Jaded (13 page)

The night before he’d followed Lilya out of her bedroom, even though she’d said she’d needed to be alone. He’d been worried about her. He’d watched her race out of the house and had seen Alek go after her with her pelisse.

After that, he should’ve let it go and not spied. Yet, he had. He’d glimpsed Lilya and Alek through a window as they’d sat on a stone bench in the garden. He’d also seen them kissing . . . and it hadn’t been just a peck. It had been a lush, heated kiss involving lips, tongue, teeth, and hands on each other’s bodies. He’d seen sex in that kiss. Naked, undisguised lust. The level of desire coming from Alek had surprised him. Apparently his friend was suppressing far more than he’d ever imagined.

It had made him feel more possessive of Lilya than he ever could have anticipated. Rage . . . no,
jealousy
had reared in him. He’d had to literally hold himself back from rushing out to the garden, pulling them apart, throwing Lilya over his shoulder like some caveman, and marching her up to his bed and tying her there.

His
bed.
His
Lilya.

That primal part of him emerging in such a way had taken him off guard. And it wasn’t rational. Lilya wasn’t
his
; she was a
courtesan
, for the sake of all of Joshui’s angels. More important, this was why he’d brought her here in the first place.

Ostensibly, anyway.

Perhaps there was a part of him that had hoped Lilya would draw Alek out of his self-imposed punishment without sleeping with him. After that kiss, Byron was certain that would not happen. That kiss had possessed the promise of sex. It was only a question of time.

He’d managed to talk himself back into a place of calm rationality, but it still hadn’t stopped him from entering her room once she was in bed and falling upon her like some kind of animal. He’d wanted to claim her, mark her, make her his.

But, of course, she would never be his. She wasn’t made for that. He needed to tamp down this irrational reaction, accept it, and let things unfold as they would between Lilya and Alek.

It was his own damn fault. All of it.

Ivan checked into a bed-and-breakfast in the town of Ulstrat near Byron Andropov’s home. His motions sharp in every way, he tossed his gloves onto the table near the quaint brass bed and threw the curtains open to stare down at the street below. Almost every establishment in this place bore the name of Andropov. It was enough to make him vomit.

His fists tightened on the fabric of the curtains until his hands ached. He hated that she was in that man’s house. Her clients, the men she fucked at the Temple of Dreams, they meant nothing to Lilya and so they meant nothing to Ivan.

Byron Andropov was different.

Ivan knew about every single person who’d occupied Lilya’s bed since the time he’d been in love with her, and although Ivan didn’t want her—not anymore—the man who took her from the alley was not welcome to have her.

Ivan had cataloged every move Lilya had made from the moment he’d seen her on the street corner surrounded by flowers up until this very moment. She had been the only woman he had ever loved and she’d turned out to be a betrayer and a whore. When he’d caught her in the hallway with one of his employees, he’d been angry enough to kill her.

She’d protested the act, had sworn up and down that she’d been innocent, but he knew better. There was
no way
one of his men would
ever
have touched
his
woman. All of them had been handpicked by him and none of them had been crazy, suicidal, or stupid. They had all known that Lilya was special, the woman he’d intended to make his wife and bear his children. Touching her had meant death.

A far more likely scenario was that Lilya had tempted the man into the situation and he hadn’t been able to resist her. He’d paid for his lust with his life. That had been the easy part. Dealing with Lilya had been far more complicated.

After she’d received the beating she’d deserved, he’d decided that if she wanted to act like a whore . . . she could. Knowing he would never touch her again, he’d tossed her to his men and simply turned away.

It had been harsh, but she’d reaped exactly what she’d sown. She was lucky he’d allowed her to live.

He’d never forgiven her, but he hadn’t been able to get his mind off her either. His heart was too soft where she was concerned. He’d even felt
guilty
for delivering the punishment she’d deserved. After a couple of days the remorse had been too great. He’d tracked down the men who’d taken her and killed every last one of them. Then, fully expecting to find her dead, he’d gone to retrieve Lilya from the alley where they’d dumped her.

Except he hadn’t arrived first.

He’d stepped into the mouth of the alley just in time to see Byron Andropov scooping her up off the pavement.

His
woman, no matter that she was soiled beyond forgiveness.

Even then he’d recognized Andropov as a powerful man. Lacking the ability to confront Andropov for possession of Lilya, he’d followed them, watched them for the long months she’d been in Byron’s care. Ivan had seen her slowly come back from the dead in Byron’s presence. One day in the park he’d seen her look at Byron with something far too close to love for his liking.

Ivan hated Byron.

He would have had him killed during Lilya’s recuperation, but some part of him had still felt guilty about her condition. Stupid. Weak. But he’d felt that way anyway. Then Byron had left the city with no warning and Ivan had lost his chance.

That had been all right. Byron was gone, and as long as he didn’t come back, he could keep his life. Lilya entered the Temple of Dreams—no big surprise to Ivan since she was a whore in her heart—and that had been that. He’d watched her from afar, controlling the clients she took. If she seemed interested in a man he didn’t approve of, he would “dissuade” him. None of them could be too big, too virile, too much like Byron.

