Chapter 10 - Vasily #2
I'd given her something she needed. And in return, she'd given me something too—a glimpse of the woman she might become if I could convince her to stop fighting.
***
She was at the pool that evening.
I hadn't meant to—had been walking the grounds, restless after a day of conference calls and strategic planning, seeking the particular exhaustion that came from physical movement.
The pool was on my usual route, tucked into a terrace on the south side of the estate where the cliffs dropped away to the sea.
She was in the water when I rounded the corner. Swimming laps with a focus that bordered on desperate, her arms cutting through the surface in clean, efficient strokes. She hadn't heard me approach—the splash of water and her own breathing masked my footsteps.
I should have left. Should have given her the privacy she probably assumed she had. Instead, I stood in the shadows of the pergola and watched.
She was wearing a simple black swimsuit—modest by modern standards, but it clung to her curves in ways that made my mouth go dry. I'd seen her body before, in surveillance photos and security footage, but always at a distance. Always mediated by screens and cameras.
This was different. This was Gabrielle in the flesh, water streaming over her skin, her body powerful and graceful and achingly real.
She reached the end of the pool and surfaced, pushing wet hair from her face. Then she saw me.
The change was instant—her whole body tensing, her arms coming up to cover herself. As if she could hide what I'd already seen. As if I hadn't been memorizing the shape of her for months.
"How long have you been standing there?"
"Not long." I stepped out of the shadows, moving toward the pool's edge. "I didn't mean to intrude. I can leave if—"
"No." The word came out too quickly. She caught herself, her cheeks flushing. "I mean—it's your pool. Your island. You can go wherever you want."
"That doesn't mean I should." I stopped at the edge, looking down at her. The water came up to her shoulders, lapping gently against her collarbone. "You deserve privacy, Gabrielle. Even from me."
"Since when do you care about my privacy? You watched me for weeks. You probably know what I look like in the shower."
"I don't." The denial was honest, even if little else about our relationship was. "I told you—there are limits. Lines I won't cross."
She laughed bitterly. "You kidnapped me. Forced me to marry you. But watching me shower is where you draw the line?"
"Yes."
The simplicity of the answer seemed to disarm her. She stared up at me, water droplets clinging to her lashes, her expression flickering between anger and confusion.
"You don't make any sense," she said finally. "None of this makes sense."
"I know." I crouched at the pool's edge, bringing myself closer to her level. "I'm not a good man, Gabrielle. I've never pretended to be. But I'm trying to be good to you. Even if I'm failing."
She didn't respond. Just floated there, watching me with those dark eyes that saw too much.
"The water looks nice," I said. "Mind if I join you?"
I expected her to refuse. To tell me to leave, to maintain the distance she'd been so careful to preserve.
Instead, she shrugged—a small, uncertain movement. "It's your pool."
I stripped off my shirt without letting myself think too hard about what I was doing. I felt her eyes on me—on the scars, the muscle, the evidence of a life lived in violence. When I slid into the water, the cool shock of it did nothing to ease the heat building in my blood.
We faced each other in the shallows, close enough to touch, not touching. The silence stretched between us, thick with everything we weren't saying.
"You're staring," she said quietly.
"I'm always staring. You're worth staring at."
"I'm—" She broke off, shaking her head. "I'm not. I'm not the kind of woman men stare at."
"Then every man you've ever known was blind." I moved closer, the water swirling around us. "You're beautiful, Gabrielle. Not in spite of your body—because of it. Every curve. Every inch. I've thought about nothing else for months."
Her breath caught. I was close enough now to see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat, to feel the warmth radiating from her skin despite the cool water.
"This is insane," she whispered. "I hate you."
"I know."
"I'm your prisoner."
"I know."
"I should—I should get out. Go back to my room. I shouldn't—"
"You shouldn't what?"
She looked up at me, and the hunger in her eyes matched the hunger burning in my chest. Without conscious thought, I reached for her—my hand finding her waist beneath the water, pulling her closer.
She didn't resist. Her hands came up to rest against my chest, not pushing away, just... resting there. Feeling my heartbeat, maybe. Or bracing herself for what came next.
"Gabrielle." Her name was a prayer on my lips.
I lowered my head. She tilted hers up. The space between us shrank to inches, to centimeters, to almost nothing at all.
Then a guard's voice crackled from somewhere on the terrace: "Mr. Chernov? You have an urgent call from New York."
The moment shattered.
Gabrielle jerked back, her hands flying to cover her mouth as if she could take back the almost-kiss. I let her go, every cell in my body screaming in protest.
"I have to take that," I said roughly.
She nodded, already moving toward the ladder. "Of course. Go."
