Page 28 of Bound By Debt

“The coffee is for you.”

He finally turns to me, and my heart gives one hard thump when those intense green eyes find me. My chest tightens with things I shouldn’t be feeling. A familiar pulse ticks between my thighs. Isn’t it too early in the morning for that?

“Thanks.”

I reach for the mug. The only thing I want more than coffee right now is Evgeny himself, and I don’t know if he’s ever looked this sexy. He even has a small smudge of a bruise on one cheek and a scratch on his chin. Why does that make me want him even more?

The coffee seems safer.

It’s good too, rich and deep, with just a hint of chocolate and spice. Much like the coffee my father makes every morning, the smell of it is home to me.

“Thanks,” I murmur again into my mug after another inhale of the scent. “It’s good.”

“I own the coffee plantation.”

I have no idea what to say to that, so unexpected, so casually shared, except, “Oh. That’s nice.”

It’s an inane reply, and I take another sip so I don’t spill more words into the quiet between us again.

Between the sun fully rising and me downing half a cup of coffee, I finally feel more awake. Only as the last wisps of sleep lift doI realize Evgeny isn’t trying to hide in the shadows to veil the scarred side of his face anymore. It’s all bared to the dawn, and he notices me watching him.

“My scars don’t bother you?”

His question startles me out of my dangerous reverie. It’s more of a statement than a question, but somehow I know it for what it is.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Why?” I echo, trying to come up with a good answer. “Because they’re just scars, I guess. They don’t mean anything. They don’t do anything but tell a story. People are who they are, and they look the way they look. It doesn’t say anything about them unless they want it to.”

Which is entirely possible, it seems like Evgeny has made his scars part of his personality. No doubt they are an asset in many things, professionally and Bratva-related, but I wonder how much of his gruffness is protection formed from childhood trauma.

“It’s not what’s on the outside that counts, anyway. Anyone can fool you into thinking they’re someone else just by the way they look or act on the surface.”

A small part of me suspects Evgeny isn’t nearly as beastly as the front he puts on. I know there are terrifying parts of him, I’ve seen them. But I’ve also seen the gentler sides, the more private sides, even if they were only tiny glimpses.

It surprises me how much I hope they aren’t a figment of my imagination. I want to get to knowthatguy more, the one I met at the club.

“Where did you get them from? A fire?”

I don’t know where the question comes from or where I found the guts to ask. Evgeny’s reaction is a foregone conclusion even as the words leave my mouth. Why am I asking when I already know the answer?

His head snaps toward me, green eyes flashing with anger. But the anger doesn’t explode. Instead, as quickly as it flares, it fades to embers, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath.

“Yes.”

He turns his attention back to the horizon. It’s a clear signal that the subject is closed and as off-limits as the North Wing.

“Can I go for a walk?”

Evgeny looks a little surprised at the sudden change in subject.

“I saw a path down by the beach, and I haven’t been out of this place in a few weeks. I’m starting to feel stir-crazy.”

He stares at me for so long I contemplate getting up and wandering away.

“Fine. But you aren’t going alone.”