Then he’d received word that Byron had come back. Not only that, he’d taken Lilya out of the city, away from Ivan’s control. And all the hatred had come flooding back along with a healthy dollop of murderous rage.
No one
took Lilya away from him.

She had been just fine where she’d been. A courtesan close enough to him that he’d possessed a measure of influence over her life. Now all that was gone and with Byron in the picture he wasn’t sure he’d ever get it back. He didn’t like change.

This was unacceptable.

He stepped away from the window and looked in the mirror that hung on the wall to his right. Smoothing his dark goatee with a well-manicured hand and dragging his fingers through his long silver-streaked black hair, he studied his reflection. Cool gray eyes—the eyes of one of the most powerful men in Milzyr—gazed at him. He wanted Lilya back where she’d been for the last five and a half years. Ivan always got what he wanted.

And he wanted Byron dead, once and for all.

T
he carriage lurched to a stop in front of a large area in the center of Ulstrat that was thronged with stalls of late-autumn fruits and vegetable, stacks of clothing and shoes, and other sundry trinkets for purchase.

“This is where you’ve taken me?” Lilya stared out the window of the carriage. “To the market?”

The driver opened the door and the scent of roasting chestnuts reached her nose. She inhaled and closed her eyes, drinking in the moment. She hadn’t been to a market in years.

“I gave Mara the day off. I thought we could do the shopping ourselves.” Byron offered her a hand, helping her out of the carriage. Alek followed.

“I think it’s a lovely idea.” She glanced around her. “This must be one of the last village markets of the season.”

“It is
the
last day of the outdoor market. It moves indoors next week, but will be reduced in its offerings.” Byron came up beside her.

She glanced at him. “We can find the ingredients for dinner tonight.”

“Yes, but you’ll have to prepare it. Alek and I both lack that particular skill.”

“I would love to. Cooking is a hobby of mine.”

He lingered near her, looking out over the stalls of vendors who had already recognized him and begun calling to him using his first name. It was a testament to his friendliness with the people of Ulstrat. The heat of his body radiated out and warmed her. The scent of him teased her nostrils and reminded her of the night before, how he’d brought her to a shattering climax over and over again. Just having him near her was a heady experience.

Dangerous. So dangerous.

Yet she knew she was in deep now, too far gone to ever come back. She wasn’t sure what the future held....

But she was pretty sure it included heartbreak.

Alek moved to her other side and handed her the basket. “I really don’t want to hold this.”

She laughed and pulled it from his fingers. He was grouchy about the fact that they’d pulled him from his study that morning. Alek rarely seemed happy away from his books.

“I’ll take it,” said Byron, slipping the basket from her fingers and giving Alek a cutting look. “I’m very secure in my masculinity.”

Ignoring Byron’s barb, she linked her arm through Alek’s. “What do you like to eat, Alek?” The old saying was true, often the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach and Alek’s heart was buried deep . . . though she suspected the man’s libido rested
very
close to the surface.

Maybe the way to a man’s heart was through his libido?

He shrugged, his gaze roaming listlessly over the vendors.

“Don’t ask him,” Byron growled. “I’m the one with the insatiable appetite.”

She gave him a sidelong look. That was for certain.

Alek shot him an annoyed look.

“Well, let’s see what we’ve got.” Lilya walked into the market. “The ingredients will be limited, considering how late it is in the season. Still, I’m sure we can find enough things to prepare a delicious meal.”

She headed down an aisle. A man caught her eye and called her over to a table filled with warm wraps for the cold season. Perusing, she picked up and rubbed her fingers over the soft, heavy fabrics, inspecting their quality. She lingered on a peach-and-cream wrap made of wool, admiring the intricacies of its woven pattern. Just as she stepped away from the vendor, Byron laid it over her shoulders.

She looked up at him in surprise.

“I thought it would look pretty on you.” He leaned in and kissed her quickly. Just that little peck made her body heat.

“Thank you.”

Alek had wandered down the aisle, seemingly unconnected to the world around him. She motioned at him, pulling the wrap more firmly over her shoulders. “Is he always like this?” she asked Byron.

“Since . . . what happened, yes. The only thing that seems to soothe his soul is his studies.”

“Why won’t you tell me what happened?”

“It’s not my place. Just as I never thought it was my place to tell your story.”

She pressed her lips together, studying Alek’s broad shoulders as the man drew farther and farther away from them. “He mentioned a woman in his past but did not name her. I feel strongly that whatever forced him away from the world has something to do with her.”

Byron’s gaze lingered on her. “Women always seem involved in a man’s heartbreak.”

She grinned. “Not if they prefer men.”

“Ah, yes, but neither Alek nor I do.”

“Well,” she said, securing the wrap around her shoulders. “I can assure you that men are usually at the heart of a woman’s soul-deep wounding as well. You answered my question, of course. Alek is mourning a woman. I just don’t know if she left him or died.”

“Again, it’s not my story to tell. When Alek is ready maybe he’ll share it with you.”

“I think it’s wonderful the way you respect his privacy.”

“I love Alek.”