I tend not to have anything to do with him either.
Heavy footsteps approach from the basement, where a few of the men have been busy plotting, I presume. Konstantin and Andrius enter the kitchen. Konstantin tosses me a panty-melting smile.
“Are you eating ham with beetroot again?” Andrius asks.
“No, cheese and tomato this time.”
“Ah, okay. Sounds good, but not as good, da?”
I laugh. “Yeah, not as good.” I glance at his nose which is still swollen. “How are you?”
“I am good. My face will soon be as handsome as always, or so I am told.” He smirks, and Konstantin rolls his eyes.
There’s a loud beep from the hallway. It means someone has arrived at the house and is at the gate. Konstantin presses the alarm system fixed in the kitchen. He now has a monitor in the hallway, kitchen, his study, his bedroom, and on the upstairs hallway, as well as in the turret. He’s paranoid, and to be honest, I like it. Makes me feel safe.
The grainy face of a man appears on the monitor followed by a rapid-fire stream of Russian. Konstantin grins, shakes his head, and replies in Russian. Then he presses the button to open the gates.
He goes to the door, and a minute or so later I hear deep male voices talking and laughing.
“Bohdan,” Andrius says to me.
He’s one of Konstantin’s men, but I don’t have much more info than that.
They come back into the room, and for a moment I stare at this new addition to the household.
He’s incongruous here because he looks like a movie star. Well, no, not like a movie star; he’s more handsome, more beautiful, than any movie star I’ve seen. He literally looks like an angel fallen to earth.
He’s got dark blond hair, so dark it almost looks brown, but you can see where it will lift in the sun; already around his face are a few strands that are lighter. It’s longer than I’ve seen on any of the men here, except for Reece. It’s wavy too, and strands of it fall around his perfect cheekbones.
His lips are full, and his eyes are huge aquatic pools framed by dark lashes.
He can’t be a gangster, surely?
Then I take in his stance. Combative, aggressive even. And his build. As big as Andrius. He’s around six-foot-tall I think; not as tall as Konstantin, but not far off, and he’s broad. I glance at his hands. Andrius has scars all over his knuckles and up his forearms. Konstantin has bloodied, scraped knuckles where he punched Andrius. This man … yep, there are marks where I can see he’s fought before.
He might have the face of a movie star, but he’s got the hands of a street brawler. He doesn’t look hard, though, the way Konstantin and Andrius do. His face looks … beatific almost. As if he’s peaceful and content.
“Cassie, Bohdan,” Konstantin snaps, and I glance at him to see his face is like thunder.
Oh God, he probably thinks I’m eye fucking his Bratva soldier. I’m not. Although, objectively, I can see he’s gorgeous, I’m not into him. I can’t be. My mind and body are obsessed with Konstantin right now. To the extent that Captain America himself could stand before me in nothing but tiny Captain America trunks, and I’d probably not get hot and bothered.
“Pleased to meet you,” I say, and then because I’m an idiot, I offer my hand.
“Oh, charmed.” Bohdan takes my hand, raises it to his lips, and kisses the back of it.
Konstantin stares at him for one long moment, then pushes him back so roughly he hits the cupboards behind him.
Bohdan says something in Russian, laughing.
“Finally, you meet a woman who puts your cock in a cage,” Andrius helpfully translates Bohdan’s words for me.
Konstantin snarls a reply, also in Russian, ignoring Andrius.
“Konstantin just asked Bohdan if he would like his cock putting in a blender and if not to shut his fucking mouth.” Andrius translates again.
“Would you like a drink? Tea? Coffee? You must be thirsty.”
Oh God. I’ve turned into someone from a parody of Downton Abbey.
My voice sounds so English, and tea? In the midst of these two thugging it out?
“No tea, but coffee yes, please,” Bohdan says.
“Sorry, you guys probably don’t drink a lot of tea,” I say, flushing.
“We do,” Andrius replies. “It’s the national drink of Russia, some say. But we don’t drink it like you Brits do, all milky, weak, and disgusting.”
“I don’t drink it weak,” I say, almost offended. “Builders only for