Page 8

ZOYA

S omething was wrong.

I had been sitting at my desk for the last several hours staring at financial documents, bank statements, and transfer requests, trying to focus.

Instead, my mind preferred to drift, thinking about him.

Roman.

There was something about him, something that made it impossible to concentrate. That had never happened to me.

Roman was tall, strong, and had the darkest, most intense eyes I had ever seen.

And I liked the way he looked at me.

Normally, I hated when men looked at me.

Men like my disgusting husband, or the ones my father did business with, or the knuckle-draggers Mateo brought in after every underground fight. Deep down, they were all the same.

Women were things—to be used, abused, owned.

Whether they consented never mattered.

My brothers laughed about consent once. One of them said, "Why would I ask the washer what it wants before I put my load into it?"

The foul double entendre had their friends howling with laughter. I just felt sick.

When those men looked at me with the same hunger Roman had in his eyes, my skin crawled.

But Roman’s gaze didn’t make my skin crawl. It heated my body, made my thighs clench.

I didn’t understand it.

When his eyes traveled down my body, I found myself wondering what his hands would feel like following the same path.

Even now heat coiled low in my belly, a traitorous ache building between my thighs as my mind replayed the way he’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

I’d been fascinated by the way his muscles flexed in his ink-covered forearms. I wanted to know if the tattoos continued—up his arms, across his chest.

My mouth watered at the thought, my breath coming faster.

Why was it getting harder to breathe?

Thankfully, my office was isolated. The men stayed downstairs with the prisoner, and they wouldn’t let Roman out of their sight.

He wouldn’t be trusted yet. Not by them.

Pulling my knees apart, I let my hand trail from my knee up the inside of my thigh?—

I wasn’t alone.

The air thickened. The hairs on the back of my neck rose.

A girl raised in this life didn’t reach adulthood without learning to listen to her instincts.

Someone was here.

Getting closer.

I kept still.

One hand moved back onto the desk to support my head. The other stayed underneath it, fingers brushing the cold metal of the gun strapped there.

Just as I reached it, a hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, slamming it to the desktop.

Another hand seized my free wrist.

I didn’t hesitate. I broke his hold on my wrists and fought.

Clawed, scratched, slammed my elbow backward—anything to shake him off.

But it was like grappling with a wall.

He pressed his body against mine.

Heat and that dark, tropical scent enveloped me.

I knew who it was before he spoke.

Didn’t mean I stopped fighting.

Papers flew in every direction; my laptop became a sacrifice to the chaos engulfing us.

I kicked back, trying to knock him off me with the chair. He shoved it aside like it weighed nothing.

Now there was no barrier between us.

He bent me over, pinned me to the desk, his hips flush against my ass.

I grabbed for the silver letter opener in its wooden base. Before I could fully grip it, he plucked it from my hand and tossed it aside.

“Tsk, tsk, Zoya,” he murmured, dark amusement lacing his deep, velvety voice. “Did you really think I’d make this easy for you?”

Roman.

I already knew it was him. The moment he spoke a wicked thrill shot through me.

“Get off of me,” I snarled.

“Are you going to be a good girl and come with me quietly?” he whispered in my ear.

My body practically melted at those words.

No.

I wasn’t going to swoon because he acted like he owned the place. I wasn’t going to go all soft because I liked the way his hands gripped me.

And I was absolutely not wondering if that was his cock pressed against me.

Fighting me had turned him on.

Had turned me on.

Fuck.

“Well, printsessa , are you going to play nice? Or does this get ugly?”

“I—”

“Come now, don’t be shy. Tell me you’ll be sweet for me.”

Every time I pressed my palms to the desk, they slipped, sending more papers flying.

The Tiffany lamp tumbled and shattered, plunging the room into shadow, broken only by a sinister glow cast by the dim external security lighting.

He flipped me to face him then pinned me to the desk, massive hands clamped around my wrists.

“I’ll have your head for this!” I screamed, sending a knee upward.

He twisted just in time; my knee glanced off his thigh.

“Oh, feisty,” he laughed.

He leaned in, whispering against my skin, “I hoped you’d be feisty.”

“Get off me,” I growled, shoving against him with everything I had.

“Oh, printsessa . What do you think you can do to me like this? Open those pretty little thighs for me. That’s the only thing you can do.”

“I’ll scream and my men will?—”

“They’ll what? Most of them are drunk or high.”

