Avenge :Romanian Mob Chronicles(21)

And worse, Anton had wormed his way into my consciousness—the memory of him so close, the thought of what it would be like to touch him. I was losing sight of what I needed to do, knew that I was again on the verge of failing Braden, but I couldn’t stop myself from thinking of him, tried to latch onto the lie that my attraction to him didn’t mean anything.

So I lay in bed trying to remember, remember Braden’s face, the pain when they’d told me he wouldn’t wake up, the promise I’d made to him.

Tried and failed.

Because instead of Braden, of pain, of anger, all I could focus on was Anton. How he’d looked at me, what it would be like if he were here. How it would feel if he touched me.

Boom. Boom.

I sat upright, frowning at the knock on the door.

No one came here. Ever. Not even the landlord had ever knocked.

Wary and more than a little worried, I headed toward the door, for some reason trying to be quiet, though I couldn’t say why. When I reached the door, my heart was in my throat, and when I looked through the peephole, my lungs squeezed tight. I moved away quickly and then checked again, confirming what I had seen.

It was him.

Anton was here.

Why?

For a fleeting moment, my mind drifted back to the Constantins’ kitchen, how close I’d been to him, how much I’d wanted to touch him. Pushing the thought away took physical effort, and I laid my hand against the wall and dropped my head, sealing my eyes shut as I stepped into my role. Not the real me, neither the part that wanted to kill him nor the part that wanted to fuck him.

No, I needed to be her, sweet little Lily who made tea and gave breathing treatments. One breath and my mask was firmly in place.

I unlocked and opened the door quickly. “Has something happened to Mr. Constantin?” I asked, my voice brimming with concern that wasn’t entirely false.

He frowned slightly and then pushed past me to enter, not answering my question. I watched him as he looked around, his face betraying nothing of what he thought of the place.

“Well?” I said after a moment, my voice breathy, slightly high-pitched. I hoped he would take it as irritation at his intrusion, almost as much as I wished it actually were. It wasn’t, though, not in the slightest. The hitch in my breath was caused by the tightening in my chest, and the tightening in my chest was caused by him.

He turned to face me, his gaze capturing mine. “No. He’s fine, or as fine as can be expected.”

I tilted my head. “So then?” I let impatience bleed into my voice. I wanted him to stay, which meant I needed him to leave.

“What?” he said, his voice low and rumbling.

“Why are you here?” I said, my own voice low, breathy.

“Why did you say that?” he asked.

I shook my head, shrugged my shoulders. “Can you be more specific?” I said, voice still low but edging with frustration, my annoyance now real. He had to go, but he seemed in no hurry, and I didn’t have the reserves necessary to fend off my own desires while trying to interpret his words.

“Why did you call Christoph my father?” he finally said.

I remembered the moment well, but stayed mute, not sure how to respond.

“You remember,” he said, a statement and not a question.

Seemed he was in no mood to let me off the hook. “I don’t know. I didn’t mean anything by it,” I said rather lamely, my concentration slipping with each second that passed. Anton had come to my home, was asking me questions, something that should have had me insane with worry. Instead, I was preoccupied with how much he filled my home, how much I wanted him in my bed.

“But what made you think it?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

I shrugged again. “You look alike. Same eyes. I just figured…” I trailed off, watching him for a reaction.

He said nothing, his expression rigid. I wasn’t sure what I expected, maybe anger, maybe a mild correction, something, but he just watched me.

“Well…if there’s nothing else,” I said, moving toward the door.

His hand on my arm stopped me, his grip strong but not punishing, turning me to face him.

“What is it?” I whispered.

He pulled me to him, my feet lifting without conscious thought on my part, and soon I was standing close to him, pressed against him.

I’d wanted this, dreamed of it in fact, and the reality was better than I could have imagined. We barely touched, but his body was strong, warm against mine. Warm enough to make me want to sink into it, make me want to forget who he was.

Anton, people like him, gave no thought to life, would have killed me without a second thought. That alone should have been enough to make me break away.

I moved closer.

And worse, being here, wanting him as much as I did, was the ultimate betrayal, of Braden, of myself, of all that I had dedicated my life to.