Ruthless Saint

XV

MIKA MALIKOV

        I was hot. Sheen of sweat dusted across my forehead. The persistent throbbing between my thighs waking me up in the middle of the night to find myself in an unfamiliar position.

        The culprit wasn't the thick comforter discarded beneath but the smooth expanse of skin and hard muscles underneath me.

        I was slung on top of Mischa. A heavy hand on my hips and another down my back. My face was buried between the crook of his neck and fingers splayed at his chest.

        I could feel my heart pounding at the horror of what I'd done, and the realization sent me scrambling to the far end of the bed.

        I'd never been a clingy sleeper but then again, I never shared a bed with someone else before.

        I snuck a deliberate peek over at Mischa. He stirred a bit in his sleep, groaning words I couldn't comprehend.

        I took a minute to admire his face under the moonlight. Silky black hair, dark brows and red and dark ink covering his skin up to his throat.

        He slept with nothing but Calvin Klein briefs, hard slab of muscles beneath the comforter and a sober expression foreign to me.

        I'd never seen him so peaceful and vulnerable. He was always walking around with a hard look and sharp words.

        I'd made the mistake of reaching out, running my manicured nails along the ink that covered his throat. I'd been curious as to what the full image would have looked like beneath the comforter.

        It happened instantly. A hand grasped my throat, pressing me against the bed and darkness lurking in those grey eyes.

        My heart froze as he towered over me, the bunched fabric around his waist and the movement of his rib cage expanding with each breath.

        Oh geez.

        "Mischa?" I managed to croak out.

Ice frosted in his eyes. His gaze glossed over for a spilt second before he released me instantly.

        "Lisichka." His voice was a low rasp, the smell of warm vodka and fear.

A muscle in his jaw ticked as he examined me then a small shake of his head. "Yebat'. Must have fallen asleep."

He did. After the last shootout, Mischa and I started sharing a bed together.

I'd been too much of a coward to admit that I couldn't spend a night alone because I was terrified there would be a bullet between my forehead.

        Somehow, he knew—he saw through my armor.

I was asleep before he slipped into bed beside me and he woke up before me, leaving nothing but rumpled sheets in his absence.

He was already on his feet, flagging down his black dress shirt and pants.

I watched the ink on his back, moving as if they were alive with each step he took. The full sleeve of faces on his right arm extending down to his knuckles and the wings and feathers between his pecs.

"Where are you going?"

A grunt. "Business."

He threw a glance at me over his shoulder. "Go back to sleep." His voice was a bit drowsy from sleep but effortlessly sexy for some reason.