Marina had always had this energy about her. It was what first drew me in, a magnetism I couldn't quite define. But watching her now—her fingers skimming the edge of a plate before reaching for another, this one piled high with ice cream and a fudge brownie—I realized what it was.
Hunger.
Not just for food, though she indulged in that too, savoring every bite like it was meant to be worshipped. But for life. For experiences. For pleasure.
She knew what she wanted, and she took it. No hesitation. No apologies.
There was a boldness to her, a recklessness that was intoxicating.
No other woman I knew—whether born into the mafia or clawing their way into it—would have run like she did. They wouldn’t have had the nerve to rebuild a life from the ground up, not once, but twice. And yet Marina had, without compromise. Without losing the fire in her veins.
Just like the way she ordered this feast, not because she needed it, but because she wanted to piss me off. The untouched display of oysters and caviar was proof enough. She could have ordered the entire fucking restaurant if she wanted, and it wouldn’t put a dent in my net worth.
But it was the way she ate, sampling, tasting, teasing herself like she was absorbing the world through sensation alone.
And fuck, wasn’t that the same way she had given herself to me?
In the train car, she met me thrust for thrust, hunger for hunger. She came just as hard as I did, her body surrendering to the full experience.
I didn’t live like that. Every move I made was calculated. Every decision, every action, down to the meals I consumed, all serving a purpose. I didn’t drink for pleasure, only to dull the edges of my temper or ease negotiations.
I didn’t chase Marina across continents because I wanted her. I did want her, had always wanted her, but that wasn’t why I boarded the plane.
I did it because I had made Veronika a promise.
And yet, sitting across from Marina now, watching her lick a smear of chocolate from her bottom lip, I realized she made me want.
She made me crave things I had long denied myself.
She didn’t overthink. She didn’t hesitate. Maybe she should have, maybe then she wouldn’t have fucking jumped off that train, but I couldn’t fault her for her audacity.
Her voice cut through my thoughts. “Do you regret marrying her?”
CHAPTER 25
KOSTYA
Put me in a room with a dozen armed Russians, all half-drunk and one wrong word away from blowing each other’s heads off, and I was cold as fucking ice.
But put me alone in a room with this woman—this maddening, reckless, mouthy contradiction of a woman—and I was at a fucking loss.
“I find it hard to regret anything that has led me to this moment.”
Marina’s lips curled as she tore off a bite of warm bread, chewing as she considered my words. “What does that mean?”
“It means that if things hadn’t happened exactly as they did, you and I wouldn’t be here right now. With you eating enough food to feed a small army.”
Her bright eyes gleamed. “Are you questioning my room service ordering skills?”
“I’m questioning your nutritional decisions,” I shot back, the attempt at levity feeling foreign, unnatural.
She reached for another piece of bread, breaking it in half, the steam curling between her fingers as she lifted it to my lips. “Eat this.”
“No,” I said, even as my mouth damn near watered. “There’s no value in that. It’s simple carbs.”
Her gaze flicked to mine, challenging. “It’s amazing.”
The smug certainty in her voice had something dark and dangerous coiling in my gut. I leaned in and let my lips brush her fingertips before I bit into the bread.