Inked Adonis (Litvinov Bratva Book 1)

It’s been eight days since I stopped texting Samuil, and five since he gave up and stopped texting me.

Which is what I wanted… right?

So why do I feel like I just walked away from winning lottery numbers?

“Rufus!” I say in my sternest voice. “Sit.”

Rufus cocks his head to the side as if to ask, Are you serious? Then, almost as if he feels sorry for me, he drops his giant ass onto my thrift store rug.

It’s honestly a little patronizing.

Gotta say: I don’t feel very much like the alpha.

“Good boy.” I scratch him behind the ears while he rumbles contentedly. “We’ve made some progress, haven’t we?”

Today is supposed to be my day off, but Rufus’s owner put in a last-minute walk request, and I couldn’t refuse. Part of it is that I couldn’t turn down the cash. Most of it is that I’m in desperate need of distraction.

Rufus dips his wet nose under my palm, demanding my attention. His tail lashes back and forth, nearly upending the ceramic vase on my coffee table.

“Nothing says ‘distraction’ like the destruction of my shoebox-sized apartment,” I mutter. At the risk of another WMD-sized tail wag and the loss of my half-finished coffee, I walk to the door and grab his leash. “Walk?”

I chose Rogers Park purely because of Lake Michigan. Nothing beats a good, long run along the water first thing in the morning. Rufus seems to agree, because he pulls harder and harder the closer we get to the shoreline.

“Ease up, bud,” I grunt as the Great Dane strains against his leash. “Don’t go rogue on me now. We were just making some progress.”

I reach into my pocket for the training treats, but even that doesn’t calm him down. He’s whining and whimpering, his beefy tail thwacking me in the leg like Babe Ruth thinks I owe him money.

“Rufus!” I pull harder on his leash. “Calm down, boy.”

The words aren’t even out of my mouth before he rips free and takes off like someone launched him from a cannon.

“Rufus!” I shield my eyes against the glare off the water. Some poor squirrel is about to have the worst day of its life.

Then I see what—who—Rufus is running toward.

My heart stops.

“No.” The whispered word is less of a warning, more disbelief that this is my life.

This can’t be happening.

Not again.

Not now.

I manage a few feeble steps forward as Rufus closes the distance between him and the object of his affections. All I can think is one thing:

Samuil’s dry cleaning bill is going to be through the roof.

Rufus lets out a bark that amounts to a war cry as he closes in. Samuil turns, phone still pressed to his ear, but it’s too late.

With a gravity-defying jump that shouldn’t be possible for a creature of his size and density, Rufus launches himself at Samuil. There’s one horrifying, frozen-in-time moment that honestly belongs in the Renaissance wing at the Louvre: Rufus, suspended in air, limbs outstretched, tongue lolling, the literal incarnation of pure canine joy… and then Samuil—tall, dark, irresistible, raising a hand to do something, anything, but it’s too late. The Sistine Chapel ain’t got nothin’ on this.

Then time snaps back into motion.

Rufus’s gargantuan paws slam into Samuil’s chest, and I shriek as the two of them topple backward into the lake.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” The useless string of curses spills from my mouth as I sprint toward the shoreline, already knowing it’s too late to salvage anything—my dignity, my job, or the thousand-dollar suit currently soaking up half of Lake Michigan.

Rufus is alternating between making rollicking circles in the muddy water and attacking Samuil with slobbery affection, lapping up the water dripping down Samuil’s face.

Again, I can’t blame him.

“No!” I cry out, both for my sake and Rufus’s. “Rufus, stop!”

Rufus peers back over his shoulder for a second as if to ask, And what the hell are you going to do about it?

To be fair, it’s a good question. I’m out of my depth. Literally. The water is already up to my shins, and I’ve never been a good swimmer.

As Samuil starts to get his feet under him, Rufus whips around and bowls him over with a fresh wave of amorous face-licking.

“You’re going to get us a restraining order, you—” I lunge for Rufus’s collar, but he dodges, his huge paws churning mud as he changes course and bolts for shore.

I give up on Rufus and offer a hand to Samuil instead. “I am so, so sorry. Please let me help you⁠—”

Before I can finish my sentence, the long-limbed, short-haired tyrant who, until a few moments ago, was my new favorite client, takes a wide, drifting turn in the water and crashes his Great Dane butt right into me.

Aaand down she goes.

My feet slip on the slick rocks and I collide directly into Samuil. His arm wraps around my waist on pure instinct as we both go down for round two.

This time, with me on top of him.

