Chapter 23
Anton
We’d driven back from the gym in our wet clothes.
We need Plan B.
Christ. I’d been so lost in her—the way she gasped my name, how she clawed at my shoulders, the sweet sting of her nails on my scars—that I hadn’t thought about anything else. Not protection. Not consequences. Not the fact that I’d come inside her again.
Suka, what’s wrong with me?
I grab a black jacket from the closet, muscle memory taking over while my mind reels. When was the last time I’d been this reckless? Never. I don’t do reckless. Reckless gets you killed in my world. Gets the people you care about killed.
But Mary… she rewrote every fucking rule the moment she walked into my life.
The elevator hums as I descend, my reflection staring back from the polished steel doors.
I look like what I am: a man who just fucked a woman senseless and is now dealing with the aftermath.
Hair still damp, shirt hastily thrown on, that satisfied-but-unsettled look that comes after crossing lines you can’t uncross.
The controlled, calculating Anton Malikov, who plans every move three steps ahead, just spent an hour lost in a woman’s body, consequences be damned. I’m the one who’s been changed. Completely.
The garage is cool, my footsteps echoing as I make my way to the Mercedes. I slide into the driver’s seat, engine purring to life.
As I pull out onto The Strip, the thought I’ve been avoiding hits me full force: What if she’s already pregnant?
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. A child. My child. In this world of violence and vendetta and men who’d use an innocent life as leverage against me.
No.
The CVS sign glows ahead—24 HOUR PHARMACY in sterile blue letters.
I’ve killed men for less than looking at me wrong, dismantled entire operations with surgical precision, built an empire on fear and respect.
But the idea of walking into that fluorescent-lit store and buying Plan B for the woman sleeping in my bed?
It feels like stepping into alien territory.
I park and sit for a moment, watching other late-night customers drift in and out.
A woman in scrubs, probably getting off a hospital shift.
A guy in a rumpled suit who looks like he’s had the kind of night that requires immediate medical intervention.
A teenager with purple hair buying what looks like energy drinks and condoms.
Normal people living normal lives, making normal mistakes.
And then there’s me. Anton fucking Malikov, about to walk in there and join their ranks.
The CVS doors slide open with a hiss. The place smells like disinfectant and stale candy. Too bright, too quiet.
A kid in a hoodie pushes past me, clutching two Monster cans and a bag of chips. He can’t be more than seventeen. The cashier barely looks up.
I head straight for the aisle I need. Family planning, they call it. Shelves lined with condoms, pregnancy tests, and lube. Plan B is locked behind clear plastic. Of course it is.
“Need help with something?” The voice comes from behind me. I turn. Pharmacy clerk. Twenty-something, bored, red hair under a CVS cap. Name tag says “Leah.”
“Plan B,” I say. No point in dancing around it.
She nods like it’s nothing, grabs a key, and pops open the case.
“Two-pack or single?”
“Everything,” I tell her. “All of it.”
She pauses. “Uh… You mean—?”
I gesture at the whole shelf. “Plan B. Whatever versions you’ve got. Just put them in a bag.”
Her gum almost falls out of her mouth.
“That’s… one way to handle it.” She unlocks the case, grabs the first few boxes, and hands them over like she’s not sure if I’m serious or insane.
I pay cash. No change. No receipt. Bag in hand, I walk out.
The Strip’s chaos falls behind me, replaced by the hush of the garage as I pull back into the penthouse. Bag on the passenger seat, a reminder of how badly I fucked up tonight.
Elevator up. Keycard. Door swings open—
And I freeze.
It smells… good. Garlic, butter, something frying in a pan. The kind of smell you don’t get in this life. The kind that makes four walls feel like home.
She’s barefoot in my kitchen.
Gray socks, loose T-shirt, soft shorts like she pulled them on just to be comfortable. Hair damp, curling at the ends. No makeup, no effort, and still—she knocks the air out of me.
She stirs the pan like it’s second nature. Gordo sits fat and entitled at her feet, tail flicking, waiting for scraps. Even the cat looks at home here.
Then she looks up and smiles at me. Quick. Unthinking. Hazel eyes catching the light, soft and warm, like she doesn’t know who she’s looking at.
And it hits harder than a bullet. My feet don’t move. My heart goes uneven in my chest, too fast, too much.
I’ve had women look at me with hunger, fear, calculation. Never like this. Like I’m someone worth smiling at. Like I’m not made of scars and violence.
“Hey,” she says, voice low from steam and quiet. “How was traffic?”
I realize I’m still standing in the doorway like a statue, a plastic bag in my hand. “Fine.”
“Fine,” she echoes, like it’s an inside joke we don’t have yet. She flicks the pan; pasta slides through glossy oil with eggs and a handful of chopped something—parsley? The sound is soft and greedy at once.
Gordo chirps, headbutting her calf. She nudges him with her foot.
“No, sir. You had dinner. Don’t pretend you’re starving, you liar.”
I set the bag on the counter, pull out the box, and nudge it toward her. She follows the motion with her eyes, reading the label. Her mouth flinches. Not fear. Not drama. Just a small, focused nod.
