Page 52 of Savage Boss
“Is that—” she starts but quickly stops, pressing her lips together, as she watches my face for my reaction.
It takes a moment to answer. “It is.”
I’ve kept Lauren from everyone, refusing to talk about her, keeping her entirely private and to myself. But to my surprise, I want to share her with Clara.
She takes slow steps into the room and stops next to me, her gaze exploring the picture in the frame for a few long, quiet minutes before she turns to me. She doesn’t press me for details, doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t interrogate me. She simply lifts her hand and presses it to the rough stubble along my jawline.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, her hazel eyes clear and bright as she peers up at me.
I pull her against me, burying my face in her hair and holding her close, simply grateful for her warmth, her presence, and her quiet understanding. I know what I should do, but I also know I want this woman with all that I am, that she, too, is a light in my darkness.
If she chooses to go, I won’t stop her. But if she chooses to stay, I won’t ever let her go.
As if she understands, Clara takes my hand and leads me back to the bedroom. But not before looking over her shoulder one last time and smiling warmly at Lauren’s image, as though they share a secret.
When we return to the bedroom, I pull Clara back to me and lean in, capturing her mouth in a kiss that is tender, possessive, and grateful—a silent message of hunger and profound relief.
“I promise you,” I press my forehead against Clara’s, “you are safe with me. I promise you that.”
And then I press her back into the warm confines of the bed, my body a solid, protective presence, so she feels the weight of my promise, that it isn’t just meaningless words, but a vow.
The morning fades into a blur of passionate heat, soft sighs, and whispered words. A confirmation of what is growing between us, a reckless, beautiful act of defiance against the shadows of the past.
24
DMITRI
TheBelvederetonight is a carefully curated blend of ice and fire. Opulence drips from every surface—marbleimportedfrom Carrara, gold-leaf ceilings, the low, resonant thrum of a live jazz band over the buzz of conversation.
This is the annual Winter Ball, the single most important social function of the year for theBratvaof New York City, a glittering display of power, wealth, and allegiance.
“Breathe, Clara,” I murmur close to her ear. “You’ve faced tougher adversaries in court.”
She is stunning, a dangerous counterpoint to the couture and diamonds surrounding us. She wears a deep emerald gown that accentuates her dark hair and makes her hazel eyes glow like amber. But the elegancecan'tentirely mask the rigidity in her shoulders, the slight tension around her eyes and mouth. I’d even heard her being sick in the bathroom earlier, though she had tried to hide it.
“The people I’ve faced in court didn’t look like they could order a hit over a misplaced canapé,” she whispers back, managinga tight smile for appearance’s sake. “I’m a corporate lawyer, Dmitri. Before I met you, my biggest threat was a poorly drafted arbitration clause.”
My thumb rubs a soothing circle into her skin. “You are protected. Stand tall, smile, and show them that you belong next to me.”
They need to see that you are not fragile,I think but don’t say.
I keep Clara tethered to me, my hand firmly placed on the small of her back. My touch is constant, a silent declaration of possession to both reassure her andwarnevery ambitious man and jealous woman in the room exactly whom she belongs with. That, and to reassure myself that she is, indeed, safe and with me. I’m still shaken from the attempt on her life. I cover my anxiety with my shield of ice and lethal charisma, which I have cultivated and honed to a sharp point over my years aspakhan.
We move through the reception hall, a current against the tide of lesser players. I introduce Clara with deliberate formality, never removing my hand from her back. By bringing Clara here, I am locking her into the fortress of my business and mybratva, promoting the fact that any further attack on her will be an attack on me and the operation itself.
“That is KonstantinIvanov,” I murmur to Clara as we approach a mountain of a man, with dark, hard eyes that rarely blink. His wife is Vera. “Konstantin, my friend.”
We shake formally.
“Dmitri.” His voice is a deep rumble, his accent far thicker than mine and barely intelligible. “I heard there was someone new in your life. Who is this enchanting young woman?”
“Clara.” I slip my arm around her waist. “My legal counsel at Smirnov Corp. and my guest tonight.” I emphasize the wordguestjust enough to imply what she is to me without saying it aloud.
Konstantin’s smile is all teeth. “A lawyer? We usually keep them in cages, Dmitri. Good to see you’ve trained yours well.”
I feel Clara stiffen, her tight smile never leaving her face.
Vera, a statuesque blonde encased in platinum silk, offers Clara a hand. Her eyes, however, are colder than the ice in her martini. “A corporate lawyer, how fascinating. Most of us here prefer to leave the paperwork for the accountants, dear. We find the world of high-stakes litigation draining.”
