Page 43 of Scarred Angel

I nod once, cutting the stems off a bunch of asparagus and rinsing them under the tap, waiting her out.

“He says you have a lot of enemies. That true?”

My thoughts flicker to Konstantin’s blood still swirling down my shower drain. “Sure. So does he.”

“I know. And that’s why I told him it doesn’t matter. Because we’re like two sides of the same coin. All of us. And we’re…family.”

I pause, glass midair, eyes on hers over the rim.

Family.

It’s what we’re supposed to be. How it looked when we were kids. But we both know that’s bullshit. Because she wore those shorts for me. And that oversized sweater slipping off her shoulder, no bra strap in sight…yeah, that wasn’t forfamily.

No. We’ll never be that.

Fourteen years and thousands of miles shattered whatever ties we once had.

“You should listen to your father.”

The words are supposed to draw a line, to keep us from going where I already am in my head. But she doesn’t flinch.

Valentina lifts her glass, lips brushing the rim, and takes a slow swallow.

“Maybe I should,” she says, setting it down with a soft clink. “But I won’t.”

Sixteen

VALENTINA

There’s something about a man moving with confidence in a kitchen that’s pure sex appeal. I watch him, taut muscle, inked forearms flexing as he slices through red onions like he’s trying to seduce me.

And fuck, it’s working.

I knock back the last sip of my second glass of wine, tongue running along my teeth. Or was it my third? Probably a sign I should cut myself off, especially if I’m sitting here jealous of a goddamn vegetable.

Cole wasn’t the first man in my life, but nothing about those first experiences is worth remembering. Sex was…fine. After three years, it turned into an obligation more than something I wanted. Predictable. Routine. Not awful, but not exciting either. I got off, he got off. At the time, I thought—what else was there?

But looking at Maksim now…maybe there’s something to be said about an older man. About experience.

A moan builds in my throat, and I swallow it back, imagining his huge hand wrapped around my neck. His mouth on my body. My fingers tangled in that dark hair. My thighs clench, heatcrawling up my skin, and I press a hand to the table as I push to my feet before I come just from my thoughts.

Against my better judgment, I refill my glass and ditch the crutches, using the island for leverage until I’m standing beside the very thing threatening to unravel me.

I’m a masochist. Sue me.

“So…Maksim Belov knows his way around a kitchen. I’m impressed,” I say, nearly spilling wine as I steady myself against the counter, a few drops splattering the floor.

“Are you trying to hurt yourself?”

Maksim is all hard edges and scowls, but with me, there’s something different. Softer. Still, that dominance is never far. It hums beneath every word and every look. I love it.

“Been there, done that.”

I try to hop onto the counter, but between the wine and my broken foot, the move is a mess. Wine sloshes out of my glass again, spilling down the front of Maksim’s shirt.

“Fuck! I’m sorry?—”

Before I can panic, his hands are on my hips. He lifts me onto the island as if I weigh nothing. No lecture, no scowl, not even a word. He just strips his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, crouches to wipe the puddle at his feet, and I sit there watching, useless.