Page 82 of Ruthless Addiction

“You’re afraid,” he murmured near my ear. “But not only of me.”

My resolve cracked.

For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.

Then his fingers flexed once—hard—like a man forcing himself to let go of something he wanted far too much.

Chapter 8

PENELOPE

“I’m not trying to have sex with you,” Dmitri said calmly. “Relax.”

The words should have eased something in me. They didn’t.

His voice was low, unhurried, carrying that infuriating certainty he wielded like a weapon. Before I could step away, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to my cheek.

Not rushed. Not careless. Deliberate.

His lips barely touched skin, just enough for the rasp of his stubble to graze me, just enough to remind my body of every bad decision it had once made in his arms.

A shiver betrayed me, sharp and immediate.

Heat flooded my face, my pulse spiking beneath my jaw.

I hated that he felt it.

He pulled back slowly, eyes locked on mine—not smug, not amused. Studying. Cataloguing.

“Are your parents in Greece too?” he asked.

The question landed like a slap. Something cold coiling in my gut.

My parents. The architects of my ruin. The ones who had fed me lies and pills and obedience, who had erased years of my life with syringes and threats and pretty words about what was best for me.

Gone now. Hiding.

Running from Dmitri Volkov like hunted animals.

“What business is it of yours where my parents are?” I snapped.

I took a step back, needing distance from the way his nearness made my resolve wobble. From the dangerous impulse to reach out—to touch him first and lose the upper hand completely.

He didn’t follow. Didn’t crowd me.

“I’d like to meet my wife’s family,” he said evenly.

As if that sentence didn’t contain violence.

I let out a short, bitter laugh. “That won’t be happening. We don’t speak. Haven’t in years. And I’d prefer it stays that way.”

His gaze sharpened. “Why?”

“Because they’re not good people,” I said flatly. “And neither am I when they’re around.”

I turned away before he could dig deeper, crossing the room toward the wardrobe like retreating into cover. My back to him, I opened it and scanned the hanging clothes until my hand landed on black.

Black always worked.