Page 22 of Sweet Deception (Irish Kings #4)

Chapter Nineteen

Well, what the fuck was that?

I stalk back and forth through the corridors of the safe house, my body still buzzing from adrenaline.

That was not supposed to happen.

Sex is meant to be a weapon.

Not…whatever that was.

I yank my favorite lighter out of my pocket, flicking it open and closed while I think.

I’m struggling to piece together the various tiny bits of information I’ve squeezed out of Veronika Kotova because the math is still off.

Every single time. And the constant intrusion of these visceral, sensory flashbacks isn’t helping anything.

The soft strength of her hips, snug in my grip as I worked my dick inside her, over and over. The sound of her moaning in hot, hazy Russian… Jesus.

What was I thinking?

That it would be like last time?

That it wouldn’t mean anything?

Fucking hell. Focus.

I shove the image of her naked, writhing form straight out of my mind.

No matter how I think about it, if she’s been telling me the truth, and all this is just about her trying to find her friend, then she’s in way over her head.

But that’s a ridiculous scenario.

Her friend goes missing, she’s searching for her, and somehow, she thinks I’m involved? Or the Kings are? So she crashes the wedding and hacks my phone, but then what? I can’t even imagine what possible plan would or could progress from there. Her logic and motivation remain a mystery.

Still seems more likely that what little bit of the truth she’s shared is deeply connected to some bigger part of a truth she’s continuing to hide.

Like she might be acting on behalf of the Petrov Bratva, whose heir we murdered. Or that she’s somehow allied with Troy Sullivan, and the “friend” she’s searching for is an escaped human trafficking victim he wants back… While I hate both of these hypotheticals, I can’t rule them out.

What a waste if I have to kill her.

Honestly, I don’t even know how I would if someone ordered me to.

I paced around for the better part of two hours until I found myself back in the living room, where Napalm snoozes on a rug nearby. It’s taken Herculean effort not to go back upstairs and crawl back into that bed with her.

My dick won’t stay down.

Out of nowhere, the squeal of metal cuts through my thoughts. I stop and look up at the ceiling. Veronika’s bedroom is directly above.

Shower sounds follow.

“Fuck, I need to go for a drive…”

I wrestle with my options.

My brain and my body are off-kilter. The best remedy for that is getting behind the wheel, but I’ve already done that once tonight, and I…I don’t want to do it again. Not if it means leaving her locked up here.

The heat of her anger from earlier is burned into my brain.

No.

I definitely don’t trust her here without me, but I also don’t want to leave her all alone. Just leaving her locked upstairs this long has been agonizing. I only did it because I needed some time to think, and I knew if she followed me out, things could’ve gotten really out of hand.

What if I snapped and fucked her all over this house?

That definitely would’ve been bad.

I blow air from my lungs, trying to not trip over the thought of that.

I need the open road, the night air, the stillness of the starry night, and the rush of speed to clear my cluttered mind.

Decision made, I march up to the second floor, pace to her bedroom, and let myself in. The water in the shower isn’t running anymore.

I tap my knuckles against the bathroom door with more force than intended. “Veronika, get dressed. We’re going out.”

Without waiting for an answer—I know she heard me—I head back downstairs and find Napalm stirring from his slumber. I pet his little back, and he stretches and climbs onto me. With him snug in the bend of my arm, I walk over and wait by the front door for his mama to get her fine ass down here.

Ten minutes later, Veronika emerges in some more of my clothes.

Sweats and one of my black hoodies. The hoodie hangs nearly to her knees, but she has the sleeves rolled up several times.

Her hair’s still damp, and the scent of her freshly washed skin is going to haunt me soon enough. I can already tell.

Something primitive and possessive awakens inside me at the sight of that hoodie. I push those batshit sensations down with all the strength I have.

“Where are we going?” Veronika doesn’t even meet my gaze when she asks this, and her voice has changed. Cautious doesn’t cover it. She sounds almost…defeated.

“Does it matter?” My own voice is strange too. A bit too harsh. “You’re either coming with me or getting locked in again.”

She lifts her chin in my direction, but she still won’t bring her eyes to mine. Her evasive gaze annoys me, though I’m not sure why.

