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“Don’t laugh.”

“I am trying.”

“You are not.”

“No.”

She throws the shirt at my chest. I catch it, and by the time it drops to the floor, she is already in my arms.

This time we make it to the bed. Barely.

She’s still half dressed when I get my mouth on her breast. Her blouse is open, her bra pulled down, her skirt twisted around her thighs. She arches into me the moment I take her nipple into my mouth, one hand gripping the back of my head, the other fisted in the sheet.

“Nikolai,” she whispers.

I cover her breast with my mouth and suck harder.

Her hips lift.

That’s the thing about her. She can be embarrassed, angry, afraid, stubborn enough to test every nerve I have, but when she wants me, she gives herself away completely.

I keep my mouth on her while I push her skirt higher and settle between her thighs. She is wet already, impatient with it.

“We cannot take long,” she says.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because you keep acting like we live alone.”

I lift my head. “We don’t need long.”

Her eyes darken.

No, we don’t.

I fuck her with her legs around me and my mouth back on her breast, deep and hard enough that she has to press her lips to my shoulder to stay quiet. She comes quickly, then again when I don’t stop. The second time, she whispers my name like she resents me for knowing exactly how to get it out of her.

I come with my face against her throat and her hands in my hair. For seven minutes after, neither of us moves.

Then she says, “Anya.”

I release her. She kisses me before she leaves.

That’s more dangerous than anything we have done.

Almost a month passes, uneventfully. Kirill walks past me when I’m coming down the stairs. We haven’t spoken much since the birthday party, and it’s not intentional on my part. Am I wary of his intentions? Do I think he’s going to hurt my daughter? The thought loses its strength every passing day. I was just paranoid. After all, I’ve always been overprotective when it comes to my daughter.

Besides, Sergei found nothing on him during his thorough investigation. He’s clean. Or at least as clean as a man can be working for a Bratva lord.

Elara is by the shelves in a dark blue dress, reaching for a book above her head. The fabric pulls tight over her hips.

She turns and catches me looking. Her expression changes. “No.”

I lock the door.

“Nikolai.”

“I didn’t say anything.”