“Thanks,” she says.
She turns, reaches for a glass, and fills it at the sink. Rips open the foil. Pill on the tongue. Swallow. The whole thing takes five seconds and feels like a grenade that doesn’t go off.
“Do you want water too?” she asks, already moving to refill.
“No.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. I clear it.
“Okay.” She slides the glass aside, then glances into the bag. Her eyes widen. “Anton… how many did you buy?”
“As many as they had.”
She bites down on a laugh and loses, a small burst that breaks against her teeth.
“You bought the whole shelf?”
“You said we needed it.” I’m aware it sounds stupid the second I say it. I don’t take it back.
She presses her lips together, a smile leaking anyway.
“That’s one way to be supportive.”
Gordo meows like he agrees. I glare at him. He blinks, unbothered, and sits heavier, a furry doorstop.
She turns back to the stove, humming under her breath. Steam curls up around her face, softening the edges, making the whole kitchen feel smaller, warmer.
“Sit,” she says over her shoulder. “Food’s ready soon.”
I stay standing. “What are you doing?”
She glances back, tilts her head at me like I’m the slow one.
“Cooking. What do you think I’m doing?”
Before I can answer, she forks a twist of pasta, blows on it once, then crosses the space like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Holds it up.
“Here.”
I look at the fork. Then at her. She’s not teasing, not flirting. She just looks… open. Like she honestly thinks this is what people like us do—eat late, laugh a little, maybe pretend the world outside doesn’t exist.
“Eat,” she urges, lifting it closer.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But I do.
The bite is hot, salty, rich. Real food. Good food. My chest tightens because it shouldn’t matter—but it does.
Her face lights up when she sees me chew. “See? Not poison.”
I hand the fork back, jaw hard. “Don’t do that again.”
Her smile falters, confusion sliding in. “Don’t… feed you?”
“You’re not here to play house,” I say. My voice comes out colder than I mean, but I let it stand.
The air shifts. She sets the fork down and turns back to the stove, shoulders tighter now. Chatty warmth gone, like I snuffed it out with one strike.
“I…” she says, and her voice catches in a way I don’t like. She looks down at the stove, at the pasta she’s stirring, like maybe it’ll explain things for her. Her shoulders hunch, the line of her back closing off. “I wasn’t playing… house.”
It’s like swallowing broken glass. The reaction pisses me off as much as it confuses me.
I straighten up and put space between us. “Whatever fairy tale you’re spinning—stop. I’m not Prince Charming.”
The pan clatters as she sets it down too hard. For a second, her jaw works like she’s chewing words back, but then she shakes her head, laughs bitterly under her breath.
“Jesus, Anton. You think I don’t know where I stand? You think I forgot that I’m here because you put me here?”
Her voice cracks on the last word, and that’s when I see it. The shine in her eyes. The way her breath hitches just slightly.
Fuck.
“Mary—”
But it’s too late. The first tear spills over, tracks down her cheek like an accusation. She swipes at it fast, angry, like she can erase what I just saw. What I just did.
“Forget it,” she whispers, turning back to the stove. “Just… forget it.”
Another tear falls. Then another.
My chest goes tight. I want to move toward her, want to fix this, but I don’t know how. Don’t know if I should. This is what I wanted, right? Distance. Lines drawn in permanent ink.
So why does watching her cry feel like someone’s carving out my insides with a dull blade?
The elevator dings.
No. Not now. Not fucking now.
The penthouse door slides open, and boots echo on marble. Multiple sets. Heavy footsteps that mean business.
“Boss?” Lev’s voice carries from the entryway. “We smell food.”
He rounds the corner into the kitchen and stops. Takes in the scene: Mary with tears streaming down her face, me standing there like an asshole with my arms crossed, the domestic wreckage of what was supposed to be a simple midnight meal.
Behind Lev, Boris appears, then Dima. All three of my men taking in the tableau like it’s some kind of fucked-up theater performance.
Mary’s face goes white. Then red. Then white again.
“Oh God,” she breathes.
She pushes past me, past all of us, her bare feet slapping against the marble as she runs toward the bedroom. The door slams so hard it rattles the fucking walls.
My left eye twitches. Once. Sharp and involuntary, like someone just drove a knife between my ribs and twisted.
I’ve been shot. Stabbed. Beaten half to death in warehouse basements. But this—watching her run from me, from them, from the mess I just made of something good—this is different.
This cuts deeper than anything that’s ever touched me.
Lev shifts his weight, still taking in the scene. The pasta cooling on the stove. The CVS bag on the counter. The ghost of her bare feet on marble.
“Well,” he says finally, voice dry as sand. “That went well.”
I can’t speak. Can’t move. Can’t do anything but stand here with my chest caving in and my eye doing that fucking twitch again.
And that’s when I know I’m fucked.
Completely, irreversibly fucked.
Because Anton Malikov doesn’t feel things like this. Doesn’t care if women cry or run away or slam doors. Doesn’t stand in his kitchen at midnight, feeling like his chest is full of broken glass because he hurt someone who was only trying to take care of him.