And I ache.
And I hate myself.
I'm caught between two predators with no way out.
The only question is which one destroys me first.
Chapter eight
Lev
I crossed a line today.
Shoved Valerie over my desk, pushed my fingers inside her, and made her beg for something I never planned to give her. Watched her run from my office with her thighs slick and trembling, mascara streaking down her face, completely overwhelmed.
It was the most satisfaction I've had in years.
I should feel guilty. Should feel something resembling regret for taking advantage of a girl who's clearly desperate and in over her head.
I don't.
I feel hungry for more. I’m going to have more.
The story she told me—father in debt, family threatened, forced to spy to pay it off—is partially bullshit. I know it is. Can taste the lies underneath the fear. But the core of it? The terror in her eyes when she mentioned her brother? That was real.
She's hiding something. Someone specific sent her. Someone who wants information on me badly enough to threaten a civilian family.
I should dig deeper. Should find out who. Should eliminate the threat and anyone connected to it.
But whoever sends an amateur, naïve little mouse like Valerie is not worth my time or investigation.
I know I’m not really being logical right now.
But damn, I can’t help it. Because when I think about Valerie—about how she melted into that kiss, about how wet she was when my fingers slid inside her, about the sounds she made when I edged her over and over—logic disappears.
All that's left is need.
Need to touch her again. Taste her. Fuck her properly instead of just tormenting her with what she can't have. Make her understand that whatever trouble she's in, whatever debts she owes, whoever threatened her family—none of it matters anymore.
She's mine now.
And I protect what's mine.
Even if it destroys us both.
Business pulls me away from obsessive thoughts for exactly six hours.
I’m out handling a major arms shipment coming in from overseas. Coordinating with the Colombians on distribution. Dealing with the Armenians who've been circling my territory like vultures, testing boundaries, seeing if I'll push back.
Of course, I'll push back.
It takes several hours to make sure every truck is loaded and heading to the right place. Each truck has at least four of my men escorting it to ensure it reaches its destination.
As I head home, a sense of satisfaction runs through me—clean and simple, the kind that comes from solving problems without violence. But beneath that feeling, hunger returns. I feel it surging back like a damn flood.
This hunger is not for blood. It's for my little mouse.
The house is quiet when I enter. Late enough that Mila should be asleep.