Chapter Eleven #2
Sometimes she pauses, staring at the vast sea and soaking in all the chaos around her, from the heavy machinery to the guards shifting positions to the crates being loaded.
I know when someone thinks they’re being clever. That poorly hidden confidence and inquisitiveness under the cloak of naivety is a dead giveaway. And right now, Elena’s guilty.
I can sense it in the deliberate slowness of her pace. She’s up to something, trying to piece together a puzzle she doesn’t fully understand yet.
A smarter man would consider locking her back in the basement and making sure she never sees the light of day again.
But I’m not most men. I decide to allow her this illusion of freedom, giving her just enough room to move around, fully intending to watch her play her hand and uncover whatever little plan she’s cooking up.
What I don’t do is play games with my livelihood.
While she watches my men, I talk to Mikhail, quietly reshaping the board around her.
If she wants to look, she can. But she’ll only see what I choose to show her. Strategically, I set invisible traps within the shipping schedules, altering manifests and arrival times to completely throw off anyone looking too closely.
Time flies by swiftly.
It’s past noon now.
I sit by the window in the bedroom with a glass of vodka in one hand and my tablet in the other, watching closely as she assists with the yacht arrangements.
She moves along the deck like a boss, like me, with a confidence that none of my men can intimidate out of her as she gestures at several objects on the yacht.
I tilt my head back, taking a sip from the glass.
Her proactive mannerisms don’t fool me.
As I watch her double-check the passenger manifests and signal the crew, I notice the subtle deviations from my exact instructions.
It’s almost minor, but it’s there nonetheless—a slight alteration in the docking sequence and a ledger left open just a second too long near a secure terminal.
Every instinct drilled into me by the bratva demands absolute control.
From the first night I brought her in, the first course of action should have been the total breaking of her will, until she was nothing but obedient, following my every command like a lost puppy.
But every time I look at her, a dark fascination paralyzes that ruthlessness.
I don’t understand it, but I am utterly obsessed with her mind. How the analytical gears turn behind those defiant green eyes.
Just as much as I’m obsessed with her body.
She’s like a puzzle I want to solve, even if the pieces cut my hands.
And that fascination sizzles through the rest of the afternoon, until after dusk settles.
I’m leaning against the doorframe, a full glass of vodka loose in my hand, when Elena walks into the room. Her eyes widen for only a fraction of a second when she sees me.
Then she tears her gaze away, shutting the door behind her. “Hello.”
Maybe it’s the amount of vodka I’ve consumed today, but I feel lighter and more loose-lipped than usual.
I put down the glass and grab my phone, scrolling through the recent updates from Artem. “That’s how you say hello to your husband?”
I hear her snort, then shut the wardrobe. “Do you want me to kneel down and worship you? Because I could do that. After all, you did spare my life and give it a whole new meaning.”
I suppress a smirk.
The tone of her voice is low—not nice, but not aggressive either. But the look in her eyes when she turns around is sharp, highly alert, and somewhat evasive.
“Sounds like something I’d love to see…you on your knees with your eyes lifted up, adoring me.”
“Doesn’t surprise me that that’s the only part you heard,” she murmurs, then tears her gaze away again, to look at the mirror.
“So, will you?” I push, hoping to get some sort of rise out of her.
It works.
She huffs, lifting her hands as she starts to change out of her day clothes. “Will I what?”
“Kneel and adore me?”
She thinks I’m paying attention to my phone, but my gaze is locked on the slow glide of fabric over her skin.
A teasing smile pulls at my lips.
“No.” Her reply is curt and final.
“Hmm.” I bite the inside of my cheek, then drop my phone onto the nightstand. “Why?”
“Because,” she huffs, tossing the white shirt to the floor, “I had a long day at the docks and I’m tired. Definitely not in a worshipping mood, sorry.”
My gaze stays locked on the fitted strap of the lacy bra around her bare back, and a pulse throbs between my legs when her pants join the crumpled dress shirt on the carpet.
Her smooth legs are sparsely covered by nothing but sheer lacy panties that barely hide the soft and succulent curves of her perfect ass and hips.
“You know, if you wanted an audience, iron lady, all you had to do was ask,” I murmur hoarsely, the playful comment slipping out before I can stop it.
It’s flirtatious and intentionally provocative, designed to chip away at her icy composure.
“Though I must admit, your choice of wardrobe today didn’t do you justice. ”
She freezes and her back stiffens. Snatching a plush white towel off the rack, she wraps herself in it with sharp, exaggerated movements, pretending absolute annoyance.
“You think my outfit choice was poor?” she snaps, though the flush creeping up her neck betrays her.
I shake my head. “I think your body is fucking perfect, and it’s irritating when you hide it from me.”
My sincerity shocks both of us.
She turns to face me, and the feigned anger melts into something far heavier.
Our eyes linger on each other, and the room suddenly feels entirely devoid of oxygen.
Intense heat builds, thick and tangible, as I finally stand up and close the distance between us.
But I don’t touch her. No.
I slide into the bed and watch as she torturously decides whether to join me or head for the bathroom.
Expectedly, she chooses the latter, hurrying for the shower with her hands wrapped around the towel like a shield.
A few minutes later, she struts out, smelling like vanilla, shampoo, and the breezy scent of the ocean.
My cock throbs, swelling with need beneath my shorts, and I readjust on the mattress, suppressing a groan.
She turns off the lights and quietly retreats under the same heavy comforter. The space between us is charged with a silent, agonizing tension.
“Ptichka…” I call out into the darkness.
It takes a minute before her voice floats back softly. “Yeah?”
I say nothing.
The silence is deafening.
Every shift of the mattress brings an accidental brush of her skin. Our legs tangle beneath the sheets, and the thigh-to-thigh contact feels like a match struck on a powder keg.
I turn my head, my gaze lingering on the shape of her lips, and I wonder how they’d taste if I claimed them now.
I notice her reactions in the dark: the slight hitch in her breathing, the erratic pulse fluttering at her throat. We’re wrapped in a bubble of lingering fear, intense curiosity, and undeniable arousal.
“You haven’t said anything,” she whispers.
And I smirk inwardly, feeling a dark, ironic amusement washing over me. “You want me to say something?”
A heartbeat of thick silence passes before she speaks again, more softly, more unguarded.
“Yeah.”
I know she can’t see it, but I smile, knowing she’s right where I want her—affected and as needy as I am, restless and craving a touch we both know would burn till the end of time. And yet, we exercise needless restraint, driving us both crazy.
My life before this—before her—was predictable. I was calculated, controlled, the ruthless mafia boss who had an entire harbor under his command.
And yet, lying here in the dark, beside a wife I didn’t know I’d have a week ago, I control absolutely nothing.
I am entirely at the mercy of her next breath.
And God help me, I want her more than anything.
Slowly, I lean forward, put my lips next to her ear, and whisper, “Goodnight, Elena.”