Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
KIRILL
Lev was already asleep when I left, curled in the middle of his bed as I stood there watching him, not wanting to go.
But I couldn’t stay. Not after I saw what she was wearing and where she’d be going.
And especially not when I imagined the men around her hungry for a taste I would never let them have.
So of course I came to this godforsaken cesspool just to watch her. There was no way I’d let her walk into a place like this without protection.
I told myself it was only to keep her safe. But even that was a lie. Because every thought I have about her is wrong. Filthy. Off-limits.
And still, I can’t think straight.
V moey golove tol'ko ona. In my head, there’s only her.
And lately, she never leaves.
The second she turned toward the restrooms, I moved after her. I didn’t see him at first, not until he slipped in behind her.
Ublyudok. Scumbag.
Just thinking about him splits something open in my chest, rage flooding back so fast it makes my hands itch. I should have killed him right there. I still will.
The moment I saw the fear on her face and saw the drink spill down the front of his shirt, I knew he’d already crossed a line. He’d touched her.
She fought back. I’m proud of her for that. But it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change what he tried to do.
Men like him don’t learn. They don’t stop. They don’t deserve another chance to do it again.
What he did sealed his fate. I’ll make him suffer for every second he made her afraid.
When she looks up at me, I keep her hand in mine, gripping it tight, knowing there’s no way I can let this woman touch me again. She’s still staring at me like she can’t believe I let her to begin with.
Neither can I. But I don’t regret it. If anything, it’s worse now, the way I want her.
Just imagining the feeling of her skin against me—the softness of her palm, the way it might tremble, the way she’d watch her own hand as she stroked me…
“Blyat,” I groan.
“What?” Her eyes widen.
Idiot. Keep it together already.
“Nothing. Let’s get out of here.”
“Okay. Let me just text Mandy so she doesn’t worry.”
She grabs her phone and types quickly, then slips it back into her purse. I take her hand again as we step out of the bathroom and move through the crowd. I don’t let go. Not for a second.
And the longer I hold her, the harder it gets to ignore how badly I want her. To keep myself from ripping off that dress and exploring every inch of her skin until she’s trembling, writhing under my hands, begging to be filled.
The images won’t stop.
I grit my teeth, cursing myself.
This was a mistake. I never should’ve let her touch me.
But fuck, I’d do it again.
When we step outside, a sharp gust of wind hits, and she shivers before she can hide it. Without a word, I slip off my coat and drape it around her shoulders, wrapping it close until the collar brushes her jaw.
“Slip your arms inside, malyshka.”
Her fingers disappear into the sleeves, the length engulfing her. Her eyes lift to mine, glassy with something I can’t quite name. Surprise, maybe. Gratitude.
She holds the coat tighter as we cross the lot in silence, our footsteps echoing. As the doors of my LaFerrari lift, she climbs into the passenger seat while I circle around and take the wheel.
“This is some car.” She runs her palms over the leather interior.
I laugh. “I’m glad you approve.”
Her lips part like she’s about to say something, but instead, she just smiles tightly.
Once the car is on the road, her body angles toward the exit, legs pressed together like she’s either trying to keep distance from me or like she’s nervous.
But she doesn’t realize how nervous she makes me. How much power she has without even trying. I hate that I’m thinking about her right now—in that dress, in my bed. I hate that I keep looking down at her hand and wishing mine was still in it.
Chto s toboy? What’s wrong with you?
She’s twenty-three. Too young. Completely off-limits.
But that doesn’t seem to matter when every instinct I’ve spent a lifetime burying already sees her as mine.
This isn’t some harmless attraction. It’s not patient, and it’s sure as hell not gentle. It’s volatile. Raw heat wound tight, waiting for the wrong moment to erupt.
And when it does, I won’t be able to stop it. Not with her. Not when she looks at me like she doesn’t see the danger. Or worse, like she sees it and wants me anyway.
Either way, the line between us is thinning, unraveling with every look we share. If she asks me again whether I want her, I’m going to show her just how much I actually do.
I’ll take her. I’ll wreck her. And what’s worse is I won’t regret a damn thing.
We drive in silence for a while, and the moment the car turns onto my private road, her head lifts, her eyes darting toward the tinted window like she’s trying to figure out exactly where we are.
The headlights catch on the iron gates just ahead, and when they begin to open, two of my men appear, rifles at their back, nodding as we pass.
“You live here?” she asks.
I glance over, watching the way her eyes track every turn as the road curves through thick trees on both sides. “I do.”
The gravel crunches beneath the tires as we pass through the towering stone pillars flanking the entrance.
An iron arch stretches between them, etched with a Russian phrase she can’t read, something about fighting until you conquer your enemy.
Around the final bend, the house comes into view, built from dark stone and glass that catches the moonlight in silver streaks.
At the center of the circular drive, a fountain spills water from the jaws of a stone tiger, its fangs bared, its eyes fixed forward.
