Chapter 3
Mary
Anton’s face hovers over mine. His gaze—green gone dark—swallowing every trace of softness, locked on my mouth like they’re about to swallow me whole. He doesn’t talk; he never has to. His silence always says more than words.
My chest tightens as he leans closer. Heat radiates off him, breath mingling with mine. My heart’s surging like a rabbit in a trap.
And then—his tongue drags up the side of my cheek.
Wait.
His tongue?
The wet stripe is so shocking my whole body clenches, bracing for something filthy, except… Anton pulls back, and those lethal eyes flicker gold. Yellow. His pupils shrink into slits.
“Mmmwp.”
I jolt awake.
Not Anton. But twenty pounds of furry orange judgment is parked on my chest, sandpaper tongue mid-lick across my jaw.
“Oh… God.” My voice comes out hoarse, more groan than words. “How did you even get in here?”
He purrs louder, smug bastard, head-butting my chin like I work for him and my performance review isn’t looking good.
“You’re judging me,” I murmur, squinting at him through the morning light streaming in from the wall of windows. His eyes catch it, glowing gold. “Don’t look at me like that. I can see it in your smug little face.”
He yawns, flashing teeth. Deliberate.
My body aches as I lie there, still half-blurred with sleep, like the edges of me haven’t fully caught up. For a second, it feels like all of it—the nightmare with Evan, the way Anton tore him off me, the way last night ended in heat and his hands everywhere—might have been some insane dream.
Then the soreness pulls me back. The tender throb between my legs. The weight in my limbs.
And Sunday. God, it’s already Sunday.
I don’t even know how long he stayed. I remember the heavy thrum of his chest under my ear, then the shift of the mattress, the sound of footsteps moving away. By the time it registered, I was already sliding back under.
“Mmmwp.”
This time it isn’t a sweet little purr. Gordo launches his entire weight forward, head-butting my chin like he’s trying to crack my jaw open, then flops sideways with all twenty pounds pressing on my throat. I choke on a wheeze.
“Jesus, Gordo.” My voice comes out strangled. “Are you trying to smother me into the afterlife because I forgot your breakfast?”
He blinks, unimpressed, then kneads his claws into my sternum like he’s punching in a PIN code.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I forgot your breakfast. And probably my brain, too.”
I give Gordo a tired pat on the head before nudging at his bulk, trying to shift him off me. Then I push myself up. Instantly regret it.
“Oh, no. Ohhh, fuck.”
Every muscle revolts. My thighs burn, my back feels like I went a few rounds in Fight Club, and my pussy—God—my pussy actually throbs when I shift, still swollen, still clenching like it’s remembering what happened.
“Jesus, Mary. Reckless much?” I mutter, easing onto my elbows like a ninety-year-old. “No condom. No plan. Just a total mess. And… Mister Green Eyes with a kill count.”
Gordo meows like he agrees, only louder. Translation: feed me. NOW.
“Ok, ok,” I tell him.
On my way to stand, my eyes flick toward the other side of the bed. His side.
Pristine. Untouched. Pillow still puffed like it was fluffed by a maid.
My stomach sinks.
“Of course he left.” It tastes bitter in my mouth. “Men like him don’t stay. They conquer, they vanish.”
And yet… my eyes betray me. I can’t help scanning the room, searching for some trace that he was really here.
Bedside table—empty. Closet door—closed. No glass of water, no jacket slung over a chair. Nothing. If not for the faint, lingering trace of his scent—smoke, leather, and something dark I don’t have a name for—I could almost believe I dreamed the whole thing.
Except my body is evidence enough.
“God, I’m an idiot.”
Was it just sex? Stress relief? A quick fuck to clear his head before he went back to… whatever Bratva men do on Sunday mornings? My brain starts chewing on every little detail, ripping it apart like it always does.
Was I too loud? Too messy? Oh God.
The thought flickers, and suddenly it’s not the silence I feel but his heat. Anton’s body caging mine against the shower wall, his breath hot on my ear as he said those filthy things, words that didn’t just touch me, they rewired me.
I’ve never felt that before. It was like every nerve ending in my body had been flipped on, every cell burning alive under his mouth, his hands, his cock. My skin still remembers it, humming like it’s waiting for him to do it again.
I squeeze my thighs together and nearly groan.
Jesus. Who even am I?
I give my head a little shake, like that’ll rattle the sex thoughts loose. Not helping, especially with Gordo yowling like he’s auditioning for Les Mis.
“Alright, alright,” I mutter, dragging myself upright. My legs wobble, useless. “You win, furry dictator.”
Gordo leaps off the bed and circles my ankles, nearly taking me out. My legs are not ready for acrobatics.
I shuffle toward the kitchen, every step another throbbing reminder of just how many times he— God, I lost count after the second orgasm. Everything after that is a blur of heat and gasping and him saying things that made my face burn and my pussy clench at the same time.
And then the spiral takes a nosedive into panic.
Because it hits me: I don’t have my pills. Not here. They’re back in my crappy little apartment, probably buried under an unpaid bill and an empty wine bottle. My stomach drops hard enough to make me grab the counter for balance.
Brilliant, Mary. Absolutely brilliant.
I picture the pharmacy across town, its flickering neon OPEN 24 HOURS sign. The one I used to sneak into for emergency Plan Bs when Evan “forgot.”
But I can’t just stroll out of here, can I?
No, I cannot. Anton literally warned me not to go wandering off without telling him.
My stomach twists. I should text him.
