Chapter 8 - Beatrice
The water burnt my skin, but not enough to get me back to the present wholly. I turned the temperature up another notch, hoping that the shower could help me get Arko out of my head.
Since we got home late the previous night, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that scorching kiss.
And I needed to get that insane, electric current that had been buzzing through my body since that kiss, out of my system.
Nothing was working.
I closed my eyes and let my head fall back, the water streaming down my throat, between my breasts. My hands followed the path of the water, sliding over wet skin.
I told myself to stop, but my body wasn’t listening. My hands moved on impulse, down my stomach, further down between my legs.
Suddenly, I was back in that closet, with his hard body pressing me against the wall.
My breath hitched, and my fingers slid between my legs. The memory of that kiss made my knees weak. I remembered how his hand had tangled in my hair, how he’d groaned when I’d pressed against him.
I bit down on my lip and felt that sharp sense of betrayal when I thought of his face. My eyes snapped open, remembering that this was my family’s enemy I’d been touching myself to.
I’d probably lost my mind, but all night, I had tossed and turned, wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t pulled away. If he’d kept kissing me, if his hands had wandered, if he’d pressed me harder against that wall and let his body take over.
“Fuck!” I groaned and shut off the water. The shower was making my imagination run even wilder.
I stepped out and dried off, trying to pull myself together as I dressed. I knew Arko was in the house, somewhere.
Just to be safe, I put on the baggiest dress I could find. I’d made him eat his heart out plenty last night. I certainly didn’t need to tempt our self-control any further.
I couldn’t let myself fall apart over a man like this, especially not one who was using me as leverage against my family.
I had to focus on something else, anything else. I couldn’t spend another minute wallowing in this room, alternating between rage at my situation one second and then obsessing over kissing Arko the very next.
I headed downstairs. If I were going to be stuck here, I might as well explore more of the house and grounds. Maybe even get acquainted with the staff, like Arko had suggested. Maybe I could even make a friend in one of them.
The kitchen was bustling when I walked in. A middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair was kneading dough at the counter, while a younger man chopped vegetables.
They both froze when they saw me.
“Good morning,” I said with a bright smile.
“Good morning, Mrs. Pavlov,” the woman said carefully.
I winced. “Please, call me Beatrice.”
Neither of them said a word.
“I’m bored out of my mind. So can I help with anything?” I asked cheerfully.
The woman looked at the man, then back at me. “I’m making bread, Mrs. Pavlov.”
I held back the groan at that wretched name. For just a second, I wanted to forget about Arko, and being called by his last name wasn’t the best way to do it.
But I knew how the staff was in families like ours. Ever loyal to the head, and Arko was the Pakhan.
I let the name thing slide.
“Perfect! I’ve never made bread before.” I rolled up my sleeves.
She looked shocked. “You…want to help? With the bread?”
“Is that okay?” I asked kindly. This was her kitchen, and I didn’t want to put her out.
A slow smile spread across her face. “Of course. I’m Marta. That’s Emil.” She nodded toward the vegetable-chopping man, who gave a small wave with his knife.
“Nice to meet you both,” I said, washing my hands in the sink. “Now teach me how to knead this dough, please.”
Marta’s laugh was warm and genuine as she beckoned me over.
“Here,” she said, pushing a lump of dough toward me. “You push down with the heels of your hands, then fold it over, turn it, and repeat.”
I copied her movements, finding a strange satisfaction in the smooth, springy texture.
“Not bad for a beginner,” she approved. “Though I’m guessing accounting doesn’t involve much baking.”
I looked up, surprised. “You know I’m an accountant?”
“Mr. Pavlov mentioned it,” she said nervously, throwing Emil a look.
“He mentioned it?” I asked, feeling suspicious. “When?”
“Oh…he…he gave us a brief on you.” Marta turned red.
“Of course he did.” I furrowed my brows. Why the hell did he give his staff a brief on me? I felt that slight tinge of irritation on the edges of my temper, but I held myself back.
It wasn’t his staff’s fault if he did, so I didn’t need to sour the mood.
“Do you have any idea what my husband’s got on his agenda today?” I decided to use this little chat to my advantage. Maybe I could find out something interesting. “Any meetings he’s got planned?”
Marta cleared her throat. “We don’t ask questions about Mr. Pavlov’s…business arrangements.”
“Right,” I nodded, disappointed. Clearly, I wasn’t going to get much out of his loyal staff. “So, what’s for lunch? Please tell me it’s something delicious. The food here has been amazing.”
The abrupt subject change seemed to relieve them both.
“Homemade pasta with a tomato sauce Emil’s been simmering since dawn,” Marta said proudly.
