Ruthless Bratva King (New York Russian Mafia Kings #1)

23. Elena

23

ELENA

T he sound of a faint click wakes me. I blink into the darkness, disoriented.

The bedside lamp is off, and shadows stretch across the room, unfamiliar and unsettling. I sit up and glance at the clock. Midnight.

Something isn’t right. My pulse quickens as I scan the room.

Someone’s in here with me.

I freeze, my blood turning to ice.

A figure is standing by the window, his broad frame silhouetted by the faint glow of the city lights outside. His expression is unreadable, his hand gripping a knife as he stares at me, eyes glinting.

My breath catches in my throat. “Dmitri?”

The blade catches the faint light for a moment before he slides it into his pocket.

His movements are deliberate, careful, like he’s trying not to startle me. There’s something in his other hand. Is that the jade statue?

“I was securing the room,” he says, his voice low and steady.

My heart pounds against my ribs. “With a knife in your hand?”

He takes a step closer, his gaze hardening like I’ve caught him in the middle of something I shouldn’t have. “With whatever it takes.”

The tension in the air crackles, thick and heavy. He kneels in front of me, his hands resting lightly on the arms of the chair. “I’ll protect you, Elena. Always.”

The words should comfort me, but there’s something in his eyes—a shadow, a weight—that makes my chest tighten. “Why do I need protecting, Dmitri?”

He cups my cheek in his hand. “I’d never hurt you.”

“That’s not what I asked. Why’d you tell those men I was your fiancée?”

He sets the statue down on the dresser. “Pretty, isn’t it? 14th century, I believe.”

“You’re an expert?”

“I know a little. Where’d you get it?”

“Posted to me, why?”

“Who from?”

“I’ve no idea. Does that statue mean something to you?”

He takes a step closer, and I feel the air shift. The intensity in his eyes has me rooted to the spot, unable to look away even though every instinct screams at me to retreat.

His hand lifts to brush a strand of hair from my face. His touch is light, almost reverent, but it sends shivers down my spine.

“Tell me you hate me,” he murmurs, his voice a seductive whisper. “Make this easier for both of us.”

“I don’t hate you. Why would I hate you? What have you done?”

He winces slightly, like that was the last thing he expected to hear.

“Tomorrow at six,” he says, walking over to the bedroom door. “I’ll collect you. Be ready.”