Chapter 8
Kolya
Chloe rushes past me, her vanilla scent and fear trailing in her wake. I haven’t raised my voice or laid a hand on her. But I’ve invaded her space as effectively as if I’d kicked the door from its hinges.
Now everything shifts to my terms, my control.
Her gaze darts to my face, then away, her pulse visibly trembling at the base of her throat. I relish that little telltale flutter more than I probably should.
The house unfolds before me, a minefield of crafts and good intentions. Every surface screams with color. Throw pillows in mismatched patterns crowd a sagging couch. Handmade artwork lines the walls. Plants with hand-painted pots rest along the windowsill.
This isn’t a home.
It’s a fortress built to keep sadness at bay.
I automatically clock all possible exits. Front door, kitchen door that leads to the backyard, single-pane windows that are laughably easy to breach. I note sight lines, blind spots, potential weapons.
Most importantly, I scour for hiding places. Where would someone stash away twenty million in diamonds? If kept together, the gems would form a relatively small but noticeable bundle.
Under the floorboards? Behind those childish paintings? Inside a stuffed animal?
“Welcome to the chaos.” Her hand darts in a nervous arc. “Here’s the living room and the kitchen. And…” She starts gesturing toward what must be her bedroom before abruptly dropping her hand and spinning in the opposite direction.
I suppress the twitch at the corner of my mouth. The sudden pivot is almost comical. This woman can’t even acknowledge the existence of her own bedroom in front of a man.
“Cozy place.” The polite lie rolls off my tongue with practiced ease. From where I stand, I can see the entire house. I could cross the floor in six strides and search every nook and cranny in under an hour.
Cozy? Try suffocating.
But convenient for my needs.
“Oh! I can make tea. Are you thirsty? Do you want to sit down?” She glides toward the kitchen, her hands waving like trapped birds. “I have a kettle!”
“In a minute.” I have to examine each room and at least get a sense of what I’m working with. I step inside her kitchen. “Mind if I verify the place is secure first?”
Her eyes widen slightly. “Oh, right. Yes. Of course.”
I slowly move through the space, glancing into the bathroom. Too small for a person to hide, but good for small valuables.
A single bedroom features an unmade bed, romance novels stacked on the nightstand, and clothes spilling out an ajar closet door.
Only one bedroom in this sad little bungalow.
I venture back toward the cramped kitchen, which contains an L-shaped counter and a table for two. The windowed back door is flimsy, dead bolt and knob lock engaged. And finally, back to the living room. Nothing here indicates she’s concealing millions in stolen diamonds.
Everything about this place is very…her. Bright, chaotic, painfully open and straightforward.
The large globe bar that stands in the corner of the living room draws my attention. Dark wood, brass fittings…like a piece you’d find in a gentleman’s study. It’s the only item that doesn’t fit the colorful teacher aesthetic, the only object with potential value.
I run a finger along the curved surface of the equator, tracing the seam of the two parts. A hinge on the wooden beam connects to the North Pole. “Interesting piece.”
She lights up as she waltzes back into the living room. “Oh, I love that thing. It’s vintage.” She comes closer, her earlier anxiety dissipated. “I have this whole fantasy of spinning it and just going wherever my finger lands. It’s my little dream catcher.”
Sentimental and a chatterer. Both useful for my purposes.
I spin the globe, searching for the locking mechanism, listening for anything unusual. “Does it open?”
“No. Broken latch.”
And yet she keeps the stupid thing anyway.
I abandon the globe bar and focus on Chloe.
She backs away, retreating to the kitchen with twitching hands.
Nervous.
Smart, just not smart enough to remove the actual predator from her home.
The counter she puts between us serves as a fragile barrier. Every happy, quirky thing in this house—a mug with a cat-related pun, a glitter-covered pen holder—is flimsy. Childish. Shields crafted from construction paper.
“So weird about my tire.” She reaches for the kettle. “I just had them checked when I renewed my registration last month. The guy claimed the tread was still good. What the heck happened?”
Heck? Who the hell says heck? She speaks as if she’s perpetually surrounded by children, censoring herself even in her own private space.
I lean against the doorframe. “Maybe it was a nail.”
“In that case, I’m lucky you spotted it. I might’ve driven off tomorrow morning and gotten stuck somewhere.” She fills the kettle. “That would’ve been a disaster.”
Nothing to do with luck.
