Chapter 17 #2
“Nothing stupid. Basics. Whatever women wear when they’re… recovering.”
A beat of silence. Then: “Copy that. I’ll bring cozy socks and trauma pants.”
“Boris.”
He smirks. “What? I have a sensitive side.”
He heads for the elevator, still muttering under his breath about yoga pants and emotional damage, and disappears behind the sliding doors with one final glance at Mary.
“Try not to fall in love while I’m gone.”
The door shuts.
The room goes quiet.
And I’m alone with her.
I stand here.
Silence presses in.
Mary’s still where I left her, curled on the couch like the fight finally left her body.
The white blouse is soaked, speckled red along the collar and sleeve.
A smear of blood streaks across her forearm, another at her temple.
Her bra’s visible where the fabric’s torn, one cup hanging loose, straps tangled.
I exhale slowly, running a hand through my hair.
I turn away, trying to distract myself, anything to stop staring at her.
My eyes drift around the apartment. The place is bigger than I expected; open layout, concrete floors polished to a high shine.
Minimalist, masculine. A mix of steel and soft gray tones.
A bedroom tucked behind a sliding glass door, a kitchen that looks untouched.
The kind of place I’d have chosen, if I ever chose anything.
Apparently, my men know me better than I thought.
First thing I do is strip off my jacket, blood-soaked from the hitman, and head to the bathroom—a black marble cave, chrome fixtures gleaming like weapons.
Double sinks, a glass shower big enough for sins, a freestanding tub.
My reflection glares back: scarred chest, tattoos snaking down my arms, a ledger of every kill.
I’m a killer, not her savior.
Suka. Maybe this is just a cleanup. Maybe she saw something. Caught something that we’ve missed.
So, yeah, maybe I’m doing this because she’s a loose end. Maybe it’s strategy.
Not because she passed out with her head on my chest and made my fucking hands shake.
I roll my neck, grab a towel from the shelf, and soak one corner in warm water. No soap. Too harsh for broken skin. She’ll already bruise. No need to sting her, too.
I bring the towel back to her slowly.
Mary’s sprawled, unconscious, a vision that stops my breath.
Her white blouse is a wreck, torn open, blood smeared on her face, hands, chest—not hers, but his, the bastard I shot.
Her curves are fucking devastating, hips flaring wide, a soft dip at her waist, breasts straining her bra, full and heavy, begging to be touched.
I walk in slowly, taking it in.
Her breath is soft now, shallow. The side of her face is blotchy from dried tears, her hair clinging to her cheeks. She didn’t just faint. Her body shut down. Full override.
She looks smaller than I remember. Folded into herself.
Still holding the purse.
“Let go, malyshka,” I murmur, easing her fingers loose one at a time.
I slide the purse from her grip and set it on the floor beside the couch.
I kneel, towel in hand, and start at her neck, gentle, controlled, wiping away the blood at her jawline, slow, methodical.
The blood’s mostly dried, flaked near her ear, smeared under her jaw. I press the warm cloth there, wipe slowly.
I tell myself I’m just cleaning her up.
But my hand’s already moving lower. And I’m not thinking about blood anymore. She doesn’t wake, just sighs, a small sound, like the tail end of a sob.
My breath catches, heat pooling low, and I imagine her sighing like that under me, her lips parting, body arching. I grit my teeth, dragging the towel down her throat, where bruises are already forming, finger marks from that fucker.
My jaw clenches, and I press the towel there, lingering, as if I could erase his touch. Her blouse is ruined. I find the buttons—what’s left of them—and ease it off her shoulders, careful, my fingers grazing her skin. She doesn’t stir, but her warmth burns through me, a fire I can’t douse.
Her bra’s ruined too. Blood on the straps. One cup halfway off, the other clinging to her like it’s begging me not to look.
I unhook it.
Because it’s stained. Because she shouldn’t sleep in it.
Because I want to see her.
Her tits spill out like they’ve been waiting for air. Full. Perfect. Pink nipples tight in the cool air, so fucking beautiful I want to suck them, taste her, claim every inch.
My imagination runs wild: her moaning under my mouth, hips bucking, my hands gripping those curves. My cock throbs, a pulsing ache, and I curse under my breath, “Fuck, Anton, get it together.”
The towel glides over her sternum, slow, torturous, brushing her nipple, and she moans again, soft, oblivious.
My dick’s screaming, hard as steel, and I’m drowning in her—her scent, soap and fear, her skin, too soft for my world.
I wipe lower, over her ribs, her stomach’s smooth plane, and every touch is a fight to stay in control.
“You’re killing me,” I curse under my breath, pressing the towel harder than I need to—not to hurt her, to punish me.
I look at her, this beautiful, full-curvy woman, and frustration burns like acid.
She’s everything I shouldn’t want. Soft where I’m hard, alive where I deal death.
Her hips flare in a maddening arc, begging my hands to trace them, her breasts heavy, nipples taunting me, her skin glowing under the penthouse’s soft light.
I imagine pinning her to this couch, her moans filling the air, my mouth on her, claiming what’s not mine.
My cock throbs, a relentless ache, and I grit my teeth, forcing myself to stand, to move away. I’m a monster—Bratva, forged in blood—but I’m not the bastard who’d touch her like this, unconscious, broken.
I step back, towel clenched in my fist, my body screaming to close the distance, to take what it wants. I head to the walk-in closet, bigger than my old life, lined with suits and shirts I’ve never worn, all cedar and wealth. I grab a white button-down, oversized, crisp, smelling of clean cotton.
Back at the couch, I ease Mary up, her head lolling, another soft moan slipping out, maddening, like she’s taunting me in her sleep.
Blyat. My cock hardens again.
“Fucking traitor,” I curse.
I slip her arm through one sleeve, then the other. I wrap the shirt around her front, pulling it closed, and I button it slowly. Not because I need to.
Because I can’t stop staring.
The fabric swallows her frame, hides those pink nipples I can’t unsee. I lay her back down gently, cover her with the cashmere throw I found folded like a hotel towel at the end of the couch.
My heart’s still hammering.
From her.
From the way my body won’t listen.
From the part of me that wants to crawl onto that couch, slide her legs apart, and taste every inch of her until she knows who she belongs to.
I clench my fists.
Hard.
Then step away