Page 107 of Bratva's Mercy
“No,” I repeated, my voice lower now. “There’s the sex.”
His fingers slowly turned beneath mine until he was holding my hand. The movement was careful, almost shy.
“It’s good for you too, right?” Sergei asked. “Being with you is so fucking amazing, Leo, but sometimes I—sometimes I worry that it might not be as good for you. You are far more experienced than I am, and if there’s something I’m not doing or that you want from me, you can tell me. You want me to kneel at your feet, wear a collar for you, I?—”
I squeezed his hand. “It’s amazing for me too, Sergei. I promise. Though now you mention it, I’d love to put a collaron you and tie you to the bed sometime—now that we have a proper bed. Would you like that?”
“Fuck yes.”
Relief softened his face so briefly that it would have been easy to miss. I didn’t. I saw the way his shoulders eased a fraction, the way his mouth almost curved before he fought it back. That small reaction undid me more than any grand declaration could have.
Somewhere between the first time he brought me dinner and last night when he told me, in that brutal way of his, that he would rather cease to exist than live in a world where I didn’t, I’d let my guard down, and he’d snuck right in. And maybe I was using him to get to Maxim, but the feelings I had for him were real, too.
Real enough that the lies I had been telling him bothered me. Real enough that the SD card I’d stolen left me feeling guilty each time I tried to crack it. Real enough that, although I knew a tech-savvy guy from the sex club who could probably crack the code, I hesitated in contacting him because if what was on that file implicated Sergei, I didn’t want anyone else to know.
Morozov was the one behind the whole enterprise.
I still wanted the truth. I still wanted accountability. I still wanted the world to know that Brad hadn’t killed himself—that Morozov had forced him to jump. I still wanted to expose Morozov so that the world found out the businessman they knew was the mastermind behind a dangerous Bratva.
But I didn’t want to expose Sergei to the blast and have him become a casualty. I wanted him to be free from Morozov’s control, so he could be the sweet, caring man he truly was.
“Baby,” I said softly.
The slight ease in his expression faded, as if he knew from my tone where my thoughts had gone. “Yes?”
“I know you’re not responsible for what happened to Brad. It was all Morozov, so it’s foolish to hate you for it.”
His hand tightened around mine, and the air inside the SUV felt warmer, more stuffy.
“Leo,” he said in warning.
“I mean it,” I said. “I don’t blame you. You didn’t make the decision that cost him his life.”
His eyes stayed fixed on the road. “Can’t you just let it go? He’s already gone.”
I pulled in a slow breath through my nose. “You’re right. I don’t want to ruin today with a conversation about this. I just wanted you to know I don’t blame you.”
His grip on my hand eased, though his expression stayed serious for another few seconds. Then he lifted our joined hands and brushed his mouth lightly across my knuckles.
The gesture was so quiet and unexpected, I had to look away before he saw too much on my face. We didn’t talk again for the rest of the drive, until a few minutes later, when he turned off the main road into a wide, private driveway lined with low hedges. I sat up straighter as a sleek glass-and-steel building came into view. At first glance, it looked more like an art gallery than a dealership. The front was all towering windows and polished black stone, with luxury vehicles positioned beneath strategic lighting like sculptures on display.
My hunger vanished beneath immediate interest.
“What is this?” I asked.
Sergei looked entirely too pleased with himself. “Our stop.”
“Are you buying another vehicle?”
“Hopefully.”
The SUV rolled to a stop beneath a covered entrance where the dealership name was etched into a brushed-metal sign. I recognized the logo immediately, but it still took mybrain a second to connect what I was seeing. This wasn’t a standard dealership. This was one of those private customization centers where wealthy clients ordered vehicles the way other people ordered tailored suits.
I turned slowly toward him, suspicion gnawing at the back of my mind. “Babe?”
He got out without answering.
Of course he did.