Just to… I don’t know. Let him know I’m alive? That I— What? Need to buy pregnancy pills like some panicked college freshman? Oh yeah, that’ll go over well.
Gordo yowls at my ankles, nearly tripping me again. “I’m working on it, dammit,” I mutter, pawing through cabinets until I find a can of tuna. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?”
I crack the can and dump it into a bowl. Gordo dives in like he hasn’t eaten since the Bush administration, tail flicking in my face as if to say, “Finally, servant.”
“Right. Don’t mind me, I’ll just limp around here with post-coital whiplash while you inhale like a frat boy at a wing special.”
I set the can opener down and catch sight of my bag shoved half under the chair where I dropped it yesterday. My pulse jumps.
Phone.
I crouch down, tug it free, and pull out the phone buried inside. My fingers hover over the screen.
Come on, Mary. This isn’t the time to be a coward.
Do I actually text him? What would I even say? “Morning, thanks for the orgasms, quick question: do you want a kid right now?”
I stare at the blank message box, frozen.
The phone buzzes in my hand.
I nearly fling it across the room. The sound rattles straight through my ribs.
Jasper. Fuck. It’s Jasper.
One text in all caps:
BUTTERCUP. DISASTER. FACETIME NOW, OR I SWEAR I’LL HIJACK A PRIVATE JET.
I groan, thumb hovering. My whole body aches, I’m half terrified I’m pregnant, and now my best friend is mid–Greek tragedy, blowing up my phone.
Before I can think, the screen lights up again. Incoming FaceTime call.
I hesitate. Jasper’s face fills the screen—sunglasses indoors, silk robe, chaos behind him. His mouth is already moving, shouting:
SUGAR TITS, MY LIFE IS OVER—
I slam the phone face down on the counter, chest heaving.
I can’t.
I can’t tell him.
Because if Jasper finds out what I’ve been pulled into—about Anton, about the Bratva, about last night—it won’t just be my life on the line.
The phone buzzes again. Over and over. Like it won’t stop until I answer.
Anton’s words cut through me, sharp as a blade: No more running.
I carry the phone out to the balcony, the sun already too bright, and swipe before I lose my nerve.
“Finally,” Jasper explodes, shoving his sunglasses up into his hair. “Do you know what I’ve been through? Milan is dead to me. DEAD. My Italian stallion turned out to be a donkey with a passport.”
He points at the skyline behind me, eyes narrowing. “That doesn’t look like your apartment. Where are you?”
God, I’ve only ever lied to Jasper twice in my life. First was in seventh grade when I told him I liked his haircut (it made him look like a Backstreet Boy mid–identity crisis). And now this. Two lies in fifteen years. World record, and it’s killing me.
“I, uh…” I shift the phone, angling away from the skyline. “It’s… um… Jasper’s place.”
He blinks. “You are at Jasper’s place? I’m Jasper, remember?”
I wince. “Other Jasper. Long story.”
He narrows his eyes, suspicious. Then gasps. “Wait a damn minute. Are you… glowing?”
“What? No!” My voice rises. “That’s just the… uh… sunlight. Reflection.”
He sits forward, scandalized. “Oh, my God. YOU GOT LAID.”
God, he always knows.
“Don’t tell me it was Evan. Don’t you dare. I will hop the next flight back and bludgeon him with my carry-on.”
“It wasn’t Evan!” The words tumble out too fast, too desperate. My cheeks flame. “For the love of God.”
His blue eyes narrow so hard I’m pretty sure he can see into my uterus. “Then who, buttercup? Spill it, or I’ll start guessing.”
I fake a cough, waving him off. “Wow, Milan sounds… fun. How’s the donkey passport situation going?”
“Mm-hm,” he drawls, unconvinced, but his expression softens, drama fading just for a breath. “Whatever it is, whoever it is… you deserve better
My throat tightens. God, I’ve missed him. I should feel nothing but relief, but the lie between us sits like a stone in my stomach.
Before I can say anything, he blows me a kiss at the camera. “Bye now, sugar tits
The call cuts.
I let out a long, shaky sigh, sagging against the balcony rail. The guilt gnaws at me until I think it might chew straight through bone.
The phone buzzes again in my hand.
I smile, bracing for round two of Jasper’s theatrics. “Jas, I swear—”
“Mary.”
The sound freezes me in place. Deep. Low. My whole body goes tight, every muscle remembering exactly what he did to me last night.
My heart jumps up into my throat. “Y-yes?”
“Get ready.” His tone is clipped, businesslike. Nothing in the background, just silence and command.
I clutch the phone tighter. “For what?”
A sigh, short and sharp. “I told you. You’ll need self-defense skills.”
“Yes. Self-defense,” I repeat like I’m ordering coffee. “One self-defense, please. Extra shot of not dying.”
My stomach twists. “And… I…”
The words stick in my throat. What I really need to say is: “Can we pop by the nearest pharmacy for a little thing called Plan B? Maybe grab a croissant while we’re at it?”
“Dima’s coming to pick you up. Twenty minutes.”
I shut my mouth. Right. Of course. No time for awkward morning-after conversations.
“What kind of self-defense?” I manage.
“Just get ready.” Like that explains everything. There’s a pause. “And don’t eat anything yet.”
A bead of sweat starts building at my hairline.
As if on cue, my stomach rumbles so loudly I wince.
“Twenty minutes, Mary.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone. Great. So, I still need to figure out the whole Plan B situation on my own.
Gordo slow-blinks at me from across the room.