“That’s not much of a choice.”

“Never said it was.”

Napalm meows from my arm. Veronika’s eyes go wide when she notices that he’s hitching a ride with me.

Good.

Now she’ll follow me without complaint.

I unlock the front door and stride out into the early morning’s darkness. It’s almost three, according to my watch.

Once we’re in the car, I place Napalm in her lap, careful not to touch her. But the vibe remains unbearably fucking awkward. The electricity from earlier is still present, and it’s like a roadblock with no detour.

Jesus. The fact that she still won’t look at me is really starting to piss me off.

When the hell did I start getting angry about not receiving the attention of some random woman?

Gripping the steering wheel more than necessary, I turn the engine over, whip the car around, and drive off the safe house property. The silence is already so painful that it instills within me the urge to shoot something, so I switch on the radio and search for a station to fill the enormous void.

All the while, Veronika sits rigidly in the passenger seat.

When my fingers fumble onto a classical music station, I see the tension in her posture ease by a few percentage points. I take that as a sign she’s into Mozart, Chopin, Rachmaninoff, and the like. Leaving the dial where it is, I focus on the dark road stretching out ahead.

I lean on the gas, and we fly forward, the climbing speedometer suppressing the chaos rattling around in my mind. Doing everything in my power to forget that she’s with me, I floor it like I would on any other night, taking curves at ninety.

The scream of the engine soothes me as I put distance between us and the safe house.

But nothing stops her soft, soapy scent from permeating this enclosed space, bringing to mind the memory of her body twined around mine.

I’d crack a window, but at this speed, I feel like the wind might be too much for little Napalm.

Shit.

I push the Aston Martin harder as the scenery of upstate New York scales back to reveal the outskirts of Manhattan.

The surrounding woodland areas morph into suburban avenues with shopping plazas and small park areas.

From there, the night begins to brighten, the beacon of the Manhattan skyline twinkling on the horizon and stealing attention from the few visible stars.

Barreling toward the city, calming the beat of my heart as we go, I decide this is a perfect time to head to the docks. The most effective way to relieve my stress is by testing my driving abilities.

And there’s only one proper way to do that.

Street racing.

Just the thought of it gets me going.

I shoot down into an underpass, concrete once again inclosing us in darkness. Slowing just enough to take a sharp right down an unmarked access tunnel that used to be part of the subway, I navigate to the secret entrance to the docks.

After one more turn, the Hub comes into view.

The underbelly of a huge industrial area sprinkled with docks, the Hub is a giant slab of concrete punctuated by tall cement columns that support the boardwalk above.

The roar of the sea in the distance and the mechanized buzz of tricked-out sports cars—beautifully modified racing machines—fill the air, along with the scent of exhaust, oil, and scummy water sitting in puddles and divots all over the place.

Throngs of drivers, mechanics, gamblers, and fans populate the concrete. This is where street racing enthusiasts like me meet most nights.

It’s impossible not to notice the way Veronika sits up in her seat, swiveling her head in wide-eyed curiosity.

She holds Napalm a little closer to her chest. “What is this place?”

“The docks.”

“Who are all these people?”

“Fans.” I smirk. My inner show-off is a smug jackass, if I’m being honest.

Wait until she sees what happens next…

As my Aston Martin growls into the lot, onlookers, mechanics, and drivers give us their undivided attention. My windows are fully blacked out, so no one can see inside, but Veronika slinks back in her seat as if to make herself invisible.

“Why are they staring at us?”

“What can I say?” I rev down a ramp and swerve to a halt on an unoccupied patch of concrete. “My reputation precedes me.”

When I put us in park, she shifts toward me, her eyes coming to mine for the first time since…what happened in the bedroom.

“Seriously, though, what is this place?”

“We call it the Hub. It’s a street racing den.”

“A street racing den?” She surveys the area once more before her gaze returns to mine. “And who’s ‘we?’”

“Me and the other initiated.” I give her a hard look, ignoring the effect her full attention has on my heart. “This is where I usually am on nights like this. You know, when I’m not tracking down a hacktress.”