He had to be bluffing.

I paid for competent men. I paid well.

But deep down, I knew Los Infideles had sent me the ones they didn’t want. The ones they couldn’t control.

I couldn’t give up. I wouldn’t.

“Keep rubbing against me and this is going to get more interesting,” he warned.

I froze.

Something thick and hard pressed against my core.

No, that had to be a weapon. A metal pipe. Anything.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I bit out, resisting the urge to melt into him.

A low, dark laugh rumbled from his chest.

He released my wrists and grabbed my jaw.

“Don’t play with me, little girl. I saw you eye-fucking me earlier. Maybe if you behave, I’ll give you a taste.”

Fire raced across my cheeks.

His gaze dropped to my lips, then my chest, then lower.

“Sorry, I don’t fuck the help.”

With my arms free, I grabbed for the nearest object that by some miracle hadn’t ended up on the floor—a cheap ceramic mug that read “Boss Bitch.”

I swung it hard.

He caught it, smashed it against the wall.

The distraction was enough. I shoved back.

He barely moved, but the desk scraped across the floor, giving me the room I needed to kick out and slip away.

I dashed for the other door.

My fingers grazed the brass knob?—

His body slammed the door shut, pinning me again.

Being against him was suffocating—in the worst and best way.

“This won’t end well for you,” I warned. “Even if you kill me, my men will find you. You’ll be hunted like a dog. Let go now, and I’ll give you a thirty-minute head start before I send Mateo to gut you.”

His laugh was low, condescending.

“Do you think Mateo will do that for you? That he even can?”

“I do,” I snapped.

“We’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Are you at least going to tell me who you work for before you force yourself on me?”

“Force myself on you? Is that what you think this is?”

“Isn’t it? There’s no way a woman would willingly open her legs for you, so I assume this is your only option.”

He laughed again.

“Don’t worry, printsessa . I don’t need to take what’s already mine. Your cunt’s already wet for me. You’ll beg me for it soon enough.”

“That’s never going to happen,” I spat, stomping on his foot.

He didn’t flinch.

My heart thundered. My cheeks burned. Still, I kept fighting.

This wasn’t about want or desire. This was survival.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” he said, his voice unsteady for the first time.

Good.

That lit a new fire inside me.

“If you’re not here to rape me, then why are you here?” I snapped, yanking my wrists.

He tightened his grip.

“I came for information,” he said. “What I want to know is what Los Infideles were really after when they aligned themselves with you. Because it sure as hell wasn’t just your charm.”

I managed to free one wrist for all the good it did; he spun me around and slammed me back against the wall, knocking the wind out of me.

He pinned both wrists above my head with just one hand.

That shouldn’t have been possible.

It shouldn’t have turned me on.

But it did.

His other hand smoothed down over my arm, shivers rippling in its wake, until his fingers curled around my throat, tilting my head.

“You don’t have to fight me,” he said, voice full of dark promise.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Fuck, I’m going to regret this,” he muttered—then crushed his mouth to mine.

It was an explosion.

It blew apart every shred of my self-control.

His kiss was ravenous, primal—and I didn’t just allow it. I fought for it.

Not to stop him.

But to take control.

He let go of my wrists, his hands trailing downward, thumbs brushing the sides of my breasts before gripping my hips, pulling me up the wall so our bodies aligned.

I should have fought harder.

Should’ve slapped him.

Instead, my hands tangled in his hair. My legs wrapped around his waist.

I kissed him back like I hated him.

Like I needed him.

He gripped the small of my back and pulled me from the wall, laying me out across the desk.

His hands were everywhere. Over my clothes. It wasn’t enough.

I needed more.

A crash echoed from below.

Reality hit us like a slap.

We froze.

He stepped back, touching his lips.

I nearly mirrored him, but stopped myself and slid off the desk.

We stood, panting, staring.

I inched toward the door, hand reaching?—

His jaw tightened.

He moved.

He flipped me again, arms pinned behind my back.

“Fuck you, let go of me!” I cursed him in Russian, calling every plague down upon him.

“Sorry, printsessa , but I can’t risk you screaming,” he whispered.

Then came a sharp pressure—an expert nerve pinch.

The world blurred. I fought the darkness.

Fought with everything I had.

It didn’t matter.

My body sagged.

Strong arms caught me.

The last thing I saw was the shattered chaos of my office before the darkness swallowed me whole.