Inked Adonis: Chapter 22

“Do you want to tell me why you’re pouting or am I supposed to guess?”

“I’m not.” I jerk my chin up, defiant. The leather of Samuil’s Aston Martin creaks as I shift, refusing to make eye contact.

“‘She says, pouting.’” His deep voice rumbles with amusement, the bastard. “I like Hope.”

“Mhmm.” The word comes out bitter and sharp. “And she definitely liked you.”

Understatement of the fucking century. My traitorous best friend—the one who’s supposed to be immune to male bullshit—practically tripped over herself fawning over Chicago’s most dangerous bachelor. The same woman who once made a guy write a formal apology to his mother for sending unsolicited dick pics just handed Samuil Litvinov her heart on a silver platter.

All because he cracked one joke about her accounting software and offered to get her a discount on a new program.

“Your best friend liked me.” He twists the knife, because of course he does. “That’s what has you all worked up?”

Rufus whines, nudging my shoulder with his wet nose. I scratch behind his ears, grateful for at least one loyal soul in this car.

“It doesn’t bother me that Hope likes you.”

“Right.” He snorts. “It doesn’t just bother you—it’s killing you. You’ve never hated anything more.”

My teeth grind together. “I want to talk about something else.”

“Okay, let’s talk about your grandma. She liked me, too. She whispered it to me as we left.” His voice drops an octave, dripping with satisfaction. “She also said something about a family ring. She told me to let her know if I wanted it to⁠—”

“She offered you her wedding ring?” The words explode out of me, making Rufus flinch. “We were there for two hours! She doesn’t even know you! I barely know you. What was that senile old woman thinking? What did you tell her?”

His lips curve into a wicked grin as he leans over the console. “I told you so.”

Oh. I’m an idiot.

There was no ring offer. Just Samuil, proving his point about how much it bothers me that he charmed my entire world in the span of a morning.

“I never would’ve let you tag along if I thought you’d win them all over.”

“Jealous?”

Yes. God, yes. The admission sits heavy in my chest, refusing to budge.

I roll my eyes instead. “Confused, actually. Hope has hated most—no, all of my boyfriends. I don’t see why you should be so different.”

“For starters, I’m not your boyfriend.”

The words slice deeper than they should, considering he’s right. We’re nothing to each other. Nothing except captor and captive, playing at normalcy while his men trail us with loaded guns.

“Correct. You’re my captor,” I say, to remind myself as much as him. “But I can’t exactly advertise that without getting my grandmother and best friend locked up with me, can I?”

Samuil stares ahead, radiating the casual arrogance of a man who’s never met an obstacle he couldn’t demolish or buy off.

“You’re good at this, aren’t you?” I accuse.

“Probably.” His jaw ticks. “But you’ll need to be more specific.”

“Charming people.”

He shrugs, the movement liquid and graceful. “Things move along more smoothly when people like you.”

“Or when they think they like you, but they don’t actually know you. And secretly, you’re just waiting to kidnap them from a park and make them your captive.”

He doesn’t rise to the bait. Just nods. “Yeah, that, too. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

I steal a glance at him—all designer casual in his chinos and fitted t-shirt, artfully tousled hair, flawlessly groomed beard. It’s impossible to reconcile this version of him with the man who shoved me into that black SUV.

“Not everyone operates like that.” The words slip out before I can stop them. “My father only deals in vinegar.”

“Considering what you told me about him, I’m not surprised.”

My hands twist together in my lap. I never talk about my father. Ever. But something about Samuil draws the poison out of me, one secret at a time.

“Does he visit Grams often?”

I try not to fixate on how casually he uses her nickname, like he has any right to claim that familiarity. “Every couple months, mostly for admin purposes.” My nail beds are a wreck. I pick at them anyway. “He pays the bills and checks to make sure she’s taking the medication he pays for. He just wants to get his money’s worth. That’s about it.”

Rufus’s head settles against my elbow. Sometimes, I think he understands more than any human could.

“After Grams had her second fall, she moved in with my dad and me.” The memory burns behind my eyes. “It wasn’t long before he started looking for homes.”

Samuil’s knuckles whiten against the steering wheel. “I take it you weren’t a fan of putting her there.”

“As far as retirement homes go, hers is fine.” My voice cracks, and I hate myself for showing this weakness in front of him. “The staff is nice. She’s made friends. But…”

Emotion claws up my throat. I swallow it down. “She’s family. She doesn’t belong in a retirement home. She belongs with me.”

Rufus whines. I press a kiss to his muzzle, grateful for the excuse to hide my face. “I have a plan, though. Once I get my business off the ground, I’m going to save up and rent out a two-bedroom unit. Then Grams can move in with me.”

“Here I thought you were walking dogs for the love of it.” His teasing hits different now, softer around the edges.

I scratch behind Rufus’s ears. “I do love it. This is so much better than the string of dead-end jobs I had before. When Hope and I decided to merge our passions, it felt like destiny.” My lips twist. “But destiny doesn’t pay the bills. These things take time. I’m looking at another couple years, minimum.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You’re stubborn. If anyone can do it, you can.”

“Thanks… I think.” I shoot him a glare to mask how his words warm something deep in my chest. “Of course, I’d be much further along if I wasn’t confined to your apartment for the next two weeks. Plus, you cost me a client.”

I jab my thumb toward Rufus, who immediately starts licking it for nonexistent treats.

“Rufus is still your dog to walk,” he reminds me, that infuriating dimple appearing. “As an added benefit, you get to deal with me as his owner instead of Katerina.”

“That’s a mild improvement.” The admission scrapes my pride raw. “I just hope this doesn’t cost Hope a client. Katerina might be a bitch, but she’s a rich bitch. She pays well.”

Samuil dismisses my concern with an elegant flick of his wrist. “I meant what I said before. If Katerina drops Hope, I’ll take care of it.”

The memory of his earlier promise floods back. The way he lounged in Hope’s office chair like a king on his throne, casually offering to replace one wealthy client with ten more. “My ex-wife was not made to take care of other living things,” he’d drawled, making Hope giggle like a schoolgirl. “She was more than willing to let me take Rufus off her hands. But don’t worry, I believe she wants to continue with your assistant service. If she doesn’t, give me a ring. I’ll hook you up with ten more clients where she came from.”

I watched Hope’s eyes light up like she’d won the lottery. Samuil could have told her to drop Katerina on the spot and she would have done it with a smile. Hell, he could have told her to sit, stay, and roll over, and she would have been doing backflips before he finished the sentence.

“You make a compelling argument.”

“That’s probably why Hope liked me so much.” His eyes catch mine in the rearview mirror, dark and knowing.

Heat pools in my stomach. I wrench my gaze to the window, watching Chicago’s steel and glass monuments blur past.

We’re approaching his building now. One of his men waits at the curb—another perfectly tailored suit concealing carefully maintained muscle and a holstered gun.

Reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water.

Samuil might charm old ladies in the morning and win over skeptical best friends in the afternoon, but he commands an army of killers who execute his will without question.

When he finally decides I’m a liability, there won’t be any charm. Just cold efficiency.

And I won’t stand a chance.