Chapter 4
ILYA
The penthouse is quiet when I return, the city sprawling beneath me like a kingdom. I can still feel the ghost of her presence, as if she's somehow followed me home.
I pour myself two fingers of vodka, neat.
The crystal tumbler is cold against my palm, and it makes me miss the warmth of her hand in mine.
Her skin was soft as silk, her nails smooth against my fingertips, every part of her delicate and strong all at once.
The memory of her touch sends a shudder down my spine, makes my cock thicken and twitch with the anticipation of feeling that same palm against my most sensitive flesh.
The museum encounter went exactly as planned.
Better than planned, actually. I knew she was beautiful; I saw her once already. I'd expected her to be intelligent, articulate, passionate about her work. Her reputation in the art world told me that.
But I hadn’t expected how her physical beauty would affect me in the flesh, like art come to life, like a priceless painting just within touching distance yet still forbidden for the time being.
I hadn’t expected how good it would feel to carry on a conversation with her, how intoxicating her opinions on art would be, how difficult it would be not to touch her when she was so very close to me.
She smelled like jasmine and amber, and I wanted to take her right there, in front of the entire goddamn museum. To mark her as mine where everyone could see.
I’ve never felt anything so primal as when I laid eyes on her in the flesh again. And I hadn't expected to want her with an intensity that bordered on violence.
I drain the vodka and pour another, running through it all in my mind.
The orchestration was simple enough. Kazimir put men on watching Annie’s house, so following them to their destination when they left was easy.
I had someone watching when Annie left Mara’s side, letting me know when she was on her way back.
It was easy enough to slip away before Annie could see me—the last thing I want is for her to recognize me and tell Mara who I really am.
Right now, I want to be Alexander Volkov, a museum donor and a wealthy, interested man. Nothing more. I don’t want Mara to know Ilya, the Bratva pakhan, until I choose for her to know.
She had no idea who I am. What I am. Or what she’s walked into.
I cross to the couch and wake up my laptop. The file is already waiting; security footage from the museum, obtained by Kazimir after I left. I click play, a shudder of anticipation running down my spine.
The angle is from above, slightly behind where I'd been standing. I watch myself approach her, the exact moment she sees me, the way she falters for just a fraction of a second. She remembered me from the sidewalk. Good.
I wanted her to remember.
I fast-forward to the moment she starts talking about the first painting.
Her face transforms. This is what she looks like when she's in her element, when she forgets to be guarded.
Her eyes are bright and animated. She gestures with her hands, and I remember the elegant movement of her fingers, the way they'd traced invisible brushstrokes in the air.
I replay it. Watch it again. I see her smile, the light in her eyes, a foil to my darkness. My jaw tightens.
I don't like it. This feeling. This... distraction.
I've built an empire on control, knowing exactly what I want and taking it. Emotion is a liability, and attachment is a weakness. I learned those lessons early on.
And yet…
I click forward. She was close enough that I could have touched her.
I wanted to touch her, but I had a feeling that doing that, trying for familiarity, would have scared her off.
She’s strong, but she’s also skittish. A cat with her claws ready to unsheathe.
I reach out, my hand aching to brush a strand of dark hair out of her face that’s fallen forward.
Soon.
I watch the footage three more times, studying the way she moves, the subtle tells in her body language. The way she bites her lower lip when she's thinking. The way she tilts her head when she's listening. The way her breathing quickened when I stepped closer, though she tries to hide it.
She's attracted to me. That much is obvious.
But there's wariness there too. She’s not naive or innocent, and the challenge of that enthralls me, even as I want to hunt down and kill every man who touched her before me.
She's not the type to fall easily, to be swept away by a handsome face and expensive suit.
She'll need to be handled carefully. Strategically.
But that’s fine. Good, even. I've never been interested in easy prey.
I close the laptop and check my watch. It's nearly midnight, but I'm not tired. My mind is already working through the next encounter.
I know I should let her return to New York, let this.
.. whatever this is... fade into a pleasant memory of a chance meeting in a museum.
I should put distance between myself and this feeling, focus instead on the things that will move what I’ve worked and bled and killed for all my life further.
