Chapter 5 - Yulian
I want to kiss her.
I want to taste her again.
She’s too beautiful with my fingers locked around her jaw and her eyes wide and terrified, yet still so defiant as she glares at me. She’s fierce. Bold. Angry. Scared.
And I want to kiss her.
My teeth grind together as I clench my jaw, urging myself to step back from her before I do something that will make the situation worse than it already is.
She doesn’t have the right to be angry with me.
I saved her life. She should be thanking me.
She should be grateful. Instead, she’s stealing keys and trying to sneak away again.
But not this time. I won’t let her slip through my fingers and disappear again. Not when I finally have her close to me.
Day after day, I’ve been yearning for her, needing her, my obsession growing despite my ability to pretend that it was anything else. Curiosity. A way to pass the time. A way to keep her safe.
After all, I did keep her safe when it mattered.
She would be somewhere untraceable now. In danger.
Possibly hurt, tortured, crying…if she’s terrified of me, when I haven’t done a damn thing to harm her, imagine how scared she would be if those men had managed to drag her into the back of that van. If I hadn’t been there, watching her.
She should be thanking me.
But instead, she’s playing games. Pretending to appreciate my help, pretending to be meek and sweet, but as soon as I turn my back, she’s trying to escape. She’s a trickster, and I fell for it.
With a low growl, I push away from the wall, from her.
Squeezing my eyes shut for a moment, I pull myself together.
She played me. There was no sweet moment between us on the sofa earlier. There was no tenderness, no softness.
Maybe she played me from the beginning. Did she know who I was when she met me at the party? Did she go home with me to try and figure out what I was doing there?
Was she even a virgin, or was that part of her story? Fuck. I don’t know what to believe anymore.
My heart beats harder, pushing against my ribcage, each beat aching through me with regret.
I wanted it to be real so badly that I let my guard slip.
“As I said, make yourself comfortable, Katerina. There’s no way out, and you need rest.”
Turning away from her, I storm towards the stairs leading to my bedroom. I need space between us. My body is not on the same page as my mind. My body is screaming for her. Screaming to touch her. To feel her against me.
“Hey, there’s nowhere for me to sleep. You can’t force me to stay here, Yulian Andreev. Let me go!” she shouts after me. I stop, a bitter smile spreading over my face as I slowly turn back towards her.
“Was it all fake, Katerina? The act at the party? The pretense that you were overwhelmed and wanted to escape it all? Giving me the idea that you needed to be rescued somehow—saved from the crowd, whisked away to my home. Was that an act to figure out where I lived? Who I was? What I was doing there?” I spit the accusation at her with fire in my words.
“How dare you accuse me of being fake when you knew exactly who I was when you approached me at that party? Don’t play innocent, trying to put this all on me.
I’m not the one holding you prisoner.” Her eyes are wild with rage, passion pouring through her like lava, fiery and dangerous. And fucking beautiful.
This is dangerous for me. The longer I’m around her, the more likely I am to do something stupid. If she knows she has that control over me, I’m fucked.
“Just admit one thing. You knew who I was all along,” I snap, annoyed that this is affecting me so much.
I shouldn’t care. She’s nothing to me. My enemy.
Not even my enemy; she’s my enemy’s sister.
A nobody in my life. I bite back the argument building in my mind.
No. I won’t give her value she doesn’t deserve.
She played this game far too well. Katerina Krolik is a sinister woman with malice in her heart. How stupid I was to think a Krolik could be anything else.
“You can’t force me to admit something that isn’t true. Just because you decide on a narrative doesn’t make it real,” she bites back at me. I shake my head, snorting bitter laughter.
“Okay, Katerina. Have it your way. I’m going to bed.”
Turning my back on her seems to agitate her even more.
“That’s it? That’s the end of the conversation?
How mature of you to walk away without resolving anything.
And where the hell am I supposed to sleep?
The sofa? I’m not sharing your bed. Not a chance in hell.
Let me go, Yulian. Why the fuck do you want to keep me here?
” she’s shouting at me, angry, but her voice is spiked with fear and tears.
For a moment, I believe it.
But then I push the idea away and remind myself how deceptive she is.
“It’s a nice sofa. I’m sure you’ll be perfectly comfortable,” I snarl.
“Are you kidding me?” she spits.
“Not in the least. Spare blankets in the closet in the hallway. Goodnight, Katerina Krolik.”
With that, I walk away from her. And even as I do, I feel a thread pulling me back to her. She’s the flame. I’m the moth. But all I’ll find by going back to her is destruction.
***
All night I toss and turn, angry, disappointed, annoyed.
I can’t let her go. She’ll run back to her brother, and it’ll be all the reason he needs to start a war. But we can’t stay here, either. This place is too small for two angry people to navigate each other. What the hell am I supposed to do with her?
I wish I could throw her out of my life.
That’s not true.
That’s not true at all. And as the thought spikes into my mind, I can’t even pretend it’s real. I don’t want to let her go, even if I could do it without consequences. I don’t want her to leave. Dammit.
By morning, I’ve hardly slept. Twice, I got up to sneak a look at her, and she was curled up on the sofa beneath a big blanket. I couldn’t tell if she was awake or not, but she didn’t move or try to speak to me.
This isn’t going to work. We can’t stay here.
The kettle clicks loudly as I walk into the kitchen. She doesn’t turn to look at me, ignoring my arrival completely as she carries on making herself a cup of tea.
“We’re leaving in an hour,” I say simply.
“Where to?” she spins to face me, her brows knitted and her cheeks red from sleep.
“To my mansion. It’ll be better staying there than here.” Even though the place isn’t finished being built yet.
“Or…you could just let me go and carry on with your life as though none of this happened?” she snaps angrily.
