Page 47 of The Darkness is Calling

“Did you like the movie?”

“Yes. But it’s not the first time I’ve seen it.”

“What movie was it?”

I am in the same bed as one of the most dangerous men in Bratva, talking about movies?

This surpasses every scenario I could have ever imagined, and not even the Devil would believe something like this is possible.

“Bridgerton. Season two.”

“I haven’t heard of it,” he says, almost thoughtfully. “Is it about murders?”

I swear I cannot stop myself from giggling, no matter how much I try not to. His question catches me by surprise, so I turn onto my side to face him, just so I can see his eyes.

Why the hell did I turn around?

The man is nothing but muscle, perfectly visible beneath smooth, almost porcelain skin in the dim light of the night.

I force myself to swallow, driven by a toxic desire to run my palm over that hard flesh, but I try to return to our conversation.

“There are no murders at all. It’s a romance series.”

He lies on his back, his palms resting on his bare abdomen, because – of course – he sleeps shirtless, while his lower half is covered by the same sheet I am under. But his gaze is turned toward me. Serious, yet calm, and in some strange way, curious.

He almost makes me believe he is genuinely interested.

“You like romance series?”

There is not a trace of irony in his question. “Yes. Very much,” I answer honestly.

“Why?”

I think for a moment before answering.

“Because they give me hope that maybe something beautiful exists beyond the life we have.”

“And why would a girl – who does not take part in mafia business and is about to marry her boyfriend of two years – say that?”

I could answer his dilemma with an entire novel, but tonight, I think it’s my turn to bring the conversation to an end without offering him one.

“Good night, Artem,” I tell him, then turn my back to him.

He is silent for a few moments, and then I hear his calm, low voice. “Good night, Ekaterina.”

The heat wakes me up.

I don’t know if someone put a radiator beside me or if Artem has heating built into his mattress. All I know is that my skin feels damp with sweat, and half-asleep, without even opening my eyes, I decide there is no way Pakhan has played some awful prank on me.

He is not the type.

Trying to a more comfortable position, my blood freezes, when I realize who I am touching.

I slowly open my eyes, praying with all my heart that I am still trapped in a dream, and that I am not lying with one leg thrown over his thigh while I feel his erection pulsing beneath me. Not to mention that instead of a pillow, my head, apparently shameless, has decided to use his thick arm.

Just like in the most ordinary movies, I blink, afraid I will be struck by a reality difficult to manage.

But when I do, I wish the earth would split open and swallow me whole in a single second, because a pair of mismatched eyes is only a few inches from my face.