Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SLOANE
My body stretches as I wake up, not knowing where I am at first, only registering the soft sheets beneath me and the cloudlike comforter wrapped around me. The pillow smells like clean cotton and something faintly masculine, and that’s enough to bring it all back.
My eyes open slowly as the night returns in pieces. His hands on my skin, the sounds I couldn’t hold back, my fingers in his hair, the way he handled me like he knew exactly what he was doing.
I don’t even know the kinds of things I like. The lack of experience makes that difficult, but with Kirill, I discovered parts of myself I didn’t know I had. I can just imagine the world he’d awaken if we were together.
Too bad I’ll never find out.
Pushing the blanket off, I slide out of bed, the hem of his shirt brushing my thighs as I cross the room to the clothes I wore last night, folded neatly on the chaise.
My fingers roll over the fabric, caught between putting my dress back on and staying wrapped in something that still smells like him.
I pick up the dress anyway, my hands hesitating as I take in how short it is. I remember the way he pulled it off of me, the look in his eyes when he did.
But it’s all I have. Unless I plan on going downstairs in his shirt—or nothing at all, which would be uncomfortable for both of us.
I slide the dress on and smooth the fabric down over my midsection, cringing at how bare I am as I pad into the bathroom. The space resembles a luxurious hotel suite with its shiny marble and gold accents.
I look at myself in the mirror, trying to recognize the girl standing there. My hair is a disaster, my makeup is long gone, and my eyes are still a little swollen from sleep and everything that happened with him last night, but I push it down.
It’s over. It didn’t mean anything. We’re two adults. We can move on.
Except I can’t seem to do that.
Ignoring the mess in my head, I spot some mouthwash and decide to use it, trying to pull myself together. Seeing him again is inevitable, and that thought alone knots my stomach.
Screw it. There’s no way around this. I step out, grab my shoes and bag, and go downstairs. I need to get to Mandy’s, get my car, and make it to my interview with Greer today.
A shower would be nice, but I’m not about to do it here. Mandy would let me if I asked, so there’s that.
Halfway down, I notice one of Kirill’s men standing off to the side of the staircase, arms folded, posture alert. He straightens when he sees me, dark eyes flicking up and then politely away.
“Kitchen this way,” he says, his Russian accent thick, gesturing down the hall. “Boss ask you join him for breakfast.”
“Okay.”
A hard pulse starts behind my ribs. I could refuse and go home, but as soon as my stomach lets out a low growl, I know I shouldn’t.
It’s been a while since I’ve eaten, and who knows the next time I’ll eat again?
Sometimes I’ll grab a little something at the diner when it isn’t busy, but it’s not all the time.
The guard goes back to his post while I square my shoulders and follow the hall he pointed down, telling myself I can handle breakfast. I can handle seeing Kirill in this house one more time before I go back to reality.
Even if my heart doesn’t believe the lie.
I step into the kitchen, off to the right, unsure what I’m walking into at first. The room is sunlit and bright, the kind of kitchen you only see in magazines.
But it’s not the space that knocks the air from my chest. It’s them.
Kirill is seated at the table as he takes a sip of his coffee, his dress shirt riding up his forearms, the veins there flexing. The sight of it makes desire roll through me, my body remembering exactly what those hands did last night.
In that moment, his eyes meet mine and his features soften.
Before I can even process it, Lev turns in his seat. When he notices me, his whole face lights up like it’s the best surprise in the world.
“Sloane.” The word comes out small, but it might as well move mountains.
He jumps to his feet and hurries across the room toward me. I don’t even have time to brace myself before he throws his arms around my waist in a tight hug, pressing his cheek into me like I’m someone who matters. Like I belong.
My throat closes as I comb my fingers through his hair. “It’s so good to see you, Lev.”
When I look up again, Kirill is still watching us, his expression unreadable at first. Then something flickers there—a tiny curve at the edge of his mouth that could almost be a smile.
And somehow, it’s worse than if he looked away because it makes my heart ache in this sharp, slow way I don’t know how to stop.
Lev tugs my hand, leading me over to the table without letting go, like he’s afraid I might disappear. He climbs back into his seat and pulls me onto the chair beside him. His hand stays wrapped around mine as he reaches for his orange juice with the other. I don’t even try to take it back.
“How about we let Sloane eat, Lev?” Kirill says as he rises to make me a plate.
“Don’t you dare.” I narrow a playful gaze at him. “I’ll have you know I’m very good at eating one-handed.”
That causes Lev to laugh under his breath, and Kirill grins at seeing his son happy. Who wouldn’t be? That’s what we want for our kids. For them to have a good life, to be loved and cared for.
Sharp panic hits my chest at the thought of Milo eating alone without me, my sister probably snapping at him over spilled milk the way Mom used to snap at us over anything she could find.
I force the image down before it can drown me. I can’t get upset in front of Lev.
Instead, I eat with my free hand, awkwardly spearing pancakes with my fork, and I don’t care how ridiculous I look. Not when Lev’s beaming beside me like I’m the best part of his morning. It’s a good feeling being wanted like that.
Kirill watches us from across the table, taking sips of his coffee. His eyes keep drifting lower, like he’s processing the fact that Lev is holding my hand.
Does he not do that? I don’t want to ask, not when Lev is here to hear it.
We eat like that: Lev content holding my hand while Kirill glances occasionally, taking it all in. After we’re done, Lev wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and turns toward his father.
“Piano,” he says.
Kirill tilts his head. “You want me to play?”
Lev nods, eyes bright.
He plays the piano? I can’t picture it. This big, dangerous man at a keyboard, those hands doing something that gentle. Then again, he’s been gentle with me.
“Ladno. Paydom.” Kirill straightens from his seat, glancing over at me. “Come. He likes it when I play.”
I follow them through the hall until we reach the grand piano by the foyer. Kirill slides in first, settling on the edge of the bench while Lev sits on his lap.
Hovering near the side, I wait for the first note, but Lev reaches his hand out toward me. He doesn’t say anything, just waits with that sweet expectant look, like I’m meant to be part of this.
I sit beside them, and my thigh brushes Kirill’s. It’s barely anything, a simple contact, but it hits like a spark anyway, lighting up nerves I’m trying not to acknowledge. His shoulder grazes mine when he shifts, and the warmth of him sinks in fast, familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.
His gaze collides with mine and doesn’t let go, heavy enough to pin me in place.
It drops to my lips, slow and possessive, like he’s deciding whether he’s going to kiss me or make me beg for it, and my mouth parts, offering without meaning to.
But instead, his features tighten and he turns back to the keys.
The moment his fingers touch them, I stare in wonder.
The sound is soft at first, then it swells into something haunting and beautiful, something that builds in my chest like a memory I never had.
I don’t recognize the piece, but it wraps around me all the same, notes curling into the space, drawing every emotion from me.
Joy, sorrow, pain, regret. It’s all there, drifting in the air around me as though he summoned it.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes before I even realize they’re coming. I blink them back, swallowing the lump in my throat, trying to fight past the throbbing that rises up out of nowhere.
I don’t know why it hits me this way, but it does. Maybe because it’s so unexpected. Maybe because there’s something about watching this man—this hard and terrifying man—create something so beautiful with his hands while his son sits on his lap. But I’m lost to him.
And for one fragile moment, as I continue to watch him play, it feels like we’re something close to a family.
Something real. Something just as haunting and beautiful. And altogether ours.