I should think about Svetlana, about my upcoming deals, about the careful negotiations that I’ve only just managed to secure with the other bosses here.
But all I can think about is the plan forming in my head.
I followed her to the French bakery today, the same one she was carrying a box from when she arrived at the brownstone. Clearly, it’s a favorite of hers.
And the next time she goes there, I’ll make sure I know. I’ll be there to orchestrate another chance encounter, another coincidence.
I finish my vodka and pour a third glass, even though I rarely drink more than two. The alcohol does nothing to quiet the restlessness thrumming through my veins, the anticipation, the hunger.
I’m going to see her again soon. And this time, I won't let her walk away without knowing when I'll see her again.
—
The bakery smells like butter and sugar and coffee, and all I can think about is jasmine and amber.
I've been waiting for twenty minutes, sitting at a small table near the window with a perfect view of the entrance, with an espresso I’ve been sipping at. I was informed she left Annie’s house fifteen minutes ago, and with traffic, she’ll be here soon.
I should feel ridiculous, sitting in a bakery like some lovesick teenager waiting for a glimpse of his crush. I'm a man who controls millions of dollars in assets, who has politicians and businessmen and criminals alike seeking my favor. I don't wait for anyone.
And yet here I am.
The door chimes. I don't look up immediately, to be too eager would be suspicious. I count to three, then glance toward the entrance as if the sound merely caught my attention.
There she is.
She's wearing dark fitted jeans today, with a cream-colored sweater that makes her skin glow and her black hair stand out starkly against it.
She doesn't see me at first. She's focused on the display case, studying the pastries.
I watch her lips move as she reads the labels, watch her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
I stand and move toward her with deliberate casualness, as if I'm heading to the counter myself, for another coffee, perhaps, or something to eat.
"We have to stop meeting like this."
She turns, and the surprise on her face is genuine. Perfect. Her eyes widen, and then that smile spreads across her face.
"Are you following me?" Her tone is teasing, not suspicious. Good.
"Following you?" I let a hint of amusement color my voice. "I live three blocks from here. This is my regular morning stop."
It's not—I've never been to this bakery before in my life. But she doesn't know that.
"Right." She's still smiling. "And yesterday at the museum?"
"Also a regular stop. I'm a patron." That part at least is true, although not under the name I gave her."Are you accusing me of stalking you?” I add the same teasing lilt to my voice, as if the suggestion is so ludicrous it couldn’t be anything other than a joke.
“Well, if you are, you’re doing a good job.” She pauses. “I was going to get my usual, but if you come here, often, what would you suggest?”
I scan the display case quickly, answering with an ease that belies the fact that this is all made-up. “I’m more of a savory person than sweet. I’d go for a slice of the quiche.” I pause. "Would you like to join me? Unless you're in a hurry."
She hesitates. I can see the internal debate playing out across her features. "I have a few minutes," she says finally. “Annie was still sleeping when I left, so I can get her order just before I go.”
The taste of victory is sweeter than any pastry in this place.
She orders a slice of the ham and spinach quiche and a cappuccino, and comes to sit down with me at my table.
“This is delicious,” she says with a smile, closing her eyes with pleasure after the first bite.
The sight sends a jolt down my spine; I want that same expression on her face because of my touch.
“I should bring Annie a slice of this,” she says with a laugh. “She’ll have a new pregnancy craving.” She pauses. “Sorry, I’m sure you’re not interested in all of that.”
"I don't mind." And I don't. I want to know everything. Every detail, every story, every piece of her life. "How long are you in Boston?"
"I'm actually leaving today. This evening. My flight is at nine." She wraps her hands around her cappuccino cup. "I was only here for a quick visit."
Her leaving feels like a ticking clock. My jaw tightens. "That's a shame," I say. "I was hoping to continue our conversation from yesterday. Over dinner, maybe.”
The air between us feels charged, that same electricity from before. That hunger pulses in me, that desperate need to possess, to own, to keep.
“You know what I do now, but you never told me about yourself.” She swerve the conversation away from her leaving—maybe, I hope, because she doesn’t want to turn down my offer of dinner just yet.