Her eyes remain intent on mine for a few more seconds, then that unstoppable desire sparks between us, and we both glance away. Whatever that was back at the safe house? Whatever we did? We need to drop it.

Classical music continues to play from the radio—dark Baroque bullshit with urgent, frenzied violin strings—and I attempt to focus on the world I know instead of the terribly beautiful and fascinating threat sitting beside me.

The serious racers are easy to spot, the usual suspects all in attendance tonight. They line up their modified cars away from the spectators, many of whom perch on the cement incline that encloses one side of this glorified underground track.

Before we exchange another word, a 350Z in bright tangerine roars on to the scene.

Black-and-white racing stripes down the hood. Black-tinted windows. Orange backlights that create a neon glow.

I recognize the car and its modifications from the last time I was here.

It’s the kid.

Don’t know his name.

What I do know is he’s young, hungry, and reckless. Definitely a showman, but who the hell isn’t at his age? Supposedly, he and his mechanic cut their teeth at some of the other reputable racing dens around town.

My last visit to the Hub was the first time I ever saw him here.

His ride purrs into the lot and creates something of a frenzy. Even Veronika perks up. “Who’s that?”

“One of the rookies.”

We watch the car. I expect the kid to park in the same row as the other rookie racers, in the line perpendicular to the masters, but instead, he drives toward my Aston Martin and skids to a stop directly in front of us.

He flashes his headlights.

Intrigue breaks open inside me, followed by the thrill of competition.

I can see Veronika’s posture tensing up out of the corner of my eye. “Why’d he come over here like that?”

“This little kid wants to race me.” Glee infuses my tone.

I can feel her alarm, but nothing could dent the smile on my face. I love a good challenge.

I flick my lights twice at the tangerine, the signal for challenge accepted. The kid whips his car into reverse and races toward the exit, cheers chasing him. Spectators point at my car and his as they rush to get prime seating.

Money changes hands as gamblers place bets on which of us will win the competition. While the tangerine tears off toward the starting line, I unlock the doors and nod at Veronika. “Get out.”

“Huh?”

“I’m racing. You’re watching.”

Outside the car, a northwest wind slaps me vigorously as I stride around and meet her and Napalm at the front of the car. I hit the lock and throw an arm across her shoulder, leading her toward the unofficial spectator seating on the cement incline directly ahead.

Having my arm around her like this is dangerous, I admit, and it does something to me I’m unprepared to manage. I’m not oblivious to what this small bit of physical contact is doing to her either.

But there’s a reason for it.

“Calm down.” I keep my voice low. “Some of the people here know who I am, and if they think you’re with me, they’ll leave you alone.”

“Oh, is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Throngs of people part around us as we cross the underground lot toward the seating, where people have already begun to take their places. I’m sure we must look strange to them.

Here I am, a champion street racer with a savage reputation, escorting a woman swimming in an oversize hoodie who’s cradling a small cat in her arms.

Not that I care. We’re here. A challenge was issued and accepted.

This race is happening, whether Veronika’s comfortable or not.

“Sit up there.” I point toward the top of the incline. Less people, better view. I’ll be able to see her, and vice versa. “The race shouldn’t last more than ten minutes or so. I’ll be back.”

“It’s ten minutes long? Where exactly are you going?” She faces me, gray eyes bright with concern. Almost like she cares…

My heart does something strange in my chest. Schoolboy bullshit.

I admonish it as I step closer, clear my throat, and gesture toward the course. “We’re racing that strip over there.” Across a pocket of water bordering the docks directly ahead, an access road curves toward the city. “Whoever makes it back here first wins.”

Under her breath, she mutters, “Danger really is your middle name, huh?”

I’d laugh, but that would catapult this moment into “bonding” territory, so instead, I pour as much intimidation into my tone as I can. “Stay put, Veronika Kotova.” I narrow my eyes at her stoic face. “Or you’ll regret it.”

“I already regret it.”

For a moment, our gazes clash, and it’s like we’re both wondering what exactly she means by that.

“Protect Napalm.” That’s all I come up with before I spin on my heel, stalk back to the car, and accelerate toward the starting line.

I watch her in my rearview mirror until the Hub disappears around a corner.