Page 50 of Ruin
His thumbs brush over my cheekbones, gentle and soothing. "Tell me what you found."
"He's dangerous. More dangerous than I realized, but in a different way than I expected." I turn to face him more fully, getting lost for a moment in those gray eyes. "Michelle thinkssome of the crimes attributed to him might actually be cover-ups by local crime families."
Something flickers in his expression, gone so fast I almost miss it. "Michelle?"
"My contact at the DA's office. Assistant District Attorney Michelle Dravens. We worked together during my internship—she's brilliant, thorough." I shift in his lap, trying to organize my thoughts. "She thinks the Russians are being blamed for hits they didn't commit."
"Interesting theory." His voice is carefully neutral, the tone he uses when he's thinking strategically. "Did she have any proof?"
"She's sending me files. But Cassius..." I grab his shoulders, excitement building as the implications hit me. "If someone's been using Russian methods to cover their own crimes, couldn't we use that? Frame Zhukhov for something he didn't do, get law enforcement to take him down for us?"
"You want to manipulate the system." There's approval in his voice, pride that makes me excited. "Use their own corruption against them."
"Exactly. Why fight a war when we can have someone else fight it for us? We feed the FBI evidence linking Zhukhov to crimes he didn't commit, let them destroy him while we stay clean."
He kisses me then, deep and possessive, tasting of whiskey and power.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with desire and something deeper. "You magnificent, ruthless creature."
"I learned from the best."
What happens next isn't like our usual encounters.
There's no power play, no dominance games, no commands or punishments.
Instead, he undresses me slowly, reverently, hands worshipping every inch of skin like I'm something precious.
His touch is soft, patient, building heat slowly instead of taking what he wants.
He maps my body with his mouth, finds every spot that makes me gasp and moan, brings me to the edge over and over with gentle persistence.
"I love you," I whisper against his lips when he finally moves inside me. The words spill out before I can stop them, raw and honest and terrifying.
He goes completely still.
For a moment, I think I've made a mistake, revealed too much too soon.
Then his forehead drops against mine, and his voice comes out rough with emotion.
"You're everything to me," he breathes. "Everything."
He makes love to me—that's the only word for it.
Not fucking, not claiming, but something deeper, more intimate.
Every touch, every kiss, every whispered endearment feels like a promise.
Like he's trying to give me something precious, something I'll need to hold onto.
When it's over, we lie tangled together, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing patterns on my bare skin.
I feel complete, cherished, utterly safe in his arms.
"Stay with me here tonight," he murmurs into my hair, arms tightening around me.
"Always."
His embrace grows almost fierce, holding me like he's afraid I might disappear.
