Page 39 of Prince of Control

I must sense the storm that is Benjamin Baranov barrelling toward us because my gaze pulls to the glass door moments before he yanks it open. He stalks straight toward us with a scowl firmly in place on his handsome face.

My stomach draws up into a tight knot, regret for my choices worming past my justifications. Not because I’m afraid of Baron–although I am, a little–but also because whatever this turns into doesn’t feel worth it. I didn’t really want to meet this guy for a drink. It was a pity meeting because he seemed lonely, but I don’t have the energy to spare right now for extra battles.

“Oh good.” My voice is flat. I don’t take my gaze off Baron’s approach as I speak. “Here comes my husband now.”

Chapter Ten

Baron

I’m going to kill the fucker. He will die wishing he never knew my name. He will bleed and cry and beg me to forget that he came after what was mine.

I keep all of that from my face. At least I try to, but violence probably leaks from every pore. Maybe I reveal that my body is a lethal weapon in the way I stride across the bar, grab a chair from another table, and smoothly sit between the ass-cake and my wife.

I sit and reach for the basket of French fries beside Denis, pulling it toward me and eating one as I look at them expectantly.

I’m staking my claim. Making sure they both understand–to their bones–that I belong in this conversation. I belong anywhere my wife goes. I will follow her on every appointment, hangout, or meeting. I will vet every person she comes in contact with. And I will never, ever, allow Brash or his spies to fucking touch her.

I notice Lara’s eyes are red, which punches me in the gut. She was crying–and not on my shoulder.

On this flaming fucker’s?

The edge of jealousy creeps up in me, twining with guilt over Lara’s pain to make a foul dish of violence.

I should say something to her. Ask if she’s okay. Except she’s not okay, and I’m the cause of her pain–at least from her perspective.

“Denis, this is Benjamin Baranov, my husband.” Lara introduces us in Russian.

His brows raise as he holds out a hand for me to shake. “Are you Russian?”

I ignore the hand. “Half.” I let him see the menace in my eyes.

He flinches and withdraws his hand.

Eric, the owner of the bar, spots me and comes out from behind the bar. Once or twice a year, I organize events here at Whisper’s End. It’s good to change things up and support local businesses. I compensate Eric well, so he’s eager for more.

“Baron.” He holds out his hand.

His, I shake. “Good to see you.”

“Thanks for coming in. What can I get you to drink?”

“I’ll have the IPA on tap.” I look over at Lara. “What are you drinking, love?”

My tone is anything but loving because the desire for murder courses thickly through my veins.

Lara tucks her hair behind her ear and glances at Denis’ half-full beer. The mudak didn’t even get her a drink when she arrived. That’s reason enough to shove my thumb through his eye socket.

“Um, I’ll have the same.”

“This is my wife, Lara.” I tip my head toward Lara. “Lara, this is Eric. He owns the place.”

“Oh! Didn’t know you were married. Nice to meet you.”

Lara’s face is pinched and unhappy, but she forces a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

I don’t bother introducing Denis, and Eric takes my cue and ignores him, too, walking away. As soon as he’s gone, Lara slides off her barstool. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”

I nod coolly. The moment she’s out of sight, I shift my weight off my barstool to one leg as my hand shoots out and grasps Denis by the hair. I slam his face down against the table and release him, sitting back in my seat as if nothing happened.