Her hair is a tousled mess, half out of the bun it was in, half still tied up. She must have tossed and turned as well. Her eyes are puffy, her face rosy and her lips pouted in defiance.
Fuck, I want her.
I want to lift her onto the counter and press my lips against hers as I push her legs apart.
“Well?” she huffs.
“Well, what?”
“Let me go.”
“Oh, no, that’s not an option.” I shrug, playing it casual, acting like I’m not affected by her. Light spills over me from inside the fridge when I tug the door open to grab the milk. I hand it to her, and she scrunches her nose.
“Thank you,” she mutters.
A massive grin spreads over my face, which I can’t even try to fight.
“What’s so funny?” she asks.
“You hate me, but you still have manners. I don’t know why it’s so amusing. But it is.”
“Go to hell, Yulian.”
That makes me laugh outright, and she spins her back to me, her shoulders tense and her body filled with agitation.
I wonder what she’s plotting?
Instead of staying to make a cup of coffee as I planned, I hightailed it out of the kitchen. Away from her. Her scent. Her hair. Her eyes. Her body.
Yes, going to the mansion is a better choice. There will be more space to think.
On the drive, she’s quiet and sulking in the seat next to me.
She has her arms folded across her chest.
“I’ve asked my men to go to the store and get you some clothes. They should be on their way back now. You can put on something fresh when we get there.”
“Whatever,” she snaps.
“Or not. I sort of like the faint smell of salt on your skin,” I shrug.
“Gross,” she whines, trying to lean further away from me, towards the car door.
I chuckle, amused that I can annoy her so easily.
Maybe I’ve been going about this the wrong way.
I was allowing myself to be affected by her, not realizing that I’m the one in control.
Of course I am. Even if she drives me wild with desire, I’m still the one in control here.
As we drive, I think.
My mansion isn’t finished being built. The west wing is still under construction. I wasn’t in a rush to get it done. It’s a project I’ve been working on for a while—my own project, something close to my heart. Something I’ve been building with my own hands.
I had the architect create a structure of bones and walls that I could begin to shape into my own world.
There is something about wood that speaks to me.
The grain. The delicate pattern created over the years of growth.
The different shades of earthy tones and the rawness of it until you’ve sculpted it into what you want.
I love it. No one else in my family enjoys carpentry, so I don’t know where I picked up the passion for it, but who cares? It calms my mind and feeds my creative soul.
When we arrive, I park out front and note the scowl on Katerina’s face.
“It’s still being built?” she asks, confused.
“The east wing is done, mostly. There are still some things I’m adding finishing touches to. But the west wing isn’t ready yet.”
She follows me up the steps. I pause at the giant double doors, dark, streaked wood I had imported from Africa.
“It’s Zebrawood. Hand-carved,” I muse as I trace my fingers over the delicate design I carved into the surface.
“You can recognize it instantly because of the pale color of the wood, streaked with these dark lines.”
“It’s beautiful. The artist took a lot of care in his work.”
Her genuine compliment takes me by surprise. I knit my brows as I look at her. “I’m the artist,” I say calmly, waiting for her reaction.
She chuckles. A little snort. Really cute.
“Right. You carved this door,” she huffs sarcastically, rolling her eyes.
“I did, actually. I carved every door in this mansion. And every door frame, mantel, shelf, the kitchen countertop…the cabinets in the kitchen and bedroom. I did all of it myself. It’s a passion of mine. It’s also why this place is taking so long to finish.”
I push the door open, and she walks inside, speechless. I can’t tell whether she believes me or not.
I let her walk ahead of me, her eyes darting over the space: crisp white walls, with windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, letting natural light flood into my home.
Tall green tropical plants splash bright green color against the clean space.
Dark and light wood accents pull texture from the minimalist design.
It’s beautiful. It’s homey and welcoming and exactly what I envisioned when I imagined this place.
“Wow,” she whispers, walking into the living room, tracing her fingers over a giant monstera leaf that’s hanging from a plant taller than the second floor, towering over her. She looks up at it, at the open landing above her.
“This place is…it’s incredible.”
“Thank you,” I smile with pride. My heart swelling with warmth.
I haven’t let too many people in here. I wanted to wait until it was all done, and I could move in, maybe have a party to celebrate.
This place is so personal to me, so close to my heart, that I’ve been nervous about receiving any kind of criticism.
Katerina wanders into the living room and stands in front of the fireplace. She touches the head of the tiger I carved into the corner of the shelf. “Did you seriously do this yourself?” she asks, tracing her fingers over the joinery, leaning close to admire the detail.
“I did,” I say, leaning my shoulder against the wall and folding my arms over my chest.
I can’t stop smiling.
I follow her around the living room, dining room, and kitchen, which are all mostly finished.
“I want to put a bookshelf here. From the floor to the ceiling.” I gesture over the wall in the foyer when we walk through it again. “I’m trying to decide if I want a dark wood, something raw and rich, or something smooth and varnished. I’m leaning towards the raw option. Like a sleeper wood.”
“Like the shelf in the dining room?” she asks, tilting her head to the side, considering the wall.
“Yes, like that, but much bigger.”
“I love that shelf. The wood looks old and filled with character. It would be a feature on its own, even before you filled it with books.”
We explore the parts of the mansion that are safe to move through.
The others are locked up for now, still under construction, and cut off from this part of the house.
Security is tight here, even though it’s not finished yet.
And because I knew I was bringing her here, I had them bring an extra team to patrol the garden and perimeter.
There’s no way she’ll escape this place. She can explore all she wants; I don’t have to worry about a thing. It’s a hundred times better than the small penthouse where we’re at each other’s throats.