Chapter 4
Katrina
Ididn't sleep. How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Olek's face. That predatory smile. Those cold eyes heating up when I signed my name on the dotted line.
You're mine starting now.
I'd spent the last three years making sure I belonged to no one. Not Marcus. Not any man. I'd clawed my way to independence, to safety, to something that almost resembled peace. And I'd just signed it all away in under five minutes.
By 6 AM, I gave up on sleep entirely and headed to the kitchen. The house was still dark, still quiet. I liked this time of morning—before everyone else woke up, before the mansion filled with noise and expectations. Just me and the work and the illusion of control.
I tied my apron on and started the coffee. Not the fancy French press Olek preferred, but the industrial-sized pot that would fuel the staff through the morning. Muscle memory took over—measuring grounds, checking water temperature, setting out mugs.
Normal. I could pretend this was a normal day. My phone buzzed.
SHANICE
Got your Venmo. What the hell, Kat? Where did you get $7500?
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. What was I supposed to say? Sold myself to my mob boss employer for three months, no big deal?
Job bonus. Don't worry about it.
Bullshit. Your boss gives out $7500 bonuses?
It's complicated. Just take it to Martinez. Get the paperwork started.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
You didn't do anything stupid, right?
I stared at the message. Depending on your definition of stupid, I'd either made the smartest choice of my life or the dumbest.
I'm handling it. Trust me.
That's not an answer.
It's the only one I've got. How's Z?
The subject change was obvious, but Shanice let me have it.
She's good. Drew another picture for you. This one has a Christmas tree.
My chest tightened. Zara and her damn Christmas trees. The holiday was weeks away, and my baby sister was still holding onto hope that this year would be different. That this year, we'd have a real Christmas instead of hiding and running and pretending everything was fine.
Maybe we would. If I could survive ninety days of Olek Sidorov.
The coffee maker beeped. I poured myself a cup—black, no sugar—and took it to the window overlooking the back garden. Snow had fallen overnight, covering everything in pristine white. Beautiful. Peaceful. Deceptive, like everything else in this house.
"You're up early."
I spun around, coffee sloshing over the rim of my mug.
Mikhail stood in the doorway, Olek's second-in-command and the only member of the Bratva who actually lived on the property.
He was built like a wall—six-foot-five, shoulders that barely fit through doorframes, and a face that looked like it had lost several arguments with brick walls.
But his eyes were kind. Or as kind as a professional killer's eyes could be.
"I could say the same about you," I said, wiping coffee off my hand.
"Olek wanted an early meeting." He moved to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. "You know how he is. Doesn't sleep, expects the rest of us not to either."
I knew. I'd watched enough security footage over the past six months to learn Olek's patterns. He rarely slept more than four hours a night, usually between 2 and 6 a.m. The rest of the time he was working, drinking, or—
Watching me.
"Must be exhausting," I said neutrally.
"You get used to it." Mikhail studied me over his mug. "You okay? You look tired."
"I'm fine."
"Katrina." His voice gentled. "I know we're not friends. I know my job is to be Olek's right hand, not your confidant. But if something's wrong—"
"Nothing's wrong." The lie came easily. Too easily. "Just didn't sleep well."
He didn't believe me. I could see it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes narrowed slightly. But Mikhail was smart enough not to push.
"Alright," he said finally. "But if you need anything—"
"I'll figure it out myself. Like always."
He nodded and left, taking his coffee with him.
I sagged against the counter. Lying to Mikhail shouldn't bother me.
I lied to everyone here—about my past, my real name, the bruises I'd covered with makeup for the first six months of working here.
What was one more lie? Except this one felt heavier.
This one came with a contract and a countdown and the weight of Olek's expectations pressing down on my chest.
The staff started arriving at seven. I put on my mask—efficient, professional, in control—and delegated the day's tasks.
Floors, laundry, the formal dining room that hadn't been used in weeks but still needed dusting.
Everyone knew their jobs. They just needed me to tell them it was okay to do them.
"Katrina?" Elena, one of the younger maids, hovered near the pantry. "Mr. Sidorov left a note. He wants fresh linens in the master suite today."
My stomach dropped. "He changes his sheets every Monday."
"I know, but—" She showed me the note, written in Olek's precise handwriting. "He specifically requested you do it."
Of course, he did.
"Fine," I said, keeping my voice level. "I'll handle it."
