Chapter 9 Bella #2
“I don’t want to be pulled into something I can’t get out of,” I say softly.
He holds my gaze. “Neither do I.”
That answer unsettles me more than any other.
I nod, turning back to my room, closing the door behind me, slipping under the covers. I stare at the ceiling, the city lights flickering through the curtains.
My heart won’t calm down.
Because no matter how much I tell myself this is temporary, that tomorrow will bring distance and clarity, my body knows the truth before my mind does.
Aleksander is already woven into my life again.
And the secret I’ve protected for years feels suddenly, terrifyingly fragile.
I turn onto my side, facing the door to my daughter’s room, and make myself a promise in the dark.
For a moment, the hotel room around me blurs, and I’m lost in another suite—four years ago, with Aleksander.
It was only meant to be a night. That’s what I told myself as I pressed him back onto those crisp white sheets, my dress already falling away, his hands hot and demanding on my skin. But night blurred into morning, morning bled into afternoon, and neither of us left the room.
I remember the weight of his body above me, his cock filling me slow and deep as sunlight spilled over us, his mouth finding my tits, sucking until I cried out and twisted beneath him.
The sheets tangled around my legs, my heels pressing into his back as he fucked me harder, deeper, making me come again and again.
We’d barely catch our breath before he was turning me over, my face pressed to the pillow, his hands gripping my hips as he drove into me from behind, relentless, greedy, the sound of our bodies raw and wet and desperate.
His voice in my ear, low and rough, telling me how good I felt, how much he wanted me, his cock never giving me a chance to recover before he made me come all over again.
Later, I’d ride him straddling his lap, his hands gripping my ass, guiding my hips up and down, my tits bouncing for him as he bit at my neck, groaning against my skin.
He’d pin my wrists above my head, fuck me with my legs spread wide, his fingers rubbing my clit, making me come so hard I saw stars.
At night, he’d pull me close and slide inside me slow, fucking me lazy and deep until I melted around him, the city lights flickering through the window.
There was laughter too—late-night grins, stolen kisses, me gasping as he pulled me into the shower, water streaming over our bodies as he pinned me against the glass and slid inside me again.
Every touch was hungry, every kiss left me aching for more.
There was no part of me he didn’t take, didn’t worship, didn’t ruin.
It was madness, those forty-eight hours—a reckless, beautiful storm I told myself I could outrun.
I’d lost track of time completely. The outside world faded, the phone buzzing somewhere in my purse, Maya’s name lighting up the screen over and over, but I let every call slide to voicemail.
I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t explain. I didn’t know what was wrong with me—only that Aleksander was all I could think about, all I could feel.
He was intoxicating in every way. The heat of his hands, the press of his mouth, the rough scrape of his jaw against my thigh as he went down on me for the third time that morning. The hours vanished. It was as if the world outside the hotel room stopped existing altogether.
Later, after I’d finally pulled myself out of bed, laughing and flushed and unsteady, he took my hand and insisted on breakfast. We went down to the buffet—me in his shirt, hair still wet from the shower, feeling like the rules of ordinary life didn’t apply anymore.
When we sat, something shifted in the room.
People glanced up, paused mid-bite, then quietly cleared away from the table Aleksander chose.
The staff moved with a different kind of energy, polite but distant, like they recognized him or sensed something about him that made them want to keep their distance.
It was surreal, the way he commanded space and attention without trying. He just existed, and the world seemed to bend around him.
I remember stirring coffee, watching his hands as he buttered toast, feeling untethered and light and slightly giddy. Like the whole thing was a dream—two days stolen out of time, reckless and impossible.
The memory leaves me breathless even now. The only thing I knew for sure, back then or now, was that nothing in my life had ever felt so out of control…or so perfectly right.
After breakfast, I had drifted out into the bright hallway, letting my fingers skim the polished wood of the banister.
Just two days earlier, I’d been there for work, too tired and distracted to notice anything but my phone and the endless lists in my head.
After two days locked away with Aleksander, the whole hotel felt different—strange, dreamy, as if I’d crossed some invisible line.
I paused by a window, watching the city bustle far below, my body still humming with the memory of his hands. I almost didn’t notice the woman until she was standing beside me.
