Page 33 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

THUNDER

MILA

I stand at the window of my temporary room, watching moonlight pour over the garden below.

Bare-limbed trees cast skeletal shadows across the manicured lawn, their branches swaying gently in the late March wind.

Pale patches of crocuses and early daffodils press up through the thawing soil, catching silver light in their petals.

The mansion’s grounds stretch quiet and still, save for the occasional rustle of dry leaves and the slow pacing of security guards along the gravel path.

It’s nearly midnight, and my pulse quickens.

My body hums with awareness, with memory and anticipation. The fabric of the dress Yakov requested whispers against my skin as I pace, counting minutes, watching the clock.

I should be trying to find a solution to return to my apartment, my normal life, my professional boundaries. Instead, I’m waiting for Yakov, the man who has broken through every wall I’ve ever built.

My phone buzzes with a text from Katarina—her third today, checking that I’m alright, that Pablo hasn’t made another appearance. I respond with reassurance I’m not sure I believe myself. Yes, I’m fine. No, there’s been no sign of him. Yes, I’ll be careful.

What I don’t tell her is how my heart races at the thought of what I’ve arranged for tonight. How I whispered the invitation to Yakov earlier today, watching his eyes darken with hunger and promise.

“Midnight. My room. Don’t be late.”

The clock ticks over to 12:03. One minute until the loop.

Two minutes until he’s at my door. I smooth my hands over the dress, wondering if this is madness.

He’s a dangerous man with a complicated past. I’m a psychologist who should know better.

And yet…I’m drawn to his darkness as much as I’m afraid of it.

I’ve officially transferred his case, citing emotional countertransference in my report.

The clinical term feels so inadequate for whatever this is between us, this pull that defies professional ethics and common sense alike.

It doesn’t help that thanks to Aleksander, unofficially, I’m still his therapist.

12:04. One minute.

I move away from the window, dimming the lights to reduce visibility from outside.

My last act of precaution before surrendering to something I can no longer deny.

I check my appearance one final time in the mirror—hair loose around my shoulders the way he seems to prefer it, lips slightly reddened from nervous biting.

The clock glows 12:05, and I hold my breath.

Exactly on the dot, I hear it—three soft knocks, precisely as we arranged. I cross the room in seconds, pausing with my hand on the knob, giving myself one last chance to make the professional choice.

I open the door.

Yakov stands in the shadowed hallway, expression controlled but eyes burning with an intensity that makes my skin burn. He also planned this carefully, timed his movements with the precision I’ve come to expect from him.

“This was risky,” he says softly, even as his eyes devour me. I nod and step back, and he enters silently, bringing the now-familiar scent of his skin with him. I close the door, turning the lock with a quiet click that seems to echo in the stillness between us.

“Always surprising me,” he murmurs, moving closer. “The cautious doctor taking tactical risks.”

“I learned from the best,” I reply, unable to keep the smile from my voice. “Someone’s been showing me how to assess security patterns.”

His lips curve slightly. “And using that knowledge to arrange clandestine meetings. I should be concerned about what else you’ve learned.”

“Only what you’ve chosen to teach me.” I step closer, drawn by the magnetic pull between us that grows stronger with each encounter. “Though I’m a good observer, as you know already.”

He reaches out, fingers tracing the curve of my jaw with exquisite gentleness. “Indeed you are. In all the most dangerous ways.”

Electricity skitters across my skin, a reaction I can’t control despite my professional training, despite knowing better. I lean into his hand, craving more contact.

“You’re here to stay,” he says, not a question but a statement of fact.

“Yes.” I meet his gaze directly. “Igor and Nikolai don’t want to risk my safety. Apparently no security protocols are enough when it comes to Pablo.”

His expression darkens momentarily. “Pablo is regrouping.”

“I know.” I step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. “But I don’t want to talk about him anymore or the life he’s keeping me from living. I want to feel your touch again.”

“A life I can’t be part of,” he observes, ignoring my confession. The words are simple but loaded with everything unsaid between us.

“Not yet,” I say, the hope in those two words surprising us both. “Things change, Yakov. Situations evolve. Even yours.”

A rare, genuine smile transforms his face. “The optimist’s view.”

