Entangled with the wrong man

Chapter 13: The things I want to do to you

~ IVANOV ~

Druscilla was leading the way, her steps light and eager as she pointed out every hidden gem in the sprawling church compound. The air carried that faint, musty scent of old stone and polished wood, mixed with the distant hum of city traffic filtering through the trees outside. We'd wandered through lush gardens dotted with blooming azaleas, their petals a riot of pink against the green, and past the quiet library where dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through stained-glass windows. Now, we were climbing the wide, creaky staircase to the middle floor, each step echoing softly in the empty hall.

I couldn't shake the jolt I'd felt earlier that morning, stepping into the sanctuary and spotting her there in the pew, her red hair catching the light like a flame in the dim glow of the candles. My breath had hitched, caught in my throat, rushing out and back in all at once. There she was—my enemy's bride-to-be. Isaac Keane's woman. Why the hell was she popping up everywhere I turned? But flipping the script in my mind, it was a stroke of luck, really. A goddamn gift. It smoothed the path for me to worm my way into her world, her family, and right up close to the man I was gunning for. Isaac Keane. The name alone twisted like a knife in my gut.

Just a week back, when I'd rolled into the city, I'd dumped some cash into donations. The last haul me and Miguel had pulled off before he kicked it. He'd been adamant on his deathbed—spread it around to charities, orphanages, churches, schools. I'd been cruising the streets, tires humming on the asphalt, when this Presbyterian church caught my eye. Pulled over, walked in, laid out my plans. Honored the guy's final wish, like closing a chapter.

"So, this is where we hold our musicals," Druscilla said, pushing open the heavy door with a soft creak. The room sprawled out before us, crammed with instruments—gleaming guitars on stands, a drum set tucked in the corner, violins resting like sleeping birds on velvet cases. Christmas lights twinkled from the rafters, casting a warm, multicolored glow, and a massive tree loomed in the center, decked out with ornaments that shimmered like stars. The whole place screamed holiday cheer, even though the season was long gone.

"We put on our latest Christmas musical right here," she added, her face lighting up with a genuine smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "It was so colorful and beautiful, like something out of a dream."

"Did you sing in it too?" I asked, easing the door shut behind us with a click that seemed to echo a little too loud in the quiet space.

"Oh, no. I'm not a singer," she replied, her voice dipping with a nervous edge. Her eyes flicked to the closed door, quick as a startled deer, then back to me.

"Why do you think that?" I pressed, stepping a bit closer, the carpet muffling my footsteps.

"I don't think I have one of those angelic voices like the choristers do," she said, twisting her fingers together.

"Oh, darling, I think you've got one of the most beautiful voices in the world," I said with a smirk, letting the words roll out slow and teasing. "You should hear yourself when you moan."

I watched the color drain from her face, her cheeks going pale as milk. She stood there, frozen, like I'd just dropped a bomb in the room.

"Don't you want to hear that sweet, loving voice of yours again?"

She fiddled with the hem of her dress, pinching the fabric between her fingers, and bit down on her lower lip, hard enough to leave a mark. Avoiding my gaze, dodging the question like it was a live wire.

"This piano...," she started, hurrying over to the pristine white grand sitting smack in the middle of the room, its keys gleaming under the lights. "It was a gift from Italy."

"Nice details. But I'm not interested in that."

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her eyelashes fluttering like trapped butterflies. Damn, she looked stunning like that—vulnerable, inviting. Those blue eyes of hers were pulling me in, deep as the ocean and twice as mysterious.

"What department would you like to join in the church?" she asked, her voice a little steadier now, but still laced with that nervous quiver.

I closed the distance, step by deliberate step. She backed up one pace, then another. I didn't let up, narrowing the gap until her backside bumped against the piano keys, sending a faint, discordant note humming through the air.

Her chest heaved up and down, breaths coming quick and shallow. Her lips parted slightly, those full, pink ones that looked soft as rose petals. Her blue eyes locked onto mine, wide and unblinking.

"What...," she mumbled, the word trailing off into nothing.

I leaned in, planting my hands on either side of her on the piano, caging her in. She smelled like fresh lavender blooming in a summer field, sweet and clean—had to be her shampoo or body wash. I was damn near obsessed with figuring it out. My face hovered close to hers, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

"Darling, if there's a department I want to be in at this church, it'd be the one inside you," I said, my voice low and rough. My gaze wandered over her face, lingering on those rosy lips that begged to be tasted.

Her eyes went wide as saucers, but she didn't budge an inch. She just stayed put, and I caught a spark in those blues—want, raw and hungry. Desire flickering like a flame in the wind.

She wants me. The thought hit me like a freight train, sending a rush through my veins.

I leaned in further, capturing her lips with mine. My hands slid to her tiny waist, yanking her close, like I wanted her to dissolve right into me. She kissed back, tentative at first, then matching my heat.

But this was my show. I wasn't handing over the reins. I deepened it, my tongue sweeping in, exploring every inch of her mouth—sweet as honey, warm and inviting, like sipping the finest wine straight from the bottle.

A moan escaped her, soft and needy. Her hands gripped the piano edge, knuckles turning white.

Good thing the damn thing was switched off; otherwise, the whole building would've been serenaded by the chaos her fingers would've made on those keys.

I tugged her head closer, my fingers threading through that fiery red hair, silky strands slipping like water over my skin.

I nipped at her lower lip, just a little bite, then dove back in with my tongue.

She met me with the same fire, breathless and urgent.

We pulled apart finally, both gasping for air. Her lips were swollen, cherry-red and glistening.

I wrapped my hand around her neck—not too tight, but firm enough to feel her pulse racing under my palm. Her skin was hot, alive.

"Now that there's no alcohol in you, doll," I groaned, my voice gravelly with want. "Would you like me to show you the things I want to do to you?"