Sinful Blaze (Chekhov Bratva Book 1)

The soft knock at my door arrives several hours too early.

Conrad is here, with flowers in hand.

The first thing I notice is how small the bouquet looks compared to what Pasha usually sends me. In fact, one of his elaborate arrangements is taking up a good portion of my side desk as I scramble to gather my wits.

“Conrad! What a surprise!” I force my voice to sound pleasant, despite feeling anything but.

He pushes through the door, holding the vase like a shield. “I couldn’t wait to see you.”

Keep it business. “Well, since you’re here, why don’t we go to the conference room?” Where there’s nothing but windows and a clear view for witnesses. I push my chair in and try my best to circumvent him on the way to the door.

Unfortunately, he catches me on the way by pushing those stupid flowers at me. “I wrote a letter for you, too.” He taps an envelope stuck between the yellow roses. “I’m an artist, not a writer, but⁠—”

“Looks great.” I take the vase and drop it on the desk. “Let’s go hash things out.”

He sighs with relief. “Oh, God, yes, thank you⁠—”

“About the showing.”

His face falls. But he nods and follows me out of the office and down the hall to the conference room.

“You brought the catalog?” I hold my hand up for him to place the folder into; I don’t look directly at him if I can help it.

Conrad doesn’t pass it over. Instead, he takes the chair next to me, way too close for comfort, and opens it himself. “Turns out I’ve got a few pieces I forgot all about. Dug them out of storage. Figured it’d be nice to show them the light of day.”

“Mhm. I see them.” When I touch the page of photos he took of the unfamiliar paintings, he moves his hand to brush against mine. I yank my fingers away. “We can make a feature segment for these.”

“Actually, I’d love to feature these.” He flips to a different page and proudly shows it to me by pushing the folder closer. And, by default, himself. “These are brand new. My best work, too.”

“Looks like a good group.” I make a note in my tablet, grateful for the excuse to put something between us. “Any special name we should call it?”

“Diaphonous Diaprio. To see through a heart torn asunder.”

I should win a gold medal for the sheer willpower it takes to not roll my eyes. His artwork isn’t the only thing that’s transparent. I clear my throat again, which gives me the idea to get up and grab myself a glass of water from the cart in the corner. “I’m sure that will bring in a good crowd. Very marketable.”

When I return to my seat, I casually pull it far away from him. It’s amazing to me how the smell of cologne I once enjoyed smells almost rotten. His close proximity now makes my skin crawl.

And the way he smiles at me?

Blech.

There’s no going back. He’s giving me the creeps, no matter how hard he’s trying to get in my good graces.

“I’m glad you think so.” He points at an image in the folder. “What do you think of this one?”

I glance at the page and try to pretend to be interested. Once upon a time, I was.

Now? Now, it all looks like dull crayon drawings.

“The grays add a nice depth to the shapes. I can see this attracting some good eyes.”

Conrad looks at me. “I was hoping it would attract your eye. My muse.”

“Alright. That’s it.” I snap the folder shut and jump out of my chair at the same time. “I think I have everything we need to schedule the showing. We’ll be in touch.”

He’s stunned. “What did I say? What did I do? Daphne, I⁠—”

“You are engaged to someone else.” I hold a hand up to stop him from getting out of his chair. “You made that exceptionally clear. The fact that you’re here is one thing; the fact that you’re trying to… to what? Win me back?”

Conrad ignores my hand and pushes himself up anyway. “I’m trying to figure things out. Make things right. Especially since⁠—”

“Anything to do with me has already been figured out. We’re done.”

For all the fuss I made about Pasha’s hickey, I’m suddenly wishing I’d just left it alone so Conrad could see how utterly unavailable and uninterested I am. I’m wearing the necklace, but clearly, this guy has no idea what it means.

I’m almost embarrassed that I ever cried over this idiot. That I ever entertained spending the rest of my life with him. That I ever shared a bed with him.

Holy fuck, did I win the lottery when it came to this pregnancy. How close was I to bearing the wrong man’s child?

Pasha is everything Conrad is not. Stubbornness is the one thing they have in common, but even then, it’s entirely different flavors. Conrad doesn’t know when to accept defeat.

Well… neither does Pasha. But honestly, I’ve noticed this drive is his way of taking care of the people around him. Not to serve himself, or his own interests, at least not as much as his decisions serve everyone else.

Even me. He may want our baby, but I know that he’s determined to care for her for the sake of his family. His Bratva. His own child is an act for the greater good, not just himself.

