He gives me a forbidding look. “Don’t fall.”

“Sir, yes, Sir.”

“Brat.” He moves to the large clawfoot tub and fiddles with the faucet until the water apparently reaches the temperature he’s satisfied with. Then he comes back to me and tugs off my robe. He looks me up and down and shakes his head. “You’re a mess.”

I follow his gaze. I’m covered in others’ orgasms. There are scrapes on my knees and palms—and ass, from the feel of things. I also have a constellation of bruises forming across my body. But what catches and holds my attention is the collar. Even though it’s sticky with Rick’s come, it’s such a clear indication of ownership that I shiver, way down deep. “Yep.”

Casimir grabs a washcloth and wipes most of the come off me, but frowns at the scrapes. “This will sting, but it’s necessary.”

Though I have every intention of processing those words, it’s hard to focus when he’s taking off his pants. “What?”

He takes me back into his arms and steps into the tub. The second the hot water hits my scrapes, I yelp and try to rise. Casimir clamps an arm around my waist, keeping me pinned to him. “Sit.”

“It hurts.” My voice comes out thick. Holy fuck, what is wrong with me? I suddenly feel like I’m about to cry. I press my hands to my cheeks. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Subspace drop.” Now that I’m no longer trying to flee, he gentles his touch and guides me to relax back against him.

The water buoys me, and his strong body brackets me. Slowly, the worst of the feeling eases. “So that’s what it feels like,” I whisper. I’ve heard about it, of course, but considering how embedded my parents and extended family are in the BDSM community in Carver City, I’d never explored anything that would have done it to me.

I close my eyes. “What happens now?”

“You keep asking questions you already know the answer to.” He strokes his hands over me, and if it didn’t feel so good, I’d accuse him of trying to gentle me the way one would gentle a skittish horse.

But it does feel good, so I don’t. In fact, I can’t seem to open my eyes. My body is loose and relaxed. “Don’t let me drown.”

Casimir’s chuckle is dry and amused and sounds nothing like Luke’s ever did. “You’re not getting away from me that easily, baby. Sleep. I’ve got you.”

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15

Iwake to the scent of breakfast. It takes my sleep-soaked brain a few beats to remember everything that’s happened in the past few days. The murder. The auction. The chase.

Casimir.

I open my eyes. The last thing I remember is falling asleep in the tub, buoyed by the water and held safe by Casimir’s body. Safe. What a joke. But, as I stretch and allow myself a few seconds to relish the ache in my body from the night’s activities, I have to admit an uncomfortable truth.

I do trust him. Not with my family. Not with my city. But with my body.

He could have gone about accomplishing his goals in a thousand different ways, and I don’t think I would have liked any of them. He’s a Romanov, for fuck’s sake. I never would have welcomed him with open arms.

I belatedly realize the shower is running and the room is empty except for a tray on the bed with a covered plate on it.

I could run.

He’d find me eventually, but I could probably get to Carver City before he caught up. Take refuge in my parents’ home. Confess all the shitty choices I’ve made lately. Let them handle my mess.

And maybe start a war that gets my fathers killed . . . or ends with Casimir dead. I should want that. He’s the enemy. A monster.

But . . . so am I.

Maybe it’s time I faced that truth properly.

I pull the tray to me and pause when the movement doesn’t send strands of rubies slithering over my chest and shoulders. I press my hand to my throat, my stomach dropping as I realize the collar is gone. Relief. That’s what I’m feeling. Right.

To distract myself, I carefully lift the cover from the plate. It’s my favorite breakfast: eggs Benedict. And it’s hot enough that Casimir must have set it down seconds before I woke. I pick up my fork and poke the eggs. He would remember my favorite.

Luke was always attentive. After the jewelry misstep early in our relationship, he seemed to delight in new ways to surprise me with his knowledge of what I liked. It makes even more sense now, knowing that he’s also Wolf, my fucking stalker. Or, rather, he’s Casimir—a combination of the two of them. Or maybe a different animal completely. That’s what I can’t quite figure out.

I don’t register the shower shutting off, but I sure as fuck don’t miss Casimir walking through the door, his skin glistening, a white towel wrapped around his waist.

“You don’t have tattoos,” I blurt.

“What?”

“What kind of Russian mobster are you without tattoos?”

He smirks. “One who can infiltrate any organization or association. My father chose to take a less traditional route with that shit. My uncle doesn’t agree, but I’m too good at what I do for him to argue.”

Too good at lying. Murder. Torture. I’ve heard the stories, just like everyone else. If Jovan Romanov is a boogeyman, the Mad Wolf is his pet, sent out when he wants to make an example of someone.

I take a bite of my eggs, but they taste thick on my tongue. “How am I supposed to trust you when you just told me that?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

I glare. “You are insufferable.”

“Baby.” He drags his hand through his damp hair. “How many times do you need to circle the same fucking subject before you admit it doesn’t matter?”

“Trust is everything.”

“Agreed.” His Russian accent thickens. “When have I hurt you?”

That brings me up short. “Excuse me?”

“When. Have. I. Hurt. You?” He circles the bed, stalking closer. “Do you know what my uncle would have done if his wife fucked one of his enforcers in the middle of a bar where anyone could see?”

I register what he’s saying, but my fool brain clings to one point like a dog with a bone. “I’m not your wife.”

“Not yet.”

His audacity startles a laugh out of me. “Even if you could convince me that you want me, not the Belmonte heir, my fathers would skin you alive before they let you touch me again.”

“Nyet.” He crosses his arms over his chest. The movement makes the towel shift as if it’s about to fall. “Your old men have gone soft, just like all the leaders of Carver City. They will snap and snarl, but they’ll do anything that makes their precious baby girl happy. And I do.”

“Bold of you to assume blackout rage is the same thing as happiness.”

He snorts. “You liked the thoughtful little shit Luke did. You liked playing the dangerous game with Wolf to the point that, if Wolf had been someone else, you would have been confessing your love by the end of the weekend.”

His words echo my thoughts uncomfortably and take them even further. I want to say he’s wrong, but I think I’ve lied enough at this point. And truth be told, it’s not even the lie that’s sticking in my throat.

It’s the fact I could be anyone.

“Not me,” I finally say. “The Belmonte heir.”

Understanding dawns in his pale eyes. “So that’s the sticking point.”

“Hard for it not to be.” I poke at my eggs again before finally pushing the tray away. “You lied to me, and that’s fucked up, but you have a point about there being no innocent parties in this situation. Fine. I’ll agree with that. But you don’t want me, Casimir. You’re just following orders.”

He barks out a sharp laugh. “Baby, the mental gymnastics you’re performing right now is fucking exhausting.”

“The point stands.” I might be able to get past most of the shit—which is fucked up to even contemplate, but I am who I am—except that. I’ll never settle for being chosen because of the role I’ll play, rather than the person I am. Not when the stakes have never been higher.