Page 17

Camilla Vivaldi

Every part of me trembles at the fire in Dimitri’s bright blue eyes. His fury matches mine, and for the first time since my attackers ran my car off the road, I no longer feel alone. He sees me.

All of me.

His nod is all I need. He’ll ensure the monsters who hurt me will suffer and die in the most horrible ways possible. My dark soul revels in his silent vow.

The hunger in his gaze banishes the constant shame battering at my insides. My ruined body heats with anticipation, and despite the fear coursing through me, desire heats my blood.

My nipples pebble and clit throbs. Slower to respond, my core gives a weak squeeze, the sensation unpleasant.

It’s too soon. I’m not ready. Misery echoes through me as I recall how difficult it was to recover from my surgery. How emotionally devastating it was. How mentally draining.

I step back, the buzzing in my brain warning of another panic attack.

He doesn’t chase me, but the lust shining from his blue orbs promises wicked delights. Without a word, he vows he’ll break down my walls and build me into a stronger version of myself. One with him by my side and in my bed.

I want it so badly my knees turn to jelly. Goosebumps rise on my exposed flesh, and with only my panties covering my sex, Dimitri’s heavy-lidded gaze stokes the heat in my veins.

“You are beautiful, moya so?lnyshka ,” he rumbles.

My breath catches in my throat as his deep, smooth voice banishes the horrible words of my rapists.

“I was a model before, but they stole that from me, too. I was beautiful. Not anymore,” I say through tingling lips.

Piercing blue eyes meet mine.

“ Nyet , so?lnyshka . Your scars do not make you ugly. You are still beautiful,” he vows.

The honesty in his tone makes me want to believe him, but I have too much emotional damage to accept his words. I lift my chin, silently disagreeing with him.

“I have many scars. Do they make me ugly?” he asks.

Yearning floods my soul.

“Show me,” I demand.

The lines bracketing his eyes soften and the barest hint of a smile flits across his face as I challenge him.

He pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, revealing his muscular, tattooed chest, thick biceps, and six pack abs. My mouth waters as he tosses his shirt aside.

He isn’t all muscle—as a model, I’ve seen countless male bodies in their prime and at their limits—but the extra weight only makes him seem more real. More lethal. More tempting.

Underneath his tattoos, scars of all shapes and sizes pepper his body. They tell of a dangerous, brutal life.

I watch in mesmerized glee as he removes a knife from his ankle, the pack of children’s bandages—which makes my heart squeeze in relief and worry—from his pocket, and several weapons from his waistband.

With methodical yet graceful movements, he ensures each weapon remains in easy reach on the vanity before turning back toward me.

He places his hand on his belt buckle but waits for me to meet his eyes and nod my permission before he works the leather free and opens his jeans.

I swallow and will my heart back into my chest.

He pushes his pants off his hips.

His boxer briefs struggle to contain his massive, hard cock.

A maze of scars travels down his legs, creating texture within his tattoos.

Russian characters and other designs flow to create an intricate tapestry over most of his body.

I long to trace and explore every inch of him.

My curiosity pulls my feet closer, but I stop myself before I touch him.

With embarrassment heating my cheeks and my heart pounding in my ears, I lower my hand to my side.

“Do not stop, so?lnyshka . Touch me. Hurt me. Use me. Whatever you need, I am yours,” he growls.

Liquid desire floods my core. My arousal slickens my panties and hardens my nipples into diamond points. His nostrils flare and pupils dilate, but he keeps his eyes trained on my face.

I lift my hand and drop my attention to the broad expanse of his chest. There’s so much of him, I don’t know where to start. My fingers hover less than an inch from his flesh. His warmth seeps into my digits.

I flatten my hand over his sternum before my courage flees and suck down a surprised breath at the mix of sensations. One touch and his smooth flesh, raised scars, heat, and hard muscles scramble my brain.

I wasn’t a virgin before the attack, but the creature who emerged afterward—the broken woman who swore off all contact with men—erased the pleasures of my experiences.

Even without those memories, I know this is more . So much more.

A steady pounding within his chest guides my hand over his heart. I marvel at the strength lying underneath his tattoos as he stands in front of me with rigid control.

His flat, round nipples pebble, but he keeps his hands loose at his sides and his breathing steady. My chest heaves and my head spins as need pulses low in my belly.

