Chapter 31 Bella
BELLA
“Take whatever you need,” Slava says quietly.
And then he steps back into the bedroom, leaving me alone in the massive walk-in closet.
Unlike the rest of the penthouse, the closet doesn’t try to overwhelm.
Even though it’s lined with rows of neatly organized clothes—by color, by season, and by fabric weight—it still manages to exude a sense of gentle warmth that is so absent from everything else in Slava’s life.
My fingers trail along silk blouses and cashmere sweaters. The fabrics are so exquisite and luxurious that they whisper. Shoes are arranged on custom-lit shelves. And there are handbags of every brand displayed in glass cases.
I pull a blouse from its hanger—gorgeous cream silk with delicate pearl buttons—and hold it against my body. The shoulders are too narrow and the waist is too defined. I turn it over, and find that there’s no brand tag.
These clothes are custom-made, I realize. For someone with a taller yet more delicate frame than my own.
I check another piece. And another. And another.
Same story every time.
Slowly, I feel an unease settling in the pit of my stomach. All these clothes are the same, which tells me they’re not meant for random hookups. Nor are they part of any backup wardrobe in case of emergency.
The jealousy that had twisted in my stomach when I realized the list of names had been written by a woman’s hand now returns.
And even as I remind myself that I’m being unreasonable, I can’t stop myself from wondering.
Who was she to him?
The question drips in my mind like acid, and it seeps deep into my bones. I walk deeper into the closet, expecting to find more things that might give me an answer. Maybe a photo, maybe a name, maybe a hint other than these clothes made just for her.
It’s ridiculous. It’s insane. Less than two hours ago, I nearly drowned in Long Island Sound. Less than an hour ago, I came harder than I’ve ever come on Slava’s fingers.
And now, I’m being consumed with jealousy over a woman I’ve never met.
She must’ve meant enough to him if he’s kept everything she owned, and preserved them perfectly like a butterfly trapped in amber.
I yank a blouse off its hanger with more force than necessary. Then a silk camisole. A cashmere cardigan follows. Then I take two long skirts that will probably puddle around my feet, but I can roll the waistbands.
Each piece I touch releases another whisper of perfume.
It’s floral and soft, a custom blend of scents whose components I can’t decipher. Once I notice it, I can’t stop noticing it. Every breath fills my lungs with another woman’s presence. Every fabric carries her ghost.
By the time I grab enough clothes, her perfume clings stubbornly to my fingers, coats my clothes, and buries itself inside of my nose until I can taste it on my tongue.
And with every breath I take, I can hear her ghost whispering angrily in my ear: He doesn’t belong to you.
An hour later, we’re wheels up in Slava’s private plane.
I texted Lydia before we boarded, my fingers clumsy on the screen as I tried to explain that I’d be gone for several days without actually explaining anything at all.
Emergency work trip. France. Can you stay with Anthony?
Her response came in three parts:
France???
With him?
BE CAREFUL!
I don’t know what’s waiting for us in France. Slava hasn’t told me anything except that he needs me with him because he doesn’t trust that I’ll be safe here.
But the insane thing is, I think he’s right.
The back of my skull throbs with a dull persistent ache where Don Leo’s hand connected. But I barely register the physical discomfort because my brain has been running two parallel tracks since we left the penthouse.
On one hand, I can’t stop wondering who the perfume and clothes belong to and why I should be so jealous of her when it’s clear that she hasn’t been in Slava’s life for so long.
On the other hand, I can’t stop wanting him to make me come again, and with more than just his fingers. I want him to finish what he started in that shower instead of walking away.
It’s starting to get obscene.
Every time the plane hits a minor patch of turbulence, I steal a glance at his hands and feel them curling inside me. Every time his eyes drop to my mouth, I feel the ghost of his lips on mine.
But every time I feel my pulse racing and skin flushing from the memories of his touch, the other woman’s perfume wafts up from the silk blouse.
And like clockwork, inconsolable jealousy starts eating me alive until I don’t know how to make either one stop.
“We’ll land in about eight hours if the wind is in our favor,” Slava finally breaks the silence. “You should get some rest.”
“I can sleep here.”
“Come.” He rises and offers his hand to me.
I clench my jaw at that word, nod numbly, and follow him through the main cabin. He opens a door and reveals a private bedroom suite at the rear of the plane.
It’s beautiful. The ambient lighting gives everything a soft and dreamlike quality, and the attached private bathroom door is open, revealing a fully-contained shower.
But there’s only a single bed.
The air shifts just enough to send her perfume back into my nose. It makes me want to tear my clothes off so that I can finally be rid of her.
But then I’d just be naked and alone with Slava on his plane.
So, I stay still and look as he fluffs a pillow.
Did she sleep in this bed? Did she curl against his chest at 30,000 feet, breathing in the same air that had been in his lungs, feeling safe despite the violence that lived beneath his skin?
Did he fuck her here?
Did he spread her across those sheets and make her scream his name while the engines hummed and the world fell away below them?
His hand moves to my waist as he brings me toward the bed until I’m sitting on the edge. The mattress is soft and inviting. He stands over me, close enough that his cologne finally starts to chase away the faint floral ghost on my clothes.
“What’s on your mind?”
The question catches me off guard. He’s not usually the type to ask about feelings. He’s not usually the type to acknowledge that other people have feelings.
“What are we?”
His expression doesn’t change. “You’re my PR agent.”
I don’t know what I wanted him to say, but it wasn’t that. A few frantic kisses and mutual orgasms won’t make us anything. And it’s not like he was fine with letting me drown.
That single moment between us felt terrifyingly real. No matter how hard I try to put it out of my mind, I want to chase that high again.
More importantly, I want there to be some kind of confirmation that it was more than just two scared people trying to find some degree of temporary solace.
“And the shower?” The words taste like copper and salt. Like blood. “Was that part of my job description?”
His nostrils flare before his face rearranges into that handsome inscrutable mask again.
“It won’t happen again.”
I don’t believe it. And I know he doesn’t believe it either.
“Why not?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is carefully flat. “Because it was a mistake.”
A mistake…
I came harder on his fingers than I have in years of mediocre dating, and to him it was a mistake.
But I notice that his hand is still on my waist, his eyes drop for a moment to my lips, and his throat bobs.
He’s lying.
His mouth says won’t happen again, but his body is telling a very different story.
I lean forward, close enough that my breath fans across his jaw. Close enough that I can see the muscle ticking in his cheek as he fights to maintain his composure.
My fingers find his shirt. The button just below his collar. I toy with it, slow and deliberate.
“What if I want it to happen again?”
One hand slides down from my waist to cup my ass. Fingers press into my skin with possessive pressure that sends sparks dancing down my spine. I arch shamelessly into the touch, and his erection is pounding against my belly.
His other hand fists in my hair. Air pushes out of my lungs.
The yank comes without warning. My head snaps back and suddenly I’m looking at the ceiling while his face presses against my cheek, his breath hot and ragged against my ear. Arousal floods through me like a drug, and pools hot between my thighs.
“Be careful what you’re asking for, malyshka.” His hand starts winding in my hair again. “You might not survive it.”