She doesn’t speak, simply takes it all in. The moment the car stops, I’m out and moving toward her side. Opening her door, I help her out.
“Come.” I hold out my hand. “I will show you inside.”
As she climbs up the steps, her gaze lifts to the house, full of awe, like she’s never seen anything like this before. And I realize she probably hasn’t.
Something about that makes my chest spasm. I want her to have it all, and I want to be the one to give it to her.
She doesn’t even realize how beautiful she looks right now. How easy it is to picture her walking through that front door every night. Like she belongs here. In my space. In my kitchen. In my bed.
You could move her in. Give her a room. Start with the nanny job. That’s smart. Professional.
Right. Because hiring the woman who just had her hand wrapped around my cock is the definition of professional.
I grit my teeth and guide her up, my hand resting against the small of her back, and even that simple touch sends a jolt straight to my spine.
If I don’t get control of this, I’ll ruin the only good thing that’s ever stumbled into my life. And Lev will be the one to suffer for it.
The second we step into the foyer, Sloane's gaze sweeps over the large crystal chandelier, then to the paintings along the walls, the ones I paid too much for because the decorator said they brought “texture and contrast.” I don’t even know what they are.
Just shapes and splatters and whatever the hell rich people are supposed to like.
But watching her take it all in like it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen…fuck, it makes it worth it.
Two of my men approach, nodding in greeting as they move out the front door for their shift.
“Why do you have guards everywhere?” she asks, turning toward me.
I shrug. “For protection.”
She tilts her head. “Protection from what?”
“Depends on the week.” My grin widens, but she doesn’t return it.
Her brow furrows. “What do you do for a living, exactly?”
“A little bit of this and that.” I tilt my head, watching her try to decide whether to ask more.
But she doesn’t. Umniya malyshka. Smart girl.
“Want to take off your shoes and relax?”
“Uh, yeah, but I won’t be staying long,” she blurts, a little too fast. “Hopefully Mandy will be done soon.”
“You can stay as long as you want.” I edge in closer. “You’re welcome to spend the night if you’d like. I have more bedrooms than I know what to do with. You can even borrow one of my shirts.”
She goes red instantly, tripping over her own feet like I just said something filthy.
I bite back a laugh and move into her space, letting the distance between us dissolve.
She retreats until her back hits the wall, and to have her cornered and at my mercy…
The dirty things that spring to my head would have her face lit up in flames.
What would she do if I took her to our club, Rzvrt? Would she let me touch her? Let me tie her up to the ceiling and fuck her until her skin turned pink, flushed from the way I take her?
My knuckles brush her cheek, and she lets out a soft sound that barely escapes her lips. It’s quiet, almost nothing, but it shatters me. I shouldn’t be thinking about how good she’d feel underneath me, how easily I could make her whimper again.
Then her hand lifts, tentative at first, until her fingers thread into my hair.
I suck in a breath, my head dipping into the touch like I need it to survive.
Her fingers trace the ink that climbs my neck, curling over the side of my head and gliding up past my temple. A low, guttural growl escapes me, and when she starts to pull away, I wrap my hand around her wrist, holding her there.
“Keep doing that.”
Her eyes flick to mine.
“You like it?” she asks, quiet, unsure.
That voice alone makes my body tighten. Sweet. Innocent. Completely unaware of the effect she has on me.
“Da.” I lean in closer. “It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted a woman to touch me like this.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Pizdets. Fuck.
She sucks in a breath. “Really?”
I let out a low laugh, nodding once. “Yes, Sloane. Really.”
And I’m glad I said it. She deserves to know how beautiful she is. Just how badly I want her.
“I don’t date,” I admit. “Not much interest, and I’ve got my hands full with Lev.”
“I get it.” She shrugs.
“Do you?”
Our eyes meet, and something flashes there. Something real. Like maybe she does understand.
But how could she? She isn’t a parent, let alone one of a special needs child.
“I mean, I get it a little. I don’t date either. I’m always working.”
She peers down, and I tip her chin back up, holding her face still.
“I wish you didn’t have to work so damn hard.”
“Me too,” she whispers, biting her lip.
I stare at her mouth like I’m starving. And maybe I am.
“Don’t bite that lip again. I can’t take it anymore.” My face drops closer, and I groan.
“I’m sorry?” Her chest rises and falls and my fingers curl across her hips.
“Ya khachu tebya,” I mutter in Russian. I want you.
“What?” She rises on her feet, just a little, like she wants a taste of me that I’d gladly give her.
My hand slides up her inner thigh, testing the tension between us.
Her breath hitches. Fingers tighten in my hair. And I know I should stop. I know I need to walk away.
But I don’t.
Just a touch, I tell myself.
That’s all this is going to be. One stroke of my finger, just enough to take the edge off.
But I know I’m lying the moment my hand slides between her thighs and I push her panties aside. Because as soon as I feel how wet she is, how ready…
There’s no going back.