17. LEO #3
"Passionate," I repeat. "That's one way to put it.
" He doesn't have much freedom of speech here.
It's understandable. All the Volkovs have a temperamental history.
I watch him—the rigid posture, the very well-polished shoes, the tattoos on his hands.
Coordinates, winged dagger. Special forces.
I give him a half-smile. "And you, soldier ? Do you often babysit like this?"
Luca's stone mask waves. It's not much. It's an almost imperceptible twitch in his jaw. His eyes drop to his hands, making sure the tattoos are still there, perhaps remembering how he got them.
When he raises his gaze to me again, it's with more caution. Reluctant respect.
"My job is wherever the family needs me," he replies. "In the field, yes; and unpredictable asset management."
He called me an unpredictable asset ? He's blaming me for turning him into a babysitter. I almost want to apologize.
"So, you're like Dante's right-hand man?"
Luca tenses.
" Mr. Volkov's , yes."
I smile. The house rules. The rules that, coincidentally, no longer apply to me. Dante doesn't care if I call him by his first name. He didn't when his hands were on my waist, telling me never to mention any name but his.
The cook places a steaming plate in front of me. Steak, mashed potatoes, vegetables. Real food.
My stomach gives a hesitant growl. I've eaten chemical-packed shit for years—I haven't seen a dish like this in a long time. Eat . Dante's order had, too, a concern I hadn't heard directed at me in years.
I pick up the fork. I take a bite. The flavor is different from instant food, lighter. It doesn't taste like solid cancer—it tastes like a cook's work, like years to come, like compliance.
He demands I live. So I will.
For him.
The Volkovs are still fighting. I don't try to distinguish the words—I don't need to hear to know that the subject is me. I am the anomaly they can't categorize, the problem they both want to solve in opposite ways.
Luca stands guard by the door, pretending he can't hear the family war down the marble hall. The cooks move in a terrified silence. Washing the same pot. For the third time. Busy work to avoid existing.
Then, silence. The fight ceases.
I hold my fork over the empty plate. Counting the seconds. One minute. Two.
The door flies open.
Dante.
He isn't angry. He's worse than angry. He's calm. His eyes—black holes—sweep the room. The cooks are on their fourth wash of the same pot. Luca snaps to attention like a soldier.
"Luca," he calls, gravely. "Cancel my schedule."
A command that could topple economies. Luca blinks. "Sir?"
"For the next eight hours," Dante continues. "No one interrupts me. No calls, no exceptions."
Eight hours.
A delicious shiver runs down my spine, hot. Fuck. He's stopping an empire. For me. To make sure I follow a single order.
He turns to me. His gaze is a pressure on my chest.
"You," he commands. "Finished."
I nod, setting the fork aside. I push the plate forward.
"Get up."
I stand. The exhaustion hums beneath my skin.
He turns and walks, with no glance back. He expects me to follow. Of course I follow. I would follow him into hell itself.
The cooks sigh with relief. For them, Dante is a walking catastrophe. We pass Luca's silent vigil, who doesn't dare to look at us for a second longer, and enter the corridor.
Dante doesn't turn to make sure I'm there. He doesn't need to. He doesn't have to remind me that I'm at his command—I am at his command.
He walks, with me in tow. Through the corridor. Past the main staircase. Toward my bedroom.
We stop in front of the door, which he unlocks with his fingerprint. He pushes the door open, gesturing with his chin for me to enter.
I do.
Whatever they broke in there, they cleaned up. I search for what. A missing object, a displaced painting, anything to suggest a violent tantrum—I find only the absence of a lamp on the table.
I hear him lock the door. Click .
Now, there's only this room. Only him.
I don't move. He analyzes me, inspects me. He takes a few steps, the sound of his shoes muffled by the carpet.
"You're a mess," he says.
A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. I don't turn to face him. "Your doing, mister."
He stops behind me.
"My responsibility to fix," he murmurs. His voice sends a shiver down my neck.
Fix me, then. Break me a little more and put me back together again, in any way you want to.
I want him to tear off my clothes and throw me against the bed. I want him to hurt me. To choke me.
"Take off your clothes," he orders. He circles me until he's standing in front of me, and the tension from the fight with Svetlana is obvious in the hardness of his jaw.
So that's how it's gonna be. Obedience is easy.
