Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
KIRILL
You’re the only man I’ve ever wanted.
Those words will probably end up carved on my tombstone one day. Or at the very least burned into my memory for the rest of my life. Because I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way she looked at me when she said it, like she meant every damn syllable.
Hours later, and I still can’t sleep.
Instead, I find myself in the basement gym, sweat dripping down my bare back as the punching bag swings violently in front of me. My fists keep driving into it over and over, but it does nothing to quiet the noise in my head.
Because the problem is, I believed her. I still do. That’s the fucked-up part.
That dress she wore tonight, the way it hugged her body, the way every inch of her seemed to beg to be touched, teased, taken until she couldn’t remember a life before me…
I wanted to shove her up against the nearest wall, bury myself inside her, and hear my name fall from her lips until every dark thought left her head and I was the only thing she knew.
If Lev hadn’t walked in…
Blyat. I drag a hand down my face.
How the hell am I supposed to live in the same house with her and deny myself the one thing I want most?
And it’s not even just the sex. That would be easier. It’s everything else that drives me insane. The way she laughs when something catches her off guard. The softness in her voice when she talks to Lev. The way she blushes and gets shy around me, like she doesn’t realize the effect she has.
I want her to be more than just the nanny. Even if that’s the one thing I shouldn’t allow myself to have.
“Fuck!” My fist slams into the punching bag, the chain rattling above it as the impact sends it swinging.
I hit it again. And again. The burn spreads down my arms as sweat runs down my spine, but the tension inside me refuses to ease.
Because no matter how much I want her, she kept something from me.
Every swing of my fist is an attempt to bleed off the frustration twisting in my chest, the anger that’s been eating at me since she looked me straight in the eye and lied.
Why didn’t she mention him? Does he mean something to her?
My fist cracks against the bag again, sending it swinging hard.
Who the hell is he?
Another hit. The leather thuds beneath my gloves as the bag rolls back toward me.
I imagine his hands on her. Touching her. Taking something that doesn’t belong to him.
I’ve done nothing but try to earn her trust. And this is how she repays me?
A savage growl tears out of my chest as my breathing goes rough and uneven.
It’s a sick kind of obsession, the way I still want her. But maybe there was a reason she didn’t tell me about him. Maybe he’s tied to her past.
Or maybe I’m telling myself whatever I need to hear just so I can keep her.
My fist crashes into the bag, the jolt traveling straight up my arms.
Because I already know the truth.
The second I close my eyes tonight…she’ll be there again. Pulling me in the way she always does.
SLOANE
With a frustrated huff, I shove the comforter off my body and swing my feet onto the floor. The red numbers on the clock beside my bed glow in the dark, telling me it’s well past midnight, and I haven’t slept a minute.
Every time I close my eyes, he’s there. The way he looked at me earlier. The way his hands felt on my body. The heat between us when we almost kissed. The memory wraps around my thoughts and refuses to let go, pulling me right back into that moment no matter how hard I try to shake it off.
Ti vsegda budish moya.
What was he saying?
I head toward the door, knowing there’s no point trying to sleep again until I’ve worn myself out. If I crawl back into bed now, I’ll just lie there staring at the ceiling until morning.
Maybe I’ll grab something to eat and watch a little TV. Or maybe I’ll wander the house and see if I can spot any cameras I missed earlier while everything is quiet.
The guard barely glances at me as I walk past and head straight for the kitchen, suddenly realizing how thirsty I am. I fill a glass with water and lean against the counter while I drink, the silence of the house settling around me before I rinse the cup, dry it, and return it to the cabinet.
Instead of heading back upstairs, my feet carry me down a different corridor, one I haven’t explored yet. The hallway stretches, lined with closed doors hiding whatever is inside them, until I spot a staircase heading down.
My intuition tells me to go back upstairs, but I take the steps anyway, the air getting cooler as I descend.
Halfway down, I hear it.
A heavy thud. Then another. The sound reverberates faintly through the space, like someone hitting something with force or maybe working out.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I follow the sound down as it grows clearer, the steady rhythm of impact broken now by the low groan of a man.