She was elegant, maybe in her forties, dressed in muted colors, her gaze as piercing as winter air. She didn’t bother with a smile.
“Are you with him?” she asked, voice quiet but urgent.
I hesitated, caught off guard. “I—sorry?”
She stepped closer, dropping her voice even lower. “With the Russian. The one who took over half the buffet with you. Aleksander.”
My heart skipped. “I…I guess so. Why?”
She looked me over, searching my face for something, then shook her head, almost in pity. “You need to get out. Leave, right now.”
“What are you talking about?”
Her eyes never left mine. “Men like him—men in his world—they hurt people, and they don’t stop. If you’re smart, you’ll disappear before he decides you’re a problem too. Whatever you think this is, it never ends well for women like us.”
I swallowed, every muscle suddenly tense. There was nothing vague about her fear—nothing performative. She was dead serious.
She leaned in, just for me. “He might be charming, but don’t let yourself forget what he really is.”
And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the sunlight, shaken to my core. For a split second, I considered running—just grabbing my things and slipping out, vanishing before Aleksander even noticed.
But when I finally made it back to the suite, his presence pulled me in again, just as dangerous, just as irresistible as before.
Still, her words echoed in my head—
Men like him hurt people.
I couldn’t quite shake the sense that she was right.
A soft knock sounds a while later, pulling me out of that half-awake, half-unraveling state where thoughts keep looping no matter how tired I am.
Aleksander doesn’t come in right away. “I ordered dinner,” he says through the door, voice low. “Proper food. Not whatever’s left in the minibar.”
I open it to find him already turning away, giving me space, gesturing toward the dining area. The table has been set while I wasn’t looking. White linen. Candles lit low. The kind of quiet, deliberate care that makes my chest tighten again.
Room service arrives in stages, like a small procession. Silver domes lifted one by one. Steam curling into the air.
There’s soup first, a clear broth poured over delicate dumplings and herbs, meant to warm without overwhelming.
Then a plate of roasted vegetables arranged like someone actually cared how they landed.
A main course of tender fish with lemon and butter, flaky and mild, and another dish beside it just in case I don’t want that—slow-braised meat, rich and comforting, the kind of food that assumes you’ve had a hard day.
There’s bread still warm, torn rather than sliced. Olive oil that smells like summer. A small dish of berries and cream waiting patiently at the end, untouched for now.
I stare at it all, a little stunned. “This is…a lot.”
“You haven’t eaten,” he says simply. “And your daughter will wake up hungry later.”
As if on cue, he’s already set a smaller plate aside, plainer, gentler. He thinks about things before I say them. That shouldn’t feel comforting. Somehow, it does.
I sit, almost reluctantly, and take the first spoonful. It’s good. Too good. My body reacts before my mind does, tension easing just a fraction.
Aleksander doesn’t hover. He sits across from me, quiet, watching without watching, letting me eat in peace. When my daughter stirs, he’s up instantly, moving with that same careful ease, bringing her a glass of water, coaxing her back to sleep with a softness that makes my heart ache again.
I hate how much that affects me.
When I look back down at my plate, I realize my hands have stopped shaking. For the first time since the plane, I feel something dangerously close to human again.
While Aleksander’s still in the other room, his phone vibrates on the table. I glance down at the messages that are popping up on the screen.
S: contact says questions are coming, but not yet.
S: Need to know how you want to proceed tonight.
My stomach drops.
Another message appears, slower this time, like whoever’s typing is choosing their words carefully.
S: Woman and child are with you, yes?
I pick up the phone before I even realize I’m moving. It isn’t locked. Or maybe he never expected me to touch it.
One more message comes through.
S: Say the word if you want them relocated before morning.
Relocated.
My hands start to shake. This isn’t a misunderstanding. This isn’t paranoia. This is planning. Quiet, efficient, terrifying planning.
Behind me, I hear footsteps.
“Here,” Aleksander says casually, “they didn’t have the exact—” He stops.
I turn slowly, his phone still in my hand, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. His expression changes in an instant. Not anger. Not surprise.
Calculation.
I swallow. “What does this mean?”
The silence stretches. He doesn’t reach for the phone. Doesn’t lie right away. That somehow scares me more.