“Maybe we should skip the banana pudding and go straight upstairs? I think you might be the sweetest thing in this house anyway.” I hate myself before I even finish the sentence, despite knowing it’s necessary to get her where I need her.

Her face lights up and she takes off running for the stairs, stumbling and sputtering the entire way to my room. I remind myself over and over again as I follow her that I’m doing this because I love Blake. She will understand why when I’m finally able to explain it to her. And if I don’t do it, I may never get that chance.

By the time I cross the threshold into my bedroom, Emerson has already shed her dress and shoes, and she’s lying spread eagle in my bed, wearing only a black thong. She’s got one hand stuck down the front of her panties, petting herself, and the other rolling her left nipple between her fingers.

“Wow, you move fast.” I chuckle, glancing over at the closet door to make sure she didn’t accidentally close it as she ran by. Relieved, I see it’s exactly how I left it.

“It’s been too long since I’ve been in this bed,” she says breathlessly, her eyes locked on me. “It’s where I belong.”

Walking toward the nightstand, I’m unable to watch her touch herself on my bed without dry heaving. I’ll have to buy new furniture tomorrow. And burn the sheets.

“Where you belong, eh?” I ask flirtatiously as I pull the handcuffs out of the bottom drawer then dangle them over her face. “Then you won’t mind if I keep you where you belong with these, will you?”

Excitement flashes across her face. She thinks I want to play. Stupid bitch.

“I don’t mind at all, Mr. Decker,” she purrs, batting her fake lashes while lifting her arms above her head. “Are you gonna punish me for being a bad little assistant?”

After I thread the chain through the slats of the headboard and secure her wrists together, I grin wolfishly down at her. “That depends on if you’ve been bad or not. Is there anything you need to tell me?”

She wrinkles up her nose, pretending to think, then shakes her head. “Not that I can think of.”

The next thing I pull out of the drawer is a blindfold, and I waste no time in slipping it over her eyes. She doesn’t resist.

I move to the end of the bed, positioning myself to the side so she can clearly be seen on the camera. Then, after several deep breaths and a silent prayer, I pick her leg up and begin to massage it. My fingers blister against her skin, the ugliness in her bubbling just under the deceitfully attractive exterior.

“Oh, that feels so damn good,” she moans as I rub from the arch of her foot, up the back of her ankle, to her calf.

“You missed me, Em?” I lead her into the conversation I’ve been dying to have all night, my hands gradually traveling north. “Missed being here in my bed? This is what you want?”

She whimpers and nods. “You know I have, Madden. It’s always been you for me. I’d do anything for you.”

I reach the back of her knee and ease up on my touch to a light stroke back and forth. “I made a mistake by getting involved with Blake. I was too blind to see what’s always been right here in front of me. Never thought you took what we had seriously, but I realize now I was wrong.”

When I stop talking, I resume the kneading motion as I inch up the inside of her thigh. I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at my hands on her body.

“That doesn’t matter anymore,” she pants while writhing under my touch. “I’m here, and she’s gone.”

“That’s right.” My hand gets dangerously close to her apex, but stalls out before giving her the contact she so desperately craves. “I never properly thanked you for taking care of that . . .” I lightly drag one fingertip over the thin piece of lace covering her sex then retreat back to her inner thigh. “I should’ve trusted you to know what’s best for me. You always have.”

Her back arches up off the mattress as she presses her hips down toward my hand, and a cocky smile curls up the corners of her mouth. “Always,” she breathes. “You’ve always been mine, and always will be. You just needed a reminder.”

Tracing the edges of her panties, I occasionally dip my finger under the thin fabric, eliciting a gasp from her each time. “I just can’t figure out how you did it.” I brush my thumb over her clit and she jerks. “How you discovered who she really was.” Another stroke, this one more forceful than the first.

“Please, Madden,” she begs, spreading her legs wide to give me full access. “Rip my thong off and touch me. I need you.”

A deep growl rumbles in my chest as my endurance for this charade starts wearing thin. She’s right on the fucking cusp. All I need is for her to say it. To admit she knows what happened to Blake.

Granting her wish, I grab hold of the panties and tear them from her body, squeezing my eyes shut again. “You want my hands in your pussy, Em? Or how about my mouth? Would you like that?”

“Yes! God, yes!” she shouts. “Please lick my pussy, Madden!”

“Tell me how you did it, and I’ll eat you until the sun comes up, baby. I’ll let you ride my face for as long as your little heart desires.”

Tugging against her restraints, her resolve rapidly begins to unravel. “The photo . . . the photo in your desk,” she starts to say then stops as if she’s caught herself.

I playfully slap the side of her ass before she has a chance to think sensibly. “Keep talking, beautiful. I can’t wait to bury my face in your sweet cunt and get that dessert you promised.”

“I ran a Google image search on the picture and hundreds of articles popped up. That’s when I knew.”

Her confession, though not at all a surprise, rips through me like a rusty, jagged edge. It’s my fault Emerson figured out who Blake was . . . all because of a photo I shouldn’t have had in the first place. If I hadn’t taken it that day from her room, where it was obviously hidden, none of this would’ve ever happened.

“Who has her now?” I press for as much information as possible while smacking her other cheek.

“I don’t know what the Russians did with her, and I don’t really care,” she groans, her frustration building. “Now come over here and fill me with your tongue.”

The Russians. The motherfucking Russians have her. Easton’s face pops into my mind immediately, and I’m afraid my head may literally explode with the sheer amount of rage that surges through me. I trusted him when he swore he wasn’t involved, and this whole time, it was my own flesh and blood.

“You fucking bitch!” I roar, shoving her legs away from me as I scramble backward off the bed. If I’m within arm’s reach of her, I may actually kill her.

Bile rises in the back of my throat, and I know without a doubt I’m going to be sick. Dashing to the bathroom, I unload the contents of my stomach into the toilet, ignoring Emerson’s hysterical screams once she realizes what’s happened. Once I’m sure there’s nothing left inside me, I collapse to the floor, pressing my cheek against the cold tile.

I’m going to murder my brother.

AS I STEP OUTSIDE THE cabin to make the phone call, I stare up at the starry midnight sky and question my sanity for the hundredth time today. If I get caught doing what I’m about to do, we all die. No questions asked. I would be remembered as the most disgraceful, dishonorable man in my family’s entire history. A man who would risk the entire Bratva for a woman. An American woman I’ve known a week.

But it’s not just for her. It’s for moi Darya too. My way of making it up to her. Everything I did wrong the first time, at least I can get it right now. ‘Cause she was right . . . love is the only thing that can heal our fucked-up brokenness. I may not be able to fix me, but there is a way I can help fix that innocent girl in there. A girl who needs the one person she has in this world who truly loves her.