Chapter 17
Roxy
By the time I reach the top floor, I’m already mentally rehearsing excuses. None of them are good.
Makari’s private quarters loom behind a set of double cedar doors, the kind that look like they could withstand a hurricane and probably have.
There’s a long chip in one that looks suspiciously like the result of a ricocheted bullet.
The doors are slightly ajar now, which is somehow worse.
He’s expecting me. Waiting, and probably stewing after the way I insisted on leaving early two days ago and calling out yesterday.
I smooth my shirt, inhale once, and slip inside.
He’s pacing.
Not the casual, wandering sort of pacing people do when they’re on the phone or thinking through their day. Makari moves like he’s edging the perimeter of a cage. Every stride is clipped, purposeful, brimming with that cold, coiled intensity that fills an entire room before he opens his mouth.
He doesn’t look at me right away; he just prowls another stretch of floor and then pivots, sharp as a hinge.
“You’re late.”
No greeting, no good morning.
“I know,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry. I had—”
He cuts me off with a raised hand, palm slicing the air. He doesn’t want reasons. He wants control back. Wants equilibrium where everything sits neatly in its place, which is infuriating. Makari Medvedev has never in his life had to deal with any kind of inconvenience or imbalance.
The private suite is warm, lit by soft lamps instead of the sharp fluorescents flooding the rest of the building. It smells like him. His jacket is tossed over the back of a chair. A sweater draped across the arm of the couch. A pair of heavy boots by the hearth.
I shouldn’t be here. My heart thuds once, twice, and I inhale his scent, warmth spreading through me.
He shouldn’t have called me up here. But he did, and now the air is humming with accusation and something else neither of us wants to name.
Mak stops pacing long enough to rake his gaze over me, slow and assessing. “You should have called.”
I fold my arms before I can stop myself, grounding against the urge to shrink. “I was trying to deal with it on my own.”
“Deal with what?”
“Andi’s sitter bailed. Again.”
His eyes narrow. The tension in his jaw shifts. It’s not softening, not yet, but catching on something that isn’t anger. “Your mother is not watching her?”
“My mother is in Cambridge,” I say. “Until further notice. It’s complicated.” I swallow, not wanting to get into how Kat is guilting Mom into staying and ‘helping’ with her son, who can take care of himself. And also has a full-time nanny.
His expression flickers. Barely. But enough that I feel it.
“So Andrea was alone this morning?”
“No, she wasn’t alone,” I snap, sharper than intended. “She was with a neighbor for an hour. I just hadn’t planned on it, which is why I’m—”
“Late,” he finishes.
“Yes,” I breathe, “late.”
He circles the room again. It doesn’t matter that he’s not walking toward me—my body reacts like he is. Every movement seems to drag the air tighter, pulling it into a smaller, hotter space. I can’t escape his presence. I don’t know if I want to.
When he finally stops, he’s close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him. His scent—wood smoke, expensive fabrics, skin—wraps around me like a thread pulling tight.
“Next time,” he says, low, “you call me.”
The statement jolts me. “Makari, you don’t get to demand that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re my boss,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Not my lifeline.”
His eyes darken. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. I can almost hear the words he’s swallowing, the urge to contradict me.
“I’m her father,” he growls. And then, carefully: “I can fix this.”
“I don’t need you to fix it.”
“You do.”
I take a step back. “Absolutely not.”
“Roxanne…” He exhales, and there’s something like restraint in the sound, something frayed at the edges. “You are raising my daughter.”
The words shouldn’t make my stomach drop the way they do. They shouldn’t mean anything beyond logistics or shared responsibility. But there’s gravity in them—pull, claim, a note he can’t seem to silence.
“I’ve been raising her for six years,” I say softly. “Alone.”
His expression tightens. It’s as if his pride is wounded.
“And I wasn’t there,” he admits.
The honesty in his voice startles me. Makari doesn’t offer vulnerability—not to anyone. Certainly not to me.
Before I can respond, he steps closer. The space between us shrinks until I’m backed against the edge of a wide walnut desk, one I’ve only ever seen from the outside. Up close, it’s imposing: heavy, carved, polished to a dark sheen. It suits him.
“You’re overwhelmed,” he says. “Your mother is gone. The sitter is unreliable. You’re unpacking, moving, and trying to keep the world from burning down.” His eyes dip to my mouth and then back up. “And you won’t let me help.”
His voice sinks lower on those last words, and the sound curls inside me in a way that’s deeply unfair. This feels different from how it’s been before. This feels like vulnerability.
