even on the hottest day in Corfu. Not many people have seen my legs. I look now and grimace. The scars are still there. Some less livid than they used to be.
I close my eyes as a shudder wracks me. I can still smell the searing of hairs as they put the red hot metal onto my skin. They had laid the poker on me four times in total on the right leg, twice on the left. My uncle came off worse. All because of Dasha.
It’s why I’m so fucked up over her. She told the Bratva boss my uncle and I were skimming off the top, and got me the beating of my life, along with a branding. It cost me my uncle’s love and meant I had to flee St. Petersburg. How can I forgive her that? When I think about her now, I’m seething, but when I see her, the anger and the need for revenge fizzles out.
She’s already broken. How can you hurt a broken thing? It would be like pulling the wings off a fly.
I touch the worst scar and wince. I hate the sensation of the puckered skin.
My stomach churns and I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face. I should leave her to her fate.
The thing is, though, Dasha is the only connection to my past. The only thing left from who I was before and something about that is heady. It’s probably the reason why siblings who can’t stand one another remain locked in their dysfunction long after their parents have died. They could walk away, but they can’t resist that siren call of someone who knows them.
Dasha knows me. We shared so many secrets. We laid at night wrapped up in one another’s arms, whispering our hopes and dreams and fears to each other.
My dreams were to be a world-famous photographer, traveling the world capturing famous sights. Dasha wanted to be a ballerina. Look at us now. She achieved her dream, and me? I’m an ex-thug who might be about to finally make something real of himself if I don’t fuck it up with this shit with Dasha.
Konstantin won’t be forgiving if I end up embroiled in some Parisian society scandal before we’ve even set up the operation. Then again, he and Andrius did give me permission to do this, didn’t they? Andrius is a romantic deep in his soul. It’s obvious. Konstantin? I think he merely did it because he thinks seeing Dasha again will get her out of my system and have me back in Corfu in days.
I could go back.
I should go back.
There’s a crash from the room next to mine, and I’m out of bed before I think. I grab my gun from the bedside table, and rush to Dasha’s room. I push the door open and see her on the floor, dazed.
She blinks twice, stares at me and then rubs her arm and shoulder. “Ow.”
“What happened?”
“I erm, I think I fell out of bed.” She giggles, and it’s an alluring sound. One I’d like to hear her make more. She rarely smiles let alone giggles. “I never fall out of bed, but I was dreaming.”
Pulling herself up by holding onto the bedspread, she sits on the bed and rakes her hand through sleep-mussed hair. She’s so beautiful it makes my heart hurt.
Looking at me, she smiles. “You can go; I’m fine.”
Then her gaze drops, and the smile drips from her face like melting wax.
I follow her gaze and freeze. Fuck, I came in here in only my sleep shorts. My thighs are exposed.
“Bohdan,” she begins.
“I’ve got to get dressed,” I say and leave the room.
My heart is pounding, and my mouth is dry. Fuck. I bet she hates how they look. She should; she caused this. I half want to pack and leave, and half want to go back in there, grab her hair and scream at her to take a good look at her handiwork.
Instead, I shower and dress. The shirt I wear covers the scars on my back, and the trousers the ones on my legs. I never fuck women in broad daylight unless I’m keeping my clothes on. It’s why I never go back for seconds.
They say how gorgeous I am, how hot I am. If they saw the state of my legs, they wouldn’t think so.
I touch my nose and smile. Maybe now my nose is busted I won’t get as many of them sniffing around anyway. It kind of suits me.