I start. The first button, tugging it out of its loop. The second. The fabric of the dress shirt opens, with the marks he left on me still visible—spread across my neck, collarbone, chest. I want him to see. I want him to see what he did to me.
"Your sister seemed furious," I say as I undo the third button. The way Dante stares at my fingers makes me want to do this slower.
"Svetlana's anger is the least of your worries."
I hum. "You know I've seen worse."
The shirt is completely open now. It exhibits his work. The dark marks on my skin are his art.
He takes another step, closing the distance. His hand comes up, but he doesn't touch me. His thumb hovers over the darkest bruise on my collarbone. Something in him softens. I melt. "I know."
God. He has to stop talking like that.
The possessiveness I'm used to is still there, but that something else —that quiet acknowledgment—undoes me. I want more of it. I want to pry open his control and see what else is hiding in there.
He must have seen the shift in my eyes, because he takes a half-step back, re-erecting his walls. "Go take a shower," he orders, pointing his chin towards the bathroom. "I want you clean."
And I want you.
"Yes, mister."
I don't wait for another command. I walk toward the bathroom, leaving my discarded shirt on the floor. I push the bathroom door open but don't close it all the way—a careless oversight. An open invitation.
I undress inside the bathroom. I see his shadow outside, I hear the firmness of his footsteps. A rustle of leather—the armchair in the corner of the room.
I turn the shower knob. The steam begins to rise, fogging the mirror, blurring the lines of the perfect bathroom.
He's out there. Listening.
I step under the spray. The hot water is a futile attempt to relax—my entire body hums with a single name. Dante.
My thoughts are a fucking mess. He's listening to the water hit the tiles, but does he hear my breathing?
The small hitch in my throat when I think about his hands on me?
Can he picture this? The water sliding down my skin, tracing paths his fingers should be tracing, his thumb pressing into the hollow of my throat.
I lean my head back against the cold tile, letting the spray hit my face. It should be him.
I need to know he's still there. I need to hear his voice.
"Do you often listen to your employees take a shower, mister?" I say. "Or should I feel privileged?"
I don't hear any movement, any shift in position. Just the soft sigh of leather shifting as he adjusts himself in his seat.
"It seems that I'm stuck babysitting a needy boy," he says. "You don't make this easy."
I grab the soap, running the bar across my chest, sliding down my abdomen, toward the throb that begs to be touched.
"Is this what you think of me?" I ask. The soap slips, and I follow it with my hand, glowing dangerously near my groin.
"I'm a programmer, Mr. Volkov —we're very methodical," I say, teasingly.
He knows I'm playing, and the sound he lets out is somewhere between a huff of frustration and disguised amusement.
"And this is your method? Getting my attention? It's a dangerous thing to have, Leonel."
Is he imagining this? My hand tracing the marks he left. The bruises that are the only art I've ever wanted to wear. The way my body responds to the thought of him. The way I'm already hard, throbbing with a need that isn't mine to control.
"Just being methodical. Making sure everything is clean.
As you ordered," I lie shamelessly, too breathy.
There's nothing clean about my thoughts right now.
They're dirty, filthy, and every single one of them has his name on it.
I want him to come in here. I want him to push me against this cold tile.
"Is there any part you'd like me to focus on, mister? "
His voice is deeper. Rougher. "Finish, Nyx."
That voice is going to be the death of me. It's an order, an unmistakable warning that I'm pushing the boundaries.
I don't give a single shit. I need him.
"You could always come in," I say, my voice low, letting the lust slip out. "Help me finish. I wouldn't mind."
A low growl of warning. "Finish your shower ."
I squeeze my cock. It's good, but it's not his touch. Never will be.
"Dante," I call his name. A plea. "Tell me how to touch myself for you, and I will."
This time, there is a pause.
The pause stretches.
Fucking hell .
"Dante," I plead. "I want your hands on me."
I hear the rustle of the armchair's leather as he stands. One. Two. Three heavy steps on the carpet. The sound of them stops in front of the bathroom door.
The doorknob turns. The door opens with a push, hitting the wall.
He enters the bathroom, closing the door behind him. His shoulders are broad, his suit impeccable. His eyes fix on me. He's not angry. He's far beyond anger.
He walks to the glass shower stall. Without hesitation, he opens the door and steps under the shower.
With me.