“The realist’s view,” I counter, echoing our previous conversation. “Nothing stays the same forever. Not even carefully constructed prisons.”

He studies me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. “What was it you said about my touch?” His thumb traces my lower lip, causing goosebumps to erupt in its path.

“I want to feel it,” I whisper.

His eyes darken as they hold mine. “I’m not ready to let this go, Mila. Whatever this is between us.”

The admission hangs in the air between us, honest and raw in a way Yakov rarely allows himself to be.

I should be analyzing his motivations, questioning whether this is genuine emotion or strategic advantage.

Instead, I find myself reaching for him, pulling him closer until our bodies press together, heat building where we touch.

“Neither am I,” I confess against his lips.

His kiss is different this time, not the desperate, urgent claiming of our previous encounter, but deep and almost tender.

He takes his time exploring my mouth, hands sliding down my sides to my hips, leaving trails of fire through the fabric of the dress.

I respond in kind, fingers slipping beneath his shirt to find warm skin beneath, tracing the hard muscles of his back.

When we break apart, both breathing harder, his eyes have that intensity that makes my knees weak, like I’m the only thing in his world worth focusing on. Like I’ve become essential to him in ways neither of us anticipated.

“I need you to be careful,” he says, his voice rougher than before. “Pablo isn’t finished with you.”

“I will be,” I promise, touched by his concern even as I recognize the protective possessiveness beneath it. “Igor has arranged additional security around the mansion.”

“Not enough.” His hands tighten slightly on my hips. “Promise me you won’t stay too far from me. That you’ll check in regularly.”

I smile, tracing the hard line of his jaw with my fingertips. “Worried about me, Gagarin?”

“Yes.” The simple admission, delivered without hesitation, catches me off guard. No deflection, no tactical phrasing, just raw honesty. “More than you are aware.”

I reach up, threading my fingers through his hair, pulling his mouth back to mine.

“I promise,” I whisper against his lips. “Now stop talking and kiss me. We don’t have much time.”

Our second kiss is less careful, less controlled, all heat and tongues and need.

His hands slide down the curves of my hips, pressing me to him and letting me feel his hardness.

Our mutual groans of pleasure join as he kisses his way along my jawline and down my neck, nibbling and sucking around my collarbone.

“God, you feel good,” he says against my skin. “Too damn good to be real.”

His hands find the zipper at my back, but he pauses, pulling back to look at me. His eyes take in the burgundy fabric, dark and possessive.

“You’re wearing it,” he says, voice rough with approval. “The dress I asked for.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “Yes.”

“Good girl.” The words send a shiver straight through me. His thumb traces the neckline, reverent. “You look perfect. Exactly how I imagined you.” His eyes meet mine, intense and satisfied. “You want to please me.”

It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Yes.”

Something primal flashes in his expression—possession, pride, hunger all rolled into one. “I’m going to remember this moment. You, in this dress, choosing to be mine.”

Then he unzips it slowly, deliberately, his knuckles brushing my spine as the fabric parts. He slides it off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a pool of silk, leaving me in only the underwear I’ve carefully chosen.

“You deserve a better man,” he whispers as his lips find the swell of my breast covered by the lingerie. “Someone not fighting a war for his freedom.”

“There’s no other man for me.” My fingers tighten in his hair, pulling his head up to mine. “No one but you.”

I see the same realization, the same awareness in his eyes; this goes beyond simple physical attraction, beyond survival, beyond control. This is something new and terrifying and possible.

His mouth returns to mine, hunger making the kiss deeper, more desperate. His hips grind against me, the rigid length of his erection perfectly positioned to tease. I arch into him, seeking more contact, needing him inside me.

As though reading my thoughts, he lifts me, his muscles tense. I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively, luxuriating in his strength. He carries me to the bed, dropping me on it, then removes his shirt in one movement.

His mouth traces the outline of my black lingerie, the barely-there fabric leaving little between us. He explores my breasts reverently, murmuring to me in a blend of Russian and English that makes everything seem more intense, more elevated, more intimate.

With meticulous precision, my bra falls victim to his teeth, snapping free. He looks up at me, breathless and aroused, his chest heaving, eyes burning.

“Hmm, you are so sweet, little doctor.”