Conrad is a selfish little bitch by contrast. He doesn’t care who he throws under the bus so long as it benefits him and him alone. Does Brittany even know he’s here?

He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “I’m trying, Daph. I really am. I⁠—”

“Stop.” If I’m surprised by how strong I sound, he flinches and his eyes widen a little more. “Stop trying. I don’t want you to try. I don’t want you, period. I don’t want your flowers, your letters, or your pathetic apologies. Does she know you’re here, by the way? Does your fiancée know you’re trying to woo your ex?”

He looks away. The guilt is written all over his face.

“Here’s how this is going to work.” I pull my phone out like I’m checking my digital calendar, but I’m actually making sure the rest of this conversation is recorded. “The only interaction you and I will ever have moving forward will be via email. If you need to schedule a meeting, you will schedule it with Hazel, Todd, or Keith. Deliveries will be handled by a third party.”

“But—”

“No. I am the curator of your show, and that is all. Our only interaction is what I get paid to do. I may laugh, I may smile, I may say nice things to people who want to buy your work. But understand—” I lean forward just to emphasize my point. “—it is because I am paid to. Given the choice, we’d never share the same air again.”

I don’t wait for him to respond. I don’t want to hear it.

He gets up and leaves without another word. Thank God. And in his wake, silence settles over the building.

No Conrad.

No Tweedles.

Just sweet, blessed silence.

That blessed silence lasts all of half an hour.

At least it’s just some delivery guy. He didn’t do anything to piss me off.

Except bring more flowers from people I don’t want to hear from. But that’s not his fault.

It’s my parents’.

The fact that this bouquet is almost identical to Conrad’s doesn’t surprise me. I’d bet good money that they coordinated his little ambush.

I pluck the letter he stuck inside the roses and stare at it. Do I even want to read it? Is it worth the headache?

Better yet, do I have a lighter stashed away somewhere?

He’s not the only one shoving notes in flowers—there’s a card in the bouquet from my parents, and it’s addressed to Miss Daphne Hamish.

I really need to find that lighter.

When the door to my office opens once more, I’m ready to chuck the card at the intruder like some ninja throwing star. I almost do it, too—except…

“Pasha? What are you doing here?”

He’s staring at the yellow roses. “Who the fuck did these come from?” His eyes narrow. “Conrad.”

The way he practically growls the name sends good shivers up my spine. “Don’t worry,” I laugh as I toss the letter and card into the garbage bin by my feet, “they’re going straight to the dumpster.”

Pasha grunts. “He shouldn’t be sending you any. At all.”

I sigh and heft a vase to set on the side table by the door. “My bosses, in their infinite wisdom, thought it would be a great idea to not only host yet another showing for him, but for me to curate it. As much as I’m not loving this arrangement, he wouldn’t be the first client to arrive with a gift.”

“He was here?”

“Came and left. It was a very, very short meeting.” I don’t know why I do it—maybe just to placate the beast clearly riding below the surface—but I reach out and press a hand to Pasha’s chest. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

Is it a surprise to both of us that I genuinely mean it?

Pasha clears his throat and seems to shake off whatever residual disgruntlement still tries to cling to him. “Yeah, well… Ivan had a family emergency. I’ll be driving you home after work myself. I came to let you know.”

“I don’t get off for a few more hours.”

He checks his watch. “You’re due for a lunch break, aren’t you?”

“Er, yeah. I guess I am.”

“Well, then. Lunch it is.”

Biting back my blush, I grab my coat and purse and start to head for the door. Pasha moves in the opposite direction, though. I frown in confusion as he scoops up the other floral arrangement and dunks it mercilessly in the trash can.

“There,” he says in satisfaction. “Much better now.”

He plucks my coat from my arms and holds it open for me to slip into. His scent wraps around me warmer than the coat, and I feel myself respond in ways that probably have a lot to do with our little shower last night.

But as his eyes rake over me, that wriggle of heat turns into more of a frigid shiver. It’s a shift in his expression, a tightening in his frown that makes me suddenly think, I fucked up.

“Daphne.”

Something in his voice is a warning. Like I’m in trouble.

Like maybe, just maybe, I should have taken someone’s advice.

I turn my head to smile up at him. Maybe if I bat my lashes and charm him with my coy sweetness, he’ll let it slide. “Yes, Pasha?”

The hand that was pressing my back toward the door slides up to tangle at the nape of my neck. Then he pulls, hard, forcing me to tip my head back and expose my neck to him.

Pasha leans in so close, I can practically taste the fury on his tongue, and snarls, “Where is my mark?”