Page 94 of Wicked Villain

“Is the dress not to your liking?” I ask.

His gaze softens somewhat, and his eyes drift up and down my body, burning everywhere he looks. That gives me my answer.

“That’s not the one I told her to get,” he answers in that rich, deep voice.

“What did you tell her to get?”

“Something that wouldn’t take up too much attention. I’m not supposed to kill anyone tonight,” he says a little too casually for my liking. “But… I guess I can make exceptions if I must.”

God, he’s not joking. This man does many things. Jokes are not one of them.

“I don’t like killing.”

“I figured that. But if I catch someone looking at my wife the wrong way, they’re dead.”

I swallow hard. He ignores my discomfort and holds out his arm for me to take.

I do, and we make our way across the hall.

People glance our way, some curious, others whispering.

“Where’ve you been?” I ask, keeping my gaze ahead.

“Working. What? Missed me?” He glances at me and flashes me a dangerous smile.

“No.” Unlike the previous times I’ve given that answer, my playful tone shows him I’m joking.

He stops and makes a point of giving me a challenging stare, before he leans in and plants a soft kiss on my lips. It’s tender and teasing, holding the promise of later.

My toes curl, my blood heats, then my heart shivers like it’s giddy from the kiss too.

When he inches away, I catch Miss whatever-her-name-was who was supposed to marry him, casting me more scathing looks.

Earlier she made me feel uncomfortable, but now I’m more fascinated with the fact that Lev Karsavin just kissed me in public, right in the middle of a crowded ballroom, in front of everyone who’s anyone. And it wasn’t some display of power.

“Remember that the next time you don’t miss me.” He throws me a roguish smile.

Blushing, I grin back.

An older man approaches us with a warm expression. With his salt-and-pepper hair swept back and his handlebar moustache curled at the ends, he reminds me of an opera singer. “Lev Karsavin and his wife. It’s a pleasure.” The man has a rich Italian accent. Hearing it gives me a little taste of home.

“Pierre.” Lev greets him with a curt nod and a stiff smile.

Pierre takes my hand to give it a kiss. But to my shock and embarrassment, Lev yanks my hand back and practically shoos Pierre away like a dog.

“There will be none of that,” he chides.

“Oh, I meant no disrespect. We Italians⁠—”

“Don’t bullshit me.” Lev stops him in his tracks. “The way I remember it, Italians are supposed to be respectful of other men’s women. So, keep your hands, and your lips, and your old dick away from my wife.”

What the actual hell? He did not just say that. Oh, but he did, and Pierre is embarrassed, too. I don’t even know where to put my face.

I expect Pierre to put Lev in his place, but he sets his shoulders back and plasters on a forced smile. “Alright, Pakhan. Enjoy the rest of the evening with your lovely wife, won’t you.”

“I will.”

As Pierre saunters away, pride wounded, Lev glares at him.