Page 81 of The Bratva Sinner

“He thinks I’m saving you and the others because I couldn’t save my mom.”

I have a thousand questions, but I hesitate to ask. I don’t want him to stop talking.

"Is he right?" I finally ask quietly.

His eyes stay on the glass, and a long moment passes.

“She was the only person in that house who was kind. Good. Someone should have saved her.”

I think about my mother. She was a lot of things, but kind is not the word I would choose.

“Mine wasn’t,” I say quietly. “Kind, I mean. She was brave.” I pause. “But not kind.”

I look at his hands on the bar. His right hand still holds the empty glass. His left rests flat against the wood, and the black diamond on his ring finger catches the blue light from underneath the bar. Without thinking about it, I put my hand over his.

Just that. Just my hand on his.

He looks down at it.

And when he turns to look at me, his eyes are raw. Full of pain and sadness, unguarded for once. All I can think about is how much he’s helped me.

Who helps him?

I kiss him. My mouth finds his, and warmth moves through me before I understand what I've done.

He goes still for a heartbeat.

Then his hand turns under mine. His fingers close around my hand, and he kisses me back, slowly, like he has all the time in the world. He traces his thumb over my knuckles, and I feel the sensation travel up my arm, into my chest, and down to somewhere that has never been touched.

I didn't know it could feel like this. Wanted. Safe. Like something opening instead of closing.

I pull back just enough to breathe.

His eyes search mine. His thumb stills on my knuckles, and something in my face strips the careful control from his. I see a question in them he won't ask.

“I want you to be my first.” I’m surprised by how confident I sound. “I’ve thought about it. I’m not scared. I’m not doing it because of the Albanians, or because it makes strategic sense, or whatever the hell you said that night.” I feel a smile pull at my mouth. “I’m doing it because I want to. I’m choosing to.”

He looks at me for long enough that my stomach drops. I've misread this. He doesn’t want me. He doesn't want…

Then he’s off the barstool, holding out his hand.

I look at his open palm in the soft light.

I can reject it. Walk away with my virginity intact.

I take it.

He leads me inside without a word. We climb the stairs, and I listen to his footsteps, then mine behind them. My legs are steady. I don't know why that surprises me.

We're at his door. We step inside, and he closes it behind me. The room is dim and quiet, and it feels right. He turns on a single lamp on the nightstand.

Then he faces me. “We can stop,” he says. “Anytime. For any reason.”

“Okay.”

He reaches up and pushes a piece of hair back from my face, trailing his fingers along my jaw.

“You’re not afraid,” he says.