Elena looked relieved. Nobody wanted to clean Olek's rooms—they were too personal, too close to the man himself.
Most of the staff avoided the third floor entirely unless specifically ordered.
I'd never had that luxury. As head maid, Olek's suite was my responsibility.
I'd been in there dozens of times, always when he wasn't home.
Always professional. Today would be different.
Today, I'd be in his space knowing that tonight, I'd be in his bed. I waited until after lunch, when I knew he'd be in meetings. Grabbed fresh sheets from the linen closet—the expensive Italian ones he preferred, thread count higher than my rent used to be. Climbed the stairs to the third floor.
The master suite took up the entire east wing.
Bedroom, bathroom, walk-in closet, and a sitting area that overlooked the garden.
I'd only seen the bedroom and bathroom—the rest was always locked.
Today, the sitting area door was open. I hesitated in the doorway.
This felt like a test. Like Olek was giving me access to more of his space, more of himself, as a preview of what was coming.
Or maybe I was overthinking it. I pushed inside and got to work.
Stripping the bed was mechanical. Fitted sheet, flat sheet, pillowcases.
Everything went into the hamper. The mattress was massive—California king, probably custom-made.
I tried not to think about what would happen on it in—I checked my phone—eight hours.
The new sheets smelled like fabric softener and lavender.
I tucked hospital corners, smoothed wrinkles, fluffed pillows. Made the bed I'd be unmade in tonight.
My hands were shaking.
"Stop it," I muttered. "You signed the contract. You took the money. This is happening whether you're ready or not."
I moved to the bathroom. Marble floors, a shower big enough for four people, and a tub that belonged in a spa. I replaced the towels, refilled the soap dispenser, checked that everything was exactly how Olek liked it.
Perfectionist, a control freak is what he was.
When I came back out, Olek was standing by the bed.
I nearly dropped the towels.
"You're early," I said, hating how breathless I sounded.
"I live here." He was in another suit—charcoal this time, with a black shirt underneath. No tie. Top button undone. "I can come and go as I please."
"I meant the meetings…”
"Finished early." He sat on the edge of the bed I'd just made, completely relaxed. Like he hadn't just scared ten years off my life. "The sheets are nice."
"They're the same ones you always have."
"Are they?" He ran his hand over the comforter. "They feel different."
Because he knew I'd touched them. Because he knew I'd been thinking about tonight while I made his bed. The bastard was playing with me.
"If you're done, I have other rooms to—"
"Come here, Katrina."
My feet moved before my brain caught up. One step. Two. Until I was standing in front of him, close enough to touch.
He looked up at me. "Nervous?"
"No."
"Liar." But he smiled, just a little. "You're allowed to be nervous."
"I'm not nervous. I'm—" What? Terrified? Angry? Turned on despite myself? "—fine."
"Hmm." He stood, and suddenly I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Take off your apron."
My hands went to the ties automatically, then I stopped. "It's not ten PM yet."
"I'm not going to touch you. Not yet." His eyes tracked my movements. "I just want to see you without the armor."
The apron wasn't armor. It was just—he was right. It was armor. I untied it slowly, folded it, set it on the chair by the window. Without it, I felt exposed. Vulnerable. Just me in my uniform dress and the weight of his stare.
"Better," Olek said softly. "Do you know what I've been thinking about all day?"
I shook my head.
"You. In this room. In that bed." He stepped closer. "The sounds you'll make. The way you'll look with your legs spread for me. The way you'll taste."
Heat flooded my face. Lower. "Olek—"
"The way you'll say my name when I make you come." His hand came up, and I thought he'd touch me. Instead, he just tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "I've wanted you for six months, Katrina. I plan to take my time."
"That's not—we agreed—"
"We agreed you'd come to me tonight. Voluntarily." His thumb brushed my cheek. "And you will. Because as scared as you are, you're curious too. Aren't you?"
"No."
"Another lie." He leaned in, his mouth next to my ear. "Your pulse is racing. Your pupils are dilated. And if I slid my hand under your dress right now, I'd find you wet."
My breath caught.
"But I'm not going to do that," he continued. "Not until tonight. Not until you walk through that door and give yourself to me."
He pulled back, grabbed my apron, and handed it to me.
"Ten p.m., Katrina. Don't be late."
Then he walked out, leaving me standing in his bedroom with shaking hands and the terrible realization that he was right. I was curious. And that was going to be my undoing.