I hauled myself out of the pool, grabbed my shirt without putting it on, and strode toward the house. I didn't look back. I couldn't look back without doing something unforgivable.
But I felt her eyes on me all the way to the door.
***
She found me in the library that night.
I'd been expecting her—or hoping, at least. After the pool, after the almost-kiss that still burned on my lips like a brand, I knew something had to give. We couldn't keep circling each other like this, pretending the tension between us didn't exist.
She stood in the doorway, wearing a thin cotton dress that did nothing to hide the body I'd seen in the water. Her hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends. Her feet were bare.
"What do you want from me?"
The question cut through the silence like a blade. I set aside my book and waited.
"I need to know," she continued, her voice unsteady. "What is this to you? What am I? A trophy wife? A pet? A prisoner who eventually stops fighting and learns to heel?"
"None of those things."
"Then what?" She stepped into the room, her hands clenched at her sides.
"Because I don't understand you, Vasily.
One minute you're my captor, forcing me into marriage, controlling every aspect of my life.
The next time you're giving me work, talking to me like an equal, almost kissing me in the pool like—"
"Like what?"
"Like you actually care about me." The words came out raw, almost accusatory. "Like this isn't just some twisted game."
I stood slowly, closing the distance between us. She held her ground, her chin lifted, her eyes blazing with the defiance that had drawn me to her in the first place.
"You want to know what I want?" I stopped an arm's length away, close enough to touch but holding myself back. "I want you, Gabrielle. All of you. Your mind, your body, your trust, your anger, every part of you that you've been hiding from the world."
She flinched like I'd struck her.
"But I want it freely given," I continued, my voice rough.
"I want you to come to me because you choose to.
Because you want to. Not because you're scared, or trapped, or have no other options.
" I reached out, my fingers brushing her jaw, tilting her face up to mine.
"I want to earn you. Even if it takes years. Even if it takes forever."
"And if I never choose you?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "If I spend the rest of my life hating you?"
"Then I'll spend the rest of my life trying to change that. I'll watch you from a distance. I'll give you everything you need. And I'll die knowing I was the fool who had you and couldn't make you want to stay."
She stared at me, her lips parted, her eyes bright with tears she was fighting not to shed. I could see the war playing out behind her gaze—the resistance, the denial, and underneath it, the terrifying pull of something she didn't want to feel.
"You're insane," she said, but there was no conviction in it.
"Probably."
"This can't work. We can't work."
"Maybe not."
"I should go to bed."
"You should."
Neither of us moved.
The moment stretched, elastic with possibility. I could kiss her now—close the distance, claim her mouth, finally taste the sweetness I'd been dreaming about for months. She might even let me. Might even kiss me back.
But it would be wrong. She wasn't ready. And I'd meant what I said—I wanted her willing. Wanted her to choose me.
I dropped my hand and stepped back.
"Goodnight, Gabrielle."
She blinked, clearly surprised by the retreat. "That's it?"
"That's it." I moved toward the door, pausing when I reached it. "For tonight. But I meant what I said—every word. And tomorrow, when you wake up, I'll still be here. Still waiting. For as long as it takes."
I left her standing in the library, her expression unreadable, her hands trembling at her sides.
***
I didn't sleep that night.
I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the house settling around me. Somewhere on the other side of the wall, Gabrielle was probably doing the same—lying awake, replaying the evening, trying to make sense of what was happening between us.
I'd told her too much.
The realization kept hitting me in waves, each one more disorienting than the last. I hadn't planned to bare myself like that.
Hadn't intended to let her see how deep this ran, how thoroughly she'd burrowed under my skin.
I'd spoken of earning her, of waiting forever, of dying a fool if she never chose me.
Words I'd never said to anyone. Words I hadn't known I was capable of meaning.
This was supposed to be about protection. About keeping her safe from Pankratov, from the violence of my world. Somewhere along the way, it had become something else—something I couldn't name, couldn't control, couldn't cut out of myself no matter how hard I tried.
She was changing me. This woman I'd stalked and kidnapped and forced into marriage. This prisoner who fought me at every turn, who had every right to hate me, who should have been nothing but a complication in my carefully constructed life.
She was changing me, and I didn't know how to stop it. Didn't know if I wanted to.
The lines were blurring—captor and captive, husband and wife, enemies becoming something else entirely. I didn't know what we were becoming. Didn't know if either of us could survive the transformation.
But as dawn broke over the Mediterranean, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold, I knew one thing for certain.
I wasn't letting her go.
Whatever happened next, whatever it cost me, she was mine.
And I was becoming hers—whether I wanted it or not.