“That smells incredible,” I said to Emil, who blushed.
“It’s a family recipe,” he said.
“You must teach me sometime,” I said. “Though fair warning, I once burned rice.”
That got a laugh out of both of them, and the tension in the room eased considerably.
We chatted while we worked, and I learned that Marta had been working at the mansion for nearly a decade and that Emil had been there for about 3 years. They were careful not to reveal anything too personal about Arko, but I could tell they respected him deeply.
By the time the bread was shaped and set to rise, I felt almost…normal.
Like this was just another day in my life.
“I think I’ll go for a walk in the gardens,” I announced, feeling surprisingly light-hearted. “The flowers looked beautiful from my window.”
“They are,” Marta agreed.
I thanked them for the bread-making lesson and headed outside, breathing in the fresh morning air. The flowers did look spectacular on the bright, sunny morning.
I’d been walking for about ten minutes when I heard footsteps behind me. Turning, I spotted a tall, elderly man in a gardener’s uniform walking several paces behind me, trying and failing to look inconspicuous.
I stopped abruptly, and he froze like he’d been caught red-handed.
“Can I help you?” I asked, crossing my arms.
He cleared his throat as he flushed. “Just enjoying the morning air, Mrs. Pavlov.”
“Why are you following me?”
His eyes darted around like he was waiting for a rescue. “I—that is—”
“I want to know why you’re following me.” I stepped closer, and the poor man actually took a step back.
“Mr. Pavlov requested that we…keep an eye on you,” he admitted, looking like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.
“Follow me?” I asked, leading him to explain himself even though my blood was now boiling.
“He said it was just a security measure and we were to report back on your activities to him or the guards.”
He refused to meet my eyes, and the poor man’s face was now the color of the peonies behind him.
“Tell me,” I growled. “Do you have shifts? Is someone assigned to follow me at all times?”
He swallowed hard. “Not that I know. We’ve all been instructed…”
“What?” I screeched, and he nearly jumped. “You mean, everyone’s watching me?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Pavlov. I…I shouldn’t have said anything.” His shoulders fell as he spoke and stared at the ground.
I felt the anger building in my chest, hot and sharp. Without another word, I stalked past the gardener and headed back to the house, turning into a mild jog by the end of it.
I rushed up the stairs, my anger building with each step. I strode down the hallway, entering the room at the end of it without bothering to knock.
I marched right in, and my eyes locked on the large bed where Arko slept without a worry beneath the covers.
He had a late night because he had some work to wrap up after we returned from the fiasco that was last night, but I didn’t care.
I was too angry to dwell on the fact that he needed his rest.
“Wake up!” I shouted, marching to the side of the bed.
He didn’t stir.
“Hey!” I grabbed his shoulder through the sheet and shook him. “I said, wake up!”
In an instant, everything changed. His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist with a strength he’s never used on me before. Before I could react, he’d pulled me down and flipped our positions, rolling me onto my back on the mattress with him on top, pinning me down.
“What the—” I gasped, the wind knocked out of me.
That’s when I realized he was naked under the sheets.
Completely naked.
And very, very hard against my thigh.
“Beatrice?” His voice was rough with sleep, his eyes still unfocused. “What the hell are you doing sneaking up on me?”
I couldn’t speak. I was too aware of his body pressing mine into the mattress, and the heat of him burning through my thin dress.
His grip on my wrists loosened, but he didn’t move away.
“What are you doing in my room?” he asked in a whisper, blinking away the sleep.
“I wanted to know what you were doing keeping tabs on me,” I managed to grit out, even though I realized his cock was digging into me. I felt my neck turn red, my throat dry, my knees wobbly. “You gave your staff a brief on me? Seriously?”
His eyes cleared as he woke fully, and a slow, infuriating smile spread across his face.
“And you thought the best way to fix that problem was to burst into my bedroom and assault me in my sleep?”
“I didn’t assault you!” I sputtered. “I was trying to wake you up!”
“Next time, find a better way to wake me up,” he whispered, his hands still pinning my wrists to the bed above me, his body still pressed up against me.
I remembered the kiss from the night before. Once again, I felt that electric surge pass through between my legs.
I was acutely aware of how naked he was, along with the fact that I was getting turned on.
His eyes darkened as he watched my face, like he could read every dirty thought flashing through my mind.
“See something you like, princess?” he murmured.
I gulped, unable to form words.
His hand moved from my wrist to my face, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip so sweetly that it made me shiver.
I should have bitten him. Or headbutted him. Or screamed at him for having me followed.
Instead, the way he looked at me made the heat pool low in my belly.