Sinful Blaze (Chekhov Bratva Book 1)

I almost walked away.

Maybe I should have.

I’m no knight in shining armor and I’m definitely not the man people turn to for help with their petty personal problems.

Even when this beautiful, distressed-looking creature barreled into me and spilled her self-medication all down the front of my shirt, I told myself, Do not get involved.

Bad things happen when men like me get involved with damsels like her.

But I couldn’t help myself.

It’s something in the way that that insufferable mudak… Conrad Ewing, the artist… the way he looked at her, then at me. I saw an instant flash of jealousy and possession overcome him. He looked at her like he owned her. Looked at me like he thought he could intimidate me away.

That sealed the deal.

I wasn’t walking away from a goddamn thing.

The beauty with the absinthe bottle mouths two words. Two little words that make her luscious lips pucker. And call me crazy, but if I squint and tilt my head just so, help me looks an awful lot like kiss me.

Fine.

If she insists.

For a moment, I forget the rest of it. My reason for being here, at this godforsaken dog-and-pony show. (Buying art to bribe a United States senator—what a fucking joke.) I forget who I am, what I’m capable of. I forget the blood on my hands and the men waiting outside for me to give them their orders.

For one moment, while my lips seal against hers, I stop thinking and scheming and conquering.

I just kiss her.

It ends sooner than I like, although longer than I should’ve allowed. I have to pull myself away, if only so that I don’t throw her on the table and fuck her brains out right in front of God and everyone watching.

Not that I wouldn’t enjoy it—seeing the look on Conrad’s face would more than make up for the ensuing dramatics—but I didn’t come to cause trouble.

Not tonight, at least.

The artist eyes me up and down. “Well, Daphne, you sure moved on fast,” he grumbles to my new little accomplice.

“You’re one to talk.” The girl—Daphne—smooths out her dress and holds her head up high. “At least I waited until after the breakup.”

I like her.

I loathe him.

The bitch of a mistress—who I understand has recently been promoted to “bitch of a fiancée”—glued to his side sniffs and makes a whole show of caressing her man in ways designed to flaunt the gaudy rock on her finger. “NeNe, please. Let’s not do this here. It’s so low rent of you.”

She flicks her gaze to me and offers a coy smile.

I suppress a shudder at how viscerally she makes me hate her.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” I drawl. “To the happy couple as well as the talented artist.”

It’s funny—I’ve lied to police, to special agents, to enemies holding literal guns to my head. Somehow, it takes the most effort to lie to this asshole in particular.

I feel Daphne stiffen at my side. When she starts to back away from Ewing and his mistress, I pull her into my embrace instead, one hand looped around her waist.

Relax, my touch says. I’ll handle this.

“Yes, well,” he snaps at me, “I’m sure you’re not here just to drink free wine and seduce the staff. Got your eye on anything in particular?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” I answer coolly.

My grin is wolfish as I keep Daphne close to my side and point to the nearest painting. In the corner of my eye, I see Daphne’s face curdle. I’m guessing this piece is Conrad’s worst sin of them all.

I’m inclined to agree. It’s atrocious. A huge, gaudy painting of a woman with two freckles on her breast and a haughty look in her eye that demands, Worship me.

One glance at Ewing’s woman fills in the blanks. The dress she’s wearing doesn’t leave much to the imagination, so it’s easy to see two small freckles on the side of her breast, matching the painting.

Ah, yes. That makes sense.

“How long did this one take you?” I ask Ewing. As I do, I feel the woman at my side shudder.

Again, I’m no hero. I’m definitely not the good guy.

But I’m also not a cowardly fucking cheater. And I have zero tolerance for those who can’t muster up the minimum amount of loyalty.

“Oh, literally years.” Ewing chuckles and pulls his woman close. “I started off one direction, but could never get the lighting just right. Needed my beautiful muse here to make it perfect.”

I glance down at my side. The woman with the absinthe is all dark hair and golden skin with soft, luscious curves that mold so perfectly against me…

But those eyes. Bright and blue and practically glowing… that’s what keeps me here.

I almost laugh out loud as I eye his mistress, then Daphne. He left her? For… that?

It’s like burning the Mona Lisa and hanging a waterlogged Playboy on your wall instead.

“No accounting for taste, I suppose,” I muse out loud.

Ewing’s bride-to-be looks like I just slapped her in the face. Ewing himself looks like he wants to tackle me to the floor.

And with that, I whisk Daphne away from the disgusting duo and somewhere quieter. Someplace where we can actually breathe.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “Really, thank you. You didn’t have to do that for me.”

“A little of it was for me, too.” I shove my hands in my pockets so I don’t do something stupid, like pull her to me and rip that dress to shreds. “I’m surprised you ever dated that fucking weasel.”

A blush colors her cheeks. “Yeah, well. Arranged relationships don’t bat a thousand, right?” She tries to brush it off with a casual laugh. “We try and tell ourselves there’s something there that just isn’t.”

“‘Arranged’?”

Daphne shrugs. “My parents wanted it to work. And honestly, I wanted him to love me just as much as I loved him. Despite all the red flags.”

Something inside me twists. It does not like hearing her mention loving someone else.

Ridiculous. I have zero stake in this soap opera. I’m just amusing myself.

Daphne smiles up at me. It’s the first and only genuine smile I’ve seen on her face all evening. “You know what, though? I’m glad. I’m glad he cheated on me and dumped me and threw me out of our apartment hours before his showing. I’m glad. Because now, I’m free. It just sucks to know how long he kept me in the dark.”

My teeth clench. I don’t even know this woman, and I want to march back over there to beat him into a bloody smear for her.

I don’t get my chance, however. The two idiot owners of this gallery have decided now is the best time to interrupt us.

“Daphne! Darling, come with us. Someone has a question about Conrad’s latest work.” They both eye me suspiciously, but not so much as to be disrespectful. They know I have money, and they know I came to bid a good chunk of it on a S.C. Ewing Original.

Daphne touches my arm. “Sorry. I’ll be back later, okay?”

I nod. I don’t know why; it’s not like she needs to know I’ll be here waiting for her.

And yet, as she leaves, I can’t stop myself from watching her walk away. Her head is high, her stride strong and unbothered, and anyone who doesn’t know her would never guess how she must be crumbling to pieces on the inside. She’s strong. Defiant, even.

I wonder how strong she’d be without anyone to perform for. Without her employers or her ex or anyone else watching her every move, waiting for her to slip up so they can belittle her some more.

What would she be like with me? Without anything between us?

Not expectations.

Not trauma.

Not a stitch of clothing.

I watch. I brood. Daphne turns to one side to answer a guest’s questions, giving me the perfect view of her figure.

Add “blindness” to the list of Ewing’s endless sins and failings. Who wouldn’t trip over themselves for the chance to consume her? To taste her and make that delicious body move and twist and writhe beneath them?

I’m not going to trip.

But I am going to take what I’m craving the moment I see opportunity open the door.