Chapter 11 #2
His gaze flicked up; the expression on his face caught me off guard. It looked suspiciously like jealousy. Because I mentioned other men?
Brad and I never had that between us. Not once. We’d been open, honest, comfortable in ways that didn’t involve ownership or possessiveness. It worked for us. It was easy. Even when I wanted to slow things down, I never felt jealous of his desire to experience pleasure with other men.
The look of upset on Sergei’s face? The unhinged possessiveness? That was not the norm for me. And yet…I found I didn’t hate it. I sort of liked the idea that he wanted me all to himself.
He shoved me under the water to rinse off and turned the soap on himself. “What about you? You’re a strict top?”
I shrugged lightly. “Mostly. Sometimes I make an exception for the right person.”
“What makes someone the right person?” he asked.
I hated this, the normalcy of our conversation after sex.
I didn’t want him to get to know me better, and I certainly didn’t want to humanize him.
He was all but a killing machine in my mind, and I didn’t need him to be anything else.
It was already bad enough that I knew how well he sucked and rode a dick.
“It’s more of a vibe.” I was pulling back the shower door before the last word left my lips. “I think I’ll call the hospital after all and let them know I’m not coming in.”
More like I should get away from him so I can think. Am I really going ahead with this dangerous plan?
If he found out what I was up to, I was as good as dead.
“Leo—”
I pretended I hadn’t heard, shutting the door behind me. I grabbed a towel, wrapped it around myself, and made a beeline for the bedroom.
“Oh, my God.”
The words left me on a breath that didn’t feel like I was getting enough air.
My chest tightened, an invisible force cinching around my ribs as I dragged in another inhale that refused to go deep enough.
My fingers curled into the towel wrapped around me, gripping it to anchor myself to something solid.
It didn’t help.
My pulse was too loud. Too fast. A relentless pounding in my ears that drowned out everything else. The room felt smaller, the walls pressing in as heat crept up my neck and into my face.
What the hell am I doing?
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to slow it down, trying to think, but my thoughts came fractured, disjointed. Sergei’s hands on me. His mouth. The way he had looked at me.
My breath hitched sharply. “I can’t do this,” I whispered, the words trembling out of me before I could stop them. “I’m not—this isn’t—”
This wasn’t me.
I wasn’t built for deception like this. For getting close to the enemy. For letting someone like Sergei into my space, into my bed, into my head.
I pressed the heel of my hand to my chest as if I could physically steady my heart. This was a mistake. A massive, irreversible mistake, and I needed to end it before it got worse.
A sharp, insistent ringing cut through the room, and I flinched. For a second, I didn’t recognize the sound, my brain still caught in that spiraling haze. Then it registered—Sergei’s cell phone.
I turned toward the nightstand automatically, my movements slow, like I was moving through water. The screen lit up, the name glowing starkly against the screen.
Morozov.
Everything inside me froze.
The panic, the confusion, the overwhelming noise in my head fled, replaced without warning by the image of Brad, broken, his body laid out on the cold steel table in the morgue, skin pale and wrong, bones crushed in ways that shouldn’t have been possible.
The fall had done that. The height. The impact.
A long, endless drop onto concrete.
I swallowed hard, bile rising in my throat as the memory flickered, vivid and merciless. They did that to him. Maxim Morozov.
I wiped a hand down my face, forcing the last remnants of panic back where they belonged. I could do this. I had to. It was the last thing I could do for Brad.
The ringing stopped as the bathroom door opened. Sergei stepped out, completely naked, water still clinging to his skin, droplets tracking down the hard lines of his body. For a moment—just one—I forgot everything again. Forgot the panic, the plan, the reason.
Because he looked—
Jesus.
How had I gotten a man who looked like that to submit to me?
I dragged my gaze away before it lingered too long. The phone buzzed again.
Sergei picked it up, glanced down at the screen, and I saw the shift in him. The softness from earlier vanished like it had never existed. His jaw tightened, his shoulders squared, and his expression darkened.
“Da.”
The Russian rolled off his tongue easily as he answered the call.
He listened for a few seconds before responding in the same language.
I couldn’t understand any of it, but I didn’t need to.
His tone told me enough. He replied with short, clipped answers.
Whatever was being said on the other end wasn’t a casual check-in.
Sergei’s face hardened further, a hint of danger flashing in those green eyes, which looked lighter in the daylight. Then, just as quickly, the call was over. He hung up and threw his phone onto the bed. Silence stretched between us for a beat before he looked at me.
“Something came up. I have to go.”
Of course you do. You do whatever Morozov tells you. Including covering up the murder of my husband.
I tilted my head slightly, studying him, testing. “You can’t stay?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral, almost casual.
Sergei’s expression flickered like he was thinking about it. Then he exhaled, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “I really can’t.” His voice was rougher now, like he didn’t like the answer any more than I did. “I have to take care of some business at the club, but I’ll be back.”
Unless Maxim wanted him for something else.
Just like that, the hesitancy was gone, replaced by the reminder of why I had to do this. Because of him.
Maxim Morozov.
He had taken Brad from me.
He was going to pay, and I was going to use his own man to bring him to his knees.