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Our last night in Madrid?

No. Too painful.

Darya and Roman’s wedding, when I was a bridesmaid and he a groomsman?

No. I can’t think of Darya, or I will just cry.

Back to the start, then?

But I’ve gone back to the beginning too many times. The beginning was easy. Or rather, it was just so gloriously bright that it’s easy to forget the moments of darkness that lay between us even then.

Now, after all that has happened, recalling the joy without acknowledging the shadows feels dishonest. Incomplete. It’s like when somebody dies and the bad memories fade, leaving only rose-hued nostalgia.

I’m not ready for Dimitry and me to be a dead thing.

Whether I want to remember them or not, the dark times are the primary reason I came back to Australia in the first place. And if I ever manage to find a way out of this mess, those dark places will still exist between him and me. They’ll still destroy us, if they haven’t already.

The truth is that the darkness came for us right from the beginning. It came in the middle of those heady first weeks,somewhere between the first night we slept together and before I began working at Pillars full-time.

And it was all my fault.

I turn on my side, my entire body aching, and let the memories come.

Malaga, Spain

Two years ago

“Tell me about these.”I’m naked, sprawled across the wall of Dimitry’s chest, tracing the puckered scars that cover his torso, many of which have been disguised by ink. “I want to know how you got them.”

“Not important.” His hand closes over mine, and he brings my fingers to his lips, teasing them with his tongue until I’m squirming. “I’d far rather do this again.”

I giggle, which turns into a moan as his mouth shifts to my nipple. “Youalwayswant to do this again.”

It’s late in siesta, and soft golden light filters through the filmy curtains, turning the chipped tiles and wrought iron bed to a scene from an old sepia movie. My hand roams over his shoulder, pausing as I find another of the smooth round circles of scar tissue. “I mean it, Dimitry,” I say softly. “How did you get these?”

He stills. “Come on, Abby.” He avoids my eyes, brushing his lips over my breast. “Scar stories are boring.” One large hand spans my waist, his thumb stroking my belly in the slow, deliberate way that always makes me shiver.

He’s trying to distract me.

I’ve asked him about the marks on his body more thanonce. He always avoids the question, just as he does any about his childhood, or about what exactly he does for Roman Stevanovsky.

I understand the childhood thing. It’s clear he’s been through it, and I get he doesn’t want to dwell on the memories.

And when it comes to Roman, part of me wants to play along. After all, do I really need him to spell it out for me? It’s blatantly obvious that Roman runs an immense criminal empire and that Dimitry is neck-deep in every aspect of it.

I may not know exactly how the Russian criminal world works, but I know that real estate moguls don’t generally need a gun-carrying bodyguard at their back the entire time.

And Google is free.

Dimitry might not have a single social media profile, nor appear anywhere online except as a shadowy background figure in the paparazzi snaps of Roman, but the articles to which those photographs are attached tell a pretty damning story. The simple fact is that after Yuri, his adoptive father, was imprisoned several years ago, Roman took over the family business, which means he heads the entire Stevanovsky bratva clan. From what I can make out, the Stevanovskys rose to the height of Spain’s criminal world after one hell of a mafia war. And going by the way Dimitry shadows Roman, he was right in the middle of it.

So why are you pushing this?

I gasp as Dimitry’s mouth closes over my nipple again, his hand roaming lower, but with an infuriating lack of haste. His fingers play across my lower belly, staying just far enough away from where I need them to make me part my legs and arch toward him in silent entreaty. He chuckles in the back of his throat, taking his sweet time, his tongue maddeningly slow and sensual. For such an enormous man, he has the most delicate, exquisite way of touching me.

Of distracting me, more like.

And I’m pushing this because I’ve already made these mistakes. I’ve already suffered the consequences of playing in a world where there are no rules. I can’t go back there, no matter how divine Dimitry’s hands feel on me, nor how addictive these long afternoons have become.