Page 3 of Lobanov Bratva Obsession
"Because I haven't decided yet."
“Sounds to me like it’s not your decision to make,” I commented, wishing I could actually roll my eyes at him just to spite him.
He didn’t respond.
Of course.
We drove in silence for what felt like an eternity, but was probably just twenty minutes. When the SUV finally stopped, Iheard the unmistakable sound of a garage door closing behind us.
Private property. No witnesses.
My legal mind cataloged it all even as my body tensed involuntarily.
The door opened. Hands—definitely his hands—guided me out of the vehicle with the same controlled precision. His fingers wrapped around my upper arm, steadying me without hurting.
"Three steps down," he said quietly.
I descended carefully, hating that I had to trust his guidance. But what I hated even more was the fact that his touch felt oddly protective rather than threatening.
We walked across what sounded like concrete, then through a doorway. The air changed, becoming warmer and circulating. Hardwood floors replaced concrete. I heard the soft click of a door closing, then the muted sound of movement as the other men retreated.
We were alone.
He released my arm. I stood perfectly still, listening to him move around me. A drawer opened. Glass clinked against glass. Liquid poured.
"I'm going to remove the blindfold," he said. "Don't run."
"Where would I go?"
"Exactly."
The fabric lifted away, and I blinked against sudden light. It took several seconds for my vision to adjust, for the room to come into focus.
Expensive.
That was my first thought.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan's skyline. Minimalist furniture that costs more than most people'scars. Dark wood, leather, and steel. Everything is designed to intimidate without being obvious about it.
Then I saw him.
Damian Lobanov stood near the windows, silhouetted against the city lights. Six-three height that was sure intimidating. Broad shoulders that filled out a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. Jet black hair that looked like he'd run his hands through it too many times. And, his eyes.
They were blue, utterly unreadable, and fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
He held a crystal tumbler in one hand, the amber liquid catching the light.
He was lethal control personified, no two ways about it. His stance was still, watchful.
"You're very composed," he observed.
"I'm very expensive," I corrected. "My firm charges six hundred dollars an hour. This interruption is costing someone a significant amount of money."
"Money isn't the issue."
"Then what is?"
He leaned closer. Not touching, but close enough that I felt the shift in air pressure and caught another wave of that cologne. "You."
