Page 141 of Mafia and Scars

I’m trembling as he continues thrusting harder, pressing me into the mattress like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. Strands of hair stick to his forehead, sweat beading on his flushed skin. The urge to brush it away overwhelms me, and my wrists twist in his grasp until he releases them. I smooth the hair from his face and press our mouths together. “More...please, Viktor.”

He parts my lips with his tongue as it tangles with mine, then speeds up his rhythm. I watch with rapt attention as a guttural growl moves up his throat—a sound that makes me clench around him harder. Warmth floods me, and I moan, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

“You’re mine, Avelina,” he pants, softer now. “Mine to protect. I promise you that.”

Despite fighting the wave of emotion, my eyes mist. His words sink deep because I don’t think I’ve ever belonged to someone who didn’t need me for something. And that realization hits hard.

He drops his weight to his forearm, pressing featherlight kisses against my face, and I smile. “That’s it,” he murmurs before shifting to pull out. I’ve no doubt I look as thoroughly ravaged as I feel, and I can see his brow knitting with concern. “You okay?” His voice carries genuine worry. “I wasn’t too rough?”

“God, no.”

“Your wrists? It wasn’t too hard? I should have asked?—”

I push up on my forearms and reach for him. “I’m okay. And I loved it. Not as much as touching you, but close.”

He slides two fingers through my swollen flesh, and I shudder when his pupils flare as I clench around them.

“You’re sore.”

I bat my eyelashes and grin. “So?”

He pinches my chin between thumb and forefinger, pulling me toward him as he leans back. “In that case, hands and knees, baby. We’re not done yet.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

VIKTOR

I jolt awake.

Like some knee-jerk reaction to stepping off the edge of a towering cliff.

My heart is still hammering like gunfire in my chest.

Color.

I never dream in color.

But just now, in my dream, color bled through the cracks of my mind. The rust-red bricks of the run-down place we called home in Moscow, the neon glow of the street signs reflected in puddles, the dreary gray sky above the alley where I met Nikolai and Matvey for the first time. All sharp and vivid like I was standing right there again…

Now, the room’s dark shadows stretch across the ceiling, but even now, I can stillseeit. Stillfeelit.

Easing Avelina’s sleeping body gently from my hold, I sit on the edge of the bed andinhale deeply.

This isn’tright.

Everything in my thoughts and dreams has always been black and white. Organized and ordered.

But now it’s messy. Loud and chaotic with the colors bombarding me. Bleeding into my thoughts. Alive in ways I can’t explain.

And it scares the absolute hell out of me.

The warehouse stinks of oil and blood when I arrive. Two Albanian foot soldiers kneel in the center of the floor, zip ties cutting into their wrists. Nikolai stands to the side, arms crossed, watching with an unusually disarming smirk.

“Morning,” he greets me.

I grunt.

“Sunshine and rainbows as usual, Vik. This’ll cheer you up. Caught them trying to breach the north storage site.” He jerks his chin to the men. “Sloppy work. But gives me an excuse to try out some new methods.”