I stabbed the tire while walking up her driveway. Not to keep her from leaving, though that could factor in later, but because I knew the act of helping in the aftermath would recast me from lion to lamb in the same way carrying her classroom supplies had.
I engineered both moves so I could infiltrate her spaces without encountering much resistance. Why bother with kicking down doors when invitations are so much more efficient?
Forced entry leaves evidence.
Best to go unnoticed.
The sedan, however, has nothing to do with me. Doesn’t hurt that she seems a little on edge because of it, though.
I follow her into the kitchen, reclining against the opposite counter and crowding her space. I allow the silence to stretch as her discomfort blooms like a bruise.
She fusses with a handful of flowers on a towel on the counter.
“I left these here to dry. The kids will be pressing them into bookmarks later this month.”
She stuffs her frantic, fluttering small talk with trivial content.
Her body reveals the truth her mouth tries to hide. The pulse beating at the base of her throat, the way she won’t meet my eyes for more than a second, the slight tremor in her hands as she arranges dead flowers.
Anxiety and nerves. Desire. Restraint. Fear.
She won’t relax, not entirely.
The vial in my pocket provides a simple solution for that. After one pour and five minutes, I can search the place properly. I just need an opportunity.
“It was just so weird. That car at the end of my street too. I don’t know. Felt like someone was watching.”
She recognizes that she’s prey.
Just hasn’t processed that she’s my prey.
That’s when sudden clarity strikes me. She knows nothing about the diamonds. A woman like this, who practically oozes goodness, is incapable of hiding twenty million in stolen merchandise.
Which indicates I’ve wasted days on the wrong target.
Days of surveillance and planning that led me to the kitchen of a kindergarten teacher who jumps at shadows and says “heck” instead of “hell.” If she has the gems, it’s because someone planted them on her.
She has no idea. Which means they could be stashed anywhere at all.
The realization should anger me. Should prompt me to want to leave, regroup, and start over.
Yet, I remain.
Well, I can’t leave. She could still have them.
And she’s here.
She leans back against the sink, finally meeting my gaze directly. “Why are you really here, Kolya?”
I can taste her fear in the air, see hesitation in the slight tremble of her lower lip, but underneath, I glimpse that unmistakable hum of desire. A pull I wasn’t prepared for.
A complication I don’t need.
For the first time in a decade, I have no idea what to do next.
Drug her. Search the house. Leave. Be clean, efficient, and professional.
The vial, a reminder of purpose and duty, weighs heavy in my pocket. But that plan is slipping through my fingers. I know I’m going to kiss her, and I won’t stop there.
This isn’t the mission. This is…
Reckless.
I prowl toward her anyway.
One step. Two.
She doesn’t try to flee, though she could.
The kitchen offers an escape route. The back door is mere feet away.
Instead, she stays still, her breath hitching as I close the distance between us. Her lips part slightly in invitation.
I don’t accept these types of invitations. I don’t want people. I don’t crave connection. For years, I’ve actively avoided such things, placed everyone at arm’s length. Connection means vulnerability. Vulnerability means weakness.
Weakness gets you killed. These are the rules I live by. The rules that have kept me alive.
But here, now, this innocent woman desiring me…rouses a creeping sensation I don’t want awoken.
It’s nothing but meaningless, biological lust. I’ve gone too long without release. That’s all. She’s just a convenient body. Someone who won’t say no so long as I don’t push her too far.
Just thinking of how far I’d like to take her gets me hard.
Her eyes—wide, brown, trusting despite everything—search mine.
She wets her lips, a nervous gesture that shoots heat straight to my groin.
Her ridiculous sunshine t-shirt clings to her breasts, rising and falling with each quickened breath.
The contrast of her, all brightness and color, against the darkness inside me creates a void I long to fill.
To corrupt her. Make her more like me.
Dirty her.
Break her.
Force her to show obedience.
I bend my head and kiss her.
The first touch wipes almost all thought from my mind, and my body takes over. Her soft lips yield instantly. I cup the back of her neck as she opens up for me. A groan rises from deep in my chest.
She responds with an eager whimper that vibrates against my mouth. Her hands grab fistfuls of my shirt, tugging me closer rather than pushing me away.
I should stop and stick to my plan. Focus on the mission. Instead, I devour her mouth, one hand tangling in her hair and tilting her head back to deepen the kiss.
She tastes like sugar and nerves. Her body moves under my direction without hesitation.