Page 82 of Wicked Mafia Beast
I choose to. My head drops to his shoulder and I close my eyes.
"Tell me about her," he says, his voice low, the accent gentle around the words. "The real her. Before Seamus broke her."
So I do.
I tell him about Catherine Malone's laugh, the startling, full-bodied sound that turned heads in restaurants and embarrassed me as a teenager and is now the thing I'd give anything to hear one more time. Her terrible singing voice, off-key and joyful, belting show tunes in the car with the windows down and zero shame. The way she made grilled cheese sandwiches with threekinds of cheese and a secret sprinkle of paprika that she swore elevated the dish to "cuisine."
"She read mystery novels out of order because she couldn't stand not knowing what happened." I laugh, the sound catching in my throat. "She'd read the last chapter first because she liked knowing the ending. Said it let her enjoy the journey without the anxiety."
"She sounds like someone I would have liked," Kon says, and the simplicity of the statement, the genuine warmth in his rough voice, makes my eyes sting.
"She would have hated you on principle." I lift my head and look at him, at the scar and the dark eyes and the mouth that so rarely curves but is curving now, just slightly, just for me. "She hated all powerful men."
"Smart woman."
"She was." My voice cracks, a clean break down the center. "She really was."
He pulls me against his chest, his arm wrapping around my shoulders, his chin resting on top of my head. The roses sway in the breeze around us, crimson and pink and deep amber, petals catching the afternoon light. He doesn't fill the silence with platitudes or reassurances. He just holds me while I breathe through the grief, his heartbeat steady against my cheek, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt.
"Thank you," I whisper against his chest. "For letting me talk about her."
"Thank you for trusting me with her."
We stay on the rooftop until the sun begins its descent, the light shifting from gold to copper to the deep burnt orange that sets the city skyline on fire. He shows me how to prune roses, positioning my fingers around the shears, guiding my hand to the right angle.
"Forty-five degrees," he says, his chest against my back, his arms around mine, his breath warm against my ear. "Just above the outward-facing bud. Clean cut. No tearing."
I make the cut. It's ragged, uneven, the stem crushing instead of slicing.
"That's..." He pauses, the diplomatic silence of a man choosing his words carefully. "Enthusiastic."
"It's terrible and you know it."
He laughs. A real laugh, low and rusty, like a sound his body has forgotten how to make and is rediscovering in real time. The vibration of it travels through his chest and into my back and settles in the base of my spine with a warmth that spreads outward until my whole body hums.
"You're butchering that poor plant," he says, and there's affection in the criticism, a tenderness that turns the teasing into its own kind of love language.
"I'm giving it character. Artistic pruning."
"You're giving it a death sentence."
"Same thing."
He takes my hands in his. Repositions my fingers. Shows me the right pressure, the right angle, the right way to read the stem for where the cut wants to be. His calloused palms dwarfmine, scarred knuckles against smooth skin, and the care with which he handles both me and the roses, equal gentleness, equal attention, equal reverence, cracks open the last locked door in my chest.
That's when I know.
I love Konstantin Vetrov. And the realization doesn't terrify me the way I always thought it would. It just settles in, quiet and sure, the way his hands settled over mine on those shears. Patient. Certain. Unwilling to let go.
I love him.
I love Konstantin Vetrov.
The words press against my chest, urgent and terrifying and nowhere near ready to leave my mouth.
I turn in his arms and kiss him, trying to pour everything I can't speak into the press of my lips against his. His mouth opens against mine, tasting of coffee and the sun-warm afternoon, and his hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, holding me against him.
That night, we take our time. No rushing. No fighting for control. Just his body over mine, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his mouth tasting my skin while he slides inside me so slowly I feel every inch stretch and fill me until my eyes roll back.