“I’m trying to keep boundaries,” I whisper, ignoring the way my hands tremble.
“Boundaries.” He tastes the word like it’s foreign. “Between us?”
“Yes.”
His gaze sweeps down my body, lingering where it shouldn’t. “You’re failing.”
Heat rushes through me. I hate the way my breath catches. I hate the way he notices.
“You can’t bark orders at me,” I say, stepping sideways, trying to break the spell. “And I can’t just run up here every time you snap your fingers.”
“You came.”
“I came because you told me to.”
“And you listened,” he says quietly.
That stings. Because it’s true.
He moves closer. “You don’t want distance. If you did, you wouldn’t be shaking.”
I want to deny it, but my pulse betrays me, fluttering against my throat like it’s trying to escape. His eyes dart to my throat, darkening further.
“This is exactly why we need distance,” I say, steadying myself with a breath. “You can’t do this. We can’t do this.”
“You think I don’t know that?” His voice is raw, almost ragged. “You think I haven’t tried—” He stops himself, jaw locking.
The urge to reach for him rises uninvited. Dangerous.
“My daughter,” he says, softer now. “Where is she sleeping tonight?”
“In her own bed,” I say. “In her new house.”
He nods once, an air of relief to the movement that softens something in me. “I’ll find a solution to the sitter situation. Someone reliable. Permanent.”
“Mak—”
“If you refuse,” he continues, “then you’re being stubborn just for the sake of it.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m being practical. I don’t want to owe you every piece of my life.”
“You already do.”
I straighten. “Excuse me?”
He drags a hand through his hair, frustrated. “That came out wrong.”
“It didn’t,” I say. “You meant it.”
He steps toward me again. Reflexive. Possessive. “Rox—”
“No,” I say, placing a hand on his chest because I need something to hold on to. His body heat burns through the fabric of his shirt. So much for distance. “We can’t do this every time something goes wrong.”
“We didn’t do anything,” he murmurs. But his voice betrays him. He wants. He’s remembering. So am I.
I should push him away. I don’t.
“I need to work,” I say, though the words don’t sound like mine.
“You need a moment to breathe,” he counters.
“I need you to stop crowding me.”
His eyes flicker. “Then move.”
But I don’t. And he knows I won’t.
His gaze slips to my mouth again, and that’s the end of it. My breath, my resolve, and the fragile sense of equilibrium I walked in here with are gone.
He leans in, slow enough for me to move away, but fast enough to undo me. My back hits the edge of the desk. The wood bites through my shirt. My hands lift without permission, fists curling in the fabric at his waist.
“Roxy,” he says, low and rough, like the word’s been pulled from somewhere deep.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
He hears the no. He hears the want layered underneath it and pauses, but his fingers play at the hem of my shirt, untucking it deftly from the long skirt that flares at my knees. “You’re right, Roxanne,” he murmurs. “You’re so capable. So responsible. So good.”
My brows knit, a shiver of confusion wracking my body as his fingertips brush my waist. “You’ve been so good. You’re such a good mother, and you must be so tired.” His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together, and my breath catches as our eyes lock.
“You don’t have to be good here, Roxanne. Take what you need.”
I breathe harder, trying to resist the pull of his words. But his hand is warm, almost hot, and the calluses at his fingertips drag over my palm. I bite my lip, swaying toward him. Makari’s eyelids are lowered. He chases—but stops just short of a kiss.
“Take it, Roxanne. Use me.”
The words crash into me and unleash the tension I’ve been holding inside for days, weeks. He’s right.
I am so good. I obey everyone, and I do everything I’m supposed to do, and I’m exhausted and grumpy, and I just want—
Pulling him closer by the undone collar of his shirt, I press my open mouth to his. Makari moans into it, his tongue licking across the seam of my lips until I gasp them open again. Thoughtlessly, I lead his hand down, and his other one hikes my skirt up to allow him access.
He finds my core quickly, barely covered by the thin fabric of a ridiculous thong I have to wear with this silk skirt. With two fingers it’s moved aside quickly, and his fingertips ply my pussy lips, searching for the wet heat that’s gathered between my legs.
Leaning back on the desk, I open my legs to give him better access. Makari groans approvingly, pushing me back as his fingers enter me. I cry out against his mouth, back arching at the feeling of being full and not quite ready for it.
But he goes slow. Teasingly slow. Dragging his touch through the delicate heat of my pussy until I’m ready, wet sounds obscene in the room.