I should pull back, but instead I place my other hand on his chest and rub my thumbs up his sternum. He’s so big. So strong.

He could break me so easily, but the encouragement in his eyes assures me he won’t.

I rise onto tiptoe and skim my hands up his collarbones and over his shoulders, careful to keep distance between our naked bodies despite the throbbing in my breasts.

A bundle of scars on his right arm captures my attention.

When I tilt my head for a better look, the world spins. I lose my balance.

My breasts flatten against his abs.

Panic snaps through me. I dig my nails into his arms and scramble upright, using him to find my footing.

“S-sorry, I—”

“Breathe, Camilla. I am no schoolboy. I will not lose control no matter how much I want you,” he growls.

Impossibly lower with a hint of roughness, his voice lifts the hairs on my nape and inches me closer to the voices in my nightmares. I tremble as my mind hovers on a knife’s edge, but he remains as steady as a mountain, so I cling to him and use his bright blue eyes as a beacon.

The even rise and fall of his chest encourage me to follow, and within a few moments, my breathing matches his tempo.

My head stops spinning. When I release his arms and step back, the sticky wetness between my legs makes my panties cling to my sex.

My face heats on a blush as the scent of my arousal cuts through his subtle cologne and my body spray.

“Turn around,” I say.

His brows draw together at my demand, and I realize he might misunderstand and think I don’t want him to look at me anymore, so I clarify, “I want to see your back.”

Understanding softens his expression and he steps out of his jeans. His cock jerks in his underwear and I can’t help the lowering of my eyes as he turns.

He’s fucking amazing. A work of art. His ass is front-page worthy. I wonder if his tattoos extend to cover the globes, but don’t dare ask for fear of him stripping off his boxer briefs.

He may have control over his body, but I do not have control over mine. If I push myself too far, I may never find the courage to get this close to him ever again.

My eyes burn and widen beyond comfort as I take in the glorious expanse of his sculpted back.

Drawn in different styles and in different stages of fading, the tattoos covering him from neck to below his waistband create one seamless design despite their lack of continuity. It’s beautiful, chaotic, and mouthwatering.

“I want to know what each of your tattoos mean,” I hear myself say, even though my eyes and brain struggle to take in every centimeter of his scarred and tattooed flesh.

“I will tell you. We have time. The rest of our lives, once you marry me,” he says.

Lightning zings from my nipples to my core.

I fill my lungs with his subtle scent, trace a single fingertip over the angel on his left shoulder blade while I hold my breath until my ribs ache, then drop my hand and step back as I exhale.

“I look forward to every moment,” I manage through the tightness in my chest.

He glances over his shoulder, offering me a snapshot of his profile, and the smile tilting his lips squeezes my core. A fresh trickle of wetness seeps into my panties.

I blindly reach for the outfit I chose and wince in mortification as the hanger rattles on the rack.

Dimitri lifts a brow and turns. I shift my focus toward dressing, needing time and distance to process the intensity of the last few minutes. He follows my lead and takes his handgun and knife off the vanity before returning to his side of the room.

When I pull the undershirt of the first pantsuit on and realize it has a built-in bra, I yank it off and drape it over the rack before snagging the next one in line.

The soft off-white fabric hugs my stick-thin torso without feeling clingy or revealing, and even though the suit it belongs with is nice, I pull my first choice over the top of it.

The matching maroon waistcoat, jacket, and trousers cover every inch of my scarred body in a professional, competent, and feminine shield, accentuating curves I don’t have without making me feel like a fraud.

When I turn around, I nearly sink to my knees at the sight of Dimitri Volkov in a three-piece suit.

The juxtaposition of his bright blue eyes, dangerously handsome face, and the tattoos peeking out from under his crisp white undershirt as rich black fabric encases the rest of his massive frame sends lust rampaging through me. My legs wobble.

Hunger and concern fill his watchful eyes.

I limp to the accessory cart and fight a wave of frustration when every pair of the women’s shoes has heels.

Even though most are less than an inch, I can’t wear them.

Any lift upsets my balance and hurts my joints.

Ignoring them, I choose a set of cufflinks and offer them to Dimitri.

His fluid movement as he attaches them to his sleeves is so much of a turn on I forget to breathe.