I shriek as we splash down and I’m promptly rewarded with a mouthful of Chicago’s finest lake water. I’m tempted to slip beneath the surface and never return. If I even have any dignity left, it won’t survive the walk of shame back to shore.

But Samuil doesn’t give me the choice of living out the rest of my life as a lake nymph. He tows me upright, the two of us reduced to a tangle of soaked clothing and wet limbs as we emerge into a seated position. My scrambling hands find purchase against his chest and his thighs and other parts of him I refuse to name for fear that, if I don’t die of drowning, I’ll die of embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter repeatedly. “I’m so sorry.”

Finally, I peel myself off of Samuil’s hard, firm, soaking wet body and rise to my knees.

He blinks water from his eyes and sits up. I hold my breath, waiting for the threats of litigation or bodily harm.

Instead, he says, “I’ve never met someone so determined to get me out of my clothes.”

I doubt that.

I dodge the instinct to say things that’ll haunt my dreams later and go directly into crisis management mode. “You have to let me pay for dry cleaning this time. I insist.”

Suddenly, Samuil reaches for me. I freeze like Bambi in the path of a Mack truck. Is he gonna throttle me? Wag a scolding finger in my face? Give me a swirly in the lake? Honestly, all fair.

But his fingers brush a wet strand of hair from my face with devastating gentleness.

Now, I can see him clearly, which doesn’t help my nerves one bit. Even soaking wet and covered in mud, he’s gorgeous.

He’s also smiling at me. For a man who just had his second expensive suit in two weeks ruined by a behemoth of a dog and his klutzy walker, he doesn’t seem too upset.

I force myself upright and offer him a hand. “Here. Let me help.”

The second his hand is in mine, my ruined walking shoes slip on a rock, and I collapse against his chest. Again.

“For fuck’s sake.” Disgusting lake water sluices into my mouth as I groan. “This is a new low.”

Samuil shifts me off him and rises to his feet with predatory grace. Then he peels off his ruined jacket, revealing the white dress shirt underneath.

Sweet mother of God.

The fabric clings to every ridge and valley of the uncountable muscles on his body. Water droplets trace paths down his chest that make my mouth go dry despite the gallon of lake slime I just swallowed.

Despite it all, I find myself grateful to Rufus. He made this sight possible. Kind of an artist in his own right, when you really think about it.

Samuil reaches for me. “Take my hand.”

Sunlight shimmers around him, glinting golden off of the water droplets clinging to the curled ends of his hair. I feel like I’m being pulled from the depths of the lake by a god.

He pulls me easily to my feet. For a split second, I think he’s about to kiss me. All it would take is a slight tilt closer, one shared breath, and then⁠—

Rufus barges between us, shoving us apart as he makes another giddy, muddy lap of the shoreline.

Moment ruined.

Thanks, Rufus.

I quickly shift to wicking water off of my leggings so Samuil won’t see my disappointment. “Thank you.” A cool breeze rolls off the water, and I shiver, though I’m not convinced it’s from the cold.

“I’d offer you my jacket—” Samuil holds the dripping garment between us. “—but I doubt it’d be of much use.”

“My a-apartment is only a five-minute walk from h-here,” I chatter. “You’re more than welcome to come over and get cleaned up.”

“Another ruse to get me out of my clothes, I see.” He arches a brow, and another shiver ripples down my spine.

“If you’d rather not, I completely⁠—”

“Lead the way.”

My attention snaps back to him. “To where?”

He can’t really be accepting my offer, can he? The man probably has a helicopter on standby, ready to air-drop him a fresh Armani at a moment’s notice.

But nothing in his face says this is a prank. He whistles for Rufus and snaps his fingers. Like magic, the good-for-nothing, rotten-to-the-core, lovably adorable beast comes barreling over and skids to a stop in front of us.

“Sit,” Samuil commands, and Rufus sits perfectly at attention like he’s been doing it his whole life.

With the Dane neutralized, Samuil turns his attention back to me. “To your apartment. If the offer still stands.”

“Right. Of course. You’re coming to my apartment.” I say the words out loud in hopes the reality will sink in, but nope. Still sounds insane. I wave him on anyway. “Follow me.”

Twice in two weeks, I’ve managed to soak Chicago’s most dangerous man. Both times, he’s handled it with inexplicable grace. Now, he’s following me back to my apartment.

What could possibly go wrong?

A glance over my shoulder reveals Samuil following a few steps behind, his wet clothes molded to a body that belongs in a museum. Or my bedroom.

I snap my eyes forward before he catches me staring.

Everything. Everything could go wrong.

And God help me, I think I want it to.