When I reach an open doorway, I freeze.
Kirill stands a few feet away with his back to me, shirtless, his fists slamming into a hanging punching bag with a force that makes the chain above it rattle.
The muscles in his shoulders and arms move with every hit, hard and defined. Sweat runs down his back and disappears beneath the waistband of the gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, leaving me feeling tight and hot all over.
He hits the bag again. And again.
Each strike sends the bag swinging, his breathing heavy but in control. I should probably step away before he notices me, but I don’t. My eyes stay on him, drawn to the way his body moves, to the strength in every motion.
Then he shifts, the light catching his back, and I see them. The scars.
I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering who did that to him. The marks stretch across his back in harsh, uneven lines that cut through the bronzed skin of his shoulders and down toward the middle and sides—some long and jagged, others thinner but no less brutal, crossing over each other.
Did someone whip him?
Oh God…
My gasp hitches.
Kirill stops so abruptly, it’s like someone pulled a cord. His fists lower while the punching bag keeps swinging in front of him.
He doesn’t turn right away. He just stands there with his back to me, like he’s deciding what version of himself I’m about to see.
Then he pivots. His eyes find mine immediately, like he already knew it would be me.
“Sloane,” he says, his voice gritty. “What are you doing down here?”
“I…couldn’t sleep,” I manage, even as desire builds low in my stomach. I squeeze my legs, hoping it’ll ease.
When he starts toward me, peeling off his gloves and tossing them carelessly onto the floor, something in the way he looks at me sends my pulse spiking. There’s a hunger in his gaze that makes it feel like he might actually devour me.
I take a step back. Then another. But there’s no wall behind me to stop against, nothing to anchor myself to as he closes the distance.
“You wandering down here…” His knuckles brush lightly along the outline of my jaw. “That was a mistake.”
My breath leaves me unevenly as his gaze drops to my mouth, his thumb sliding slowly across my bottom lip.
“Maybe I should go,” I whisper.
A low, humorless laugh escapes him. “It’s too late now.”
My eyes widen as his free hand slides into my hair and pulls my head back, forcing my body tight against his. One arm locks around my back, holding me there, and through the thin fabric of his sweats, I can feel how hard he is, pressing straight into me.
“Oh God,” I cry out and a growl tears out of him.
“God could never save you from a man like me, malyshka.”
Pure, unfiltered lust rushes through me. There’s something masculine and dangerous in his gaze that only makes me want him more.
“Please,” I groan, the word slipping out before I can think, desire twisting through me so strongly it’s impossible to hold back.
“Please what?” His fingers tighten in my hair, pulling my mouth to his as his lips brush against mine, slow and teasing until my knees turn weak beneath me.
When a soft whimper breaks free, he groans and suddenly shoves me back against the nearest wall. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs.
His hand slides up my thigh, teasing a slow path up until he pauses, his expression tight. “You walked around the house like this?”
He leans back just enough to take in the ivory silk nightgown, his dark gaze dragging over my body like he’s starving.
“You let my men see you like this…with these perfect tits practically on display?”
His fingers close around one nipple, tightening just enough to make my head fall back as a sharp rush of pleasure shoots through me.
I don’t know if this is a dream. But if it is, someone better not wake me up.
He hooks a finger under a single strap and yanks it down until one of my breasts slips free. I should be embarrassed, exposed, but the only thing I sense is the ache building inside me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, though the small tug at the corner of my mouth betrays me.
“You will be.”
He shuts his eyes, his fist clenching at his side like he’s trying to hold himself back. When he opens them again, the heat in them is almost unbearable.
“You have three seconds to walk out of here, Sloane. Because if you don’t…” His hand comes up around my throat. “I won’t deny myself anymore.”
A quiet chuckle slips from him when I gasp. He tips my chin up until our eyes meet, holding me there so I can’t look away.
“I will fuck you until you can barely walk out of here on your own two feet.” His fingers cinch tighter. “Am I clear, malyshka?”