Shattered Throne: A Dark Mafia Romance: War of Roses Universe (Mice and Men Book 3) - Lana Sky (top romance novels .TXT) 📗

would the daughter of a man who could offer her the world want someone like him? A washed-up crime lord with little to his name, forced to play mind games to stay afloat. A creature with no warmth. No soul.

The logical cons add up, but I make the mistake of meeting his searching stare, and all thoughts derail.

“I think you should elaborate, little wife,” he prods, his voice dangerously low.

I ignore the bait, responding only to the direct challenge. Elaborate? I’ll put it bluntly.

I am a Stepanov. What could you possibly offer me?

I’ve always refused to embody such a haughty mindset—the arrogance of an heiress with her nose in the air. In this moment, pride is my armor, and I wear it proudly.

My opponent, however, isn’t so easily deterred. He stands, circling to my side of the desk.

As his steps draw nearer, warmth teases my cheek, and I face the wall rather than give him the satisfaction of looking his way. I don’t have to—I’ve memorized his touch by feel. His thumb is the source of the slight pressure, grazing the space beneath my lip.

Then lower, down my throat.

Lower still.

Only when he nears the flowy neckline of my dress does he pause, stroking the fabric in a way that dares me to react—but I’m frozen. Every nerve in my skin paralyzes with awareness of him.

He feels so different from how he should. Not repulsive. Just ragged. Rugged. Years of pain and toil have shaped the grating texture of his callouses and the harshness of each gnarled scar…

Hands brutal enough to ruthlessly kill a man. Soft enough to bandage an injured child.

I’m so distracted by the conflicting sensations that I nearly miss the second he lets his hand drift downward, over my breast. Not because he truly desires to touch me.

This is just to prove he can. When he wants to. How he wants to.

Time slows to a crawl as his fingers deliberately trace that mound of flesh, grazing over my nipple with each pass. With light pressure at first. Then harder, sowing a burst of electrifying heat.

My reaction is automatic—I bat his hand away, and he chuckles in triumph.

“Don’t be shy now, principessa...” His mouth finds my ear. “What could I offer you? Nothing. Nothing that would appeal to a sheltered little girl.” Irritation roughens his voice, and I know my words hit their mark. I’ve won this round.

Not that I have long to savor my victory. I don’t see defeat in his expression as he moves to stand before me. Instead, his upper lip quirks in a disarming smirk.

“The real question you should be asking is, if I’m so beneath you, why do you keep coming back for more?” He cradles my chin against his palm, letting his fingers rest against my fluttering pulse point. “I guess even an heiress can be a glutton for punishment.”

I don’t think. I just write. From the corner of my eye, I see the end of the pen dance across the page, guided by my hand, and I draw strength from my ability to finally counter him on a level playing field. I won’t be silenced again.

Though, he craves nothing more than to ignore me. His brows furrow as he mulls whether or not to break eye contact first—then he does, reading aloud. “Then why strip you naked?”

It’s a damn good question, and I’m surprised by just how much I crave an answer. Why does he enjoy lording his sex over me, if corruption isn’t his end goal? If I don’t appeal to him, why look at me like I do? Why groan in torment that I was beautiful before he knew who I really was?

As if the same thought is on his mind, his eyelashes flicker, obscuring his intentions.

“Why?” Without warning, he reaches out, fingering a lock of my hair. “Because it unnerves you. You hate being out of control.”

His grated tone unlocks a memory I’ve tried to suppress.

Touching myself, knowing he was watching. Letting him stare. Knowing that he couldn’t stop me even if he wanted to…

“Use that brain of yours, principessa,” he scolds, and the memory fades. “Your body isn’t what I’m after.”

Liar. The other night wasn’t the first time we neared some unspoken boundary, that moment in the shower, for instance. How his eyes raked me over while he bit his lip—the same way I’m doing now, biting hard enough to sting.

“You do this when you’re angry,” he declares, stroking my chin.

I wrench away from him, but it’s a second before I realize what he means.

“Bite your lip like that—” his eyes fixate on my mouth. “You do it when you’re angry, even when you’re aroused. You don’t believe me?”

I’m doing it now. Defiant, I pry my jaw apart, exposing my wet lips to him, teeth bared—but this is exactly what he wants. My rage. My anger. My hate. He feeds off every emotion, seeming to grow larger and more dominating until I’m drowning in his shadow. He wants me seething and helpless.

It’s the only way he knows how to operate.

I may bite my lip, but he has his own tells. The way his eyes flash, for one, when I kissed him. Or when I met his gaze without flinching the other night. When I prove I’m not afraid of him.

I stand, and, almost instantaneously, he steps back.

“I suggest you run off to bed. Get some sleep,” he taunts. “Though, maybe you should practice what little skill you showed off with those fingers. You’ll be a lonely wife on our wedding night—”

He falls silent mid-word as I reach for the pen. A muscle in his jaw flexes, the same way it did the other day in the elevator when I dared to challenge him. If I had to decipher its meaning, I’d guess alarm mixed with a hint of amusement.

Writing to him is an unnecessary gimmick, but it turns the tables. With a few strokes of ink, he’s beside me, craning his neck over my shoulder to devour every