Chapter 21 Bella
BELLA
I tell myself I’m not going to do it.
I tell myself it’s none of my business, that I have no right to dig through a world that is not mine. I tell myself I should read Lily a book, pretend this is a normal apartment and not a fortress with secrets sealed behind closed doors.
But the moment Lily goes down for her nap, curled on her side with her bunny under her chin, the silence presses in.
And the door in the hallway might as well be humming.
The one Nikolai closed in my face earlier.
I stand next to Lily’s bed for a long second, watching her chest rise and fall. I adjust the blanket, tuck a curl behind her ear.
The hallway feels longer than before. I pass the studio door, the one I found by accident, and I don’t look at it. I can’t handle that room right now. Not the drawings, not the proof of how deep this goes.
The office door is at the end, slightly recessed, the kind of placement that makes it feel deliberate. Hidden. Private.
I reach for the handle.
It’s locked.
Of course it is.
I stand there, staring at the brass, heart thudding like I’ve already been caught. I should turn around. I should go back. I should be better than this.
Then I notice the key.
It’s not even hidden. It’s sitting on top of the doorframe like someone placed it there without thinking, or like someone wanted it within reach.
That makes my stomach twist.
I hesitate. Then I stretch up on my toes, fingers brushing the cool metal, and lift it down.
The key slides into the lock smoothly. The click is quiet but it feels loud in my head, like a gunshot in a museum.
I open the door and step inside.
Papers everywhere, old brass lamps, shelves full of books I can’t read—Russian, French, a few English titles about economics and warfare.
But the real heart of the place is the wall.
A corkboard, massive, covered in photographs, newspaper clippings, flight manifests. Red string stretches from face to face, city to city.
There’s a section labeled “Flight 498.” Passenger list, cabin crew, Kirov’s seat circled, someone called Elena Morozova’s name underlined twice in red.
My eyes drift to another section of the wall.
It’s about Irina.
No photo, just a name written in block letters like a warning.
IRINA.
Under that, a list of associates, lieutenants, fronts, companies. The kind of list you don’t make unless you’re planning for war.
And then I see a cluster of strings that connect Irina to the plane, to Kirov, to something else.
A voice behind me, low and unmistakable. “I told you not to come in here.”
I whirl, pulse pounding, half expecting him to be angry. But Aleksander just stands in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, gaze dark but not cold. He doesn’t look pissed. More resigned, maybe even faintly amused.
“I think I can help,” I blurt, and immediately regret it. My voice sounds small, unconvincing. What do I know about the Bratva, about murder and red strings and the way men like him move through the world? I don’t even know how to keep myself safe, let alone help Aleksander.
He studies me, then his eyes flick over my shoulder to the mess of the board.
“Where were you?” I ask.
He doesn’t call me out on it. He just nods once, the motion slow, deliberate. “I was chasing a lead.”
There’s a pause, and something uncomfortable settles between us. I clear my throat. “There’s something I was meaning to ask.”
He waits.
“Where’s my stuff?” I say, softer than I intended. “I mean, all my things. Clothes, Lily’s bag. We left so fast, I haven’t…” I trail off, embarrassed, glancing down at myself in yesterday’s shirt and the only change of pants I had stuffed in my purse. “I think I’ve started to stink.”
Aleksander’s lips twitch, the faintest ghost of a smile. “I’m sorry. I’ll have someone put it out for you in the guest room.”
He stops just in front of me, so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body. He leans in, dips his head, and sniffs softly at my shoulder and hair, so close I can feel the brush of his breath against my skin.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice dropping, rough and a little primal. “You do smell different.”
I can’t help but laugh—a nervous sound that somehow breaks the tension. “Not my best day.”
He lingers there for a second longer, his hand coming up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “You smell like me.”
His words hang between us.
He’s so close I can feel the heat of him, the wood and leather of the desk pressing into my thighs. I don’t move—my pulse is pounding in my throat, breath coming a little faster, all the caution I felt a second ago replaced by this wild ache. Aleksander looks at me, eyes dark, daring me.
Something shifts inside me. I want to take control.
I lean in, running my hands up the front of his shirt, feeling the hard lines of his chest under the soft cotton. “Maybe you should worry about smelling like me instead,” I murmur, and my voice is lower than I expect, thick with need.
He smirks, but he doesn’t push back when I turn the tables, pushing him gently until he’s against the desk.
I drop to my knees, the floor cold through my jeans, but all I feel is the heat rolling off his body.
I look up at him, letting him see the wicked grin on my lips as I reach for his belt, undoing it slowly, teasing.
He lets out this impatient sound—half growl, half moan—and I see the way his hands flex against the wood behind him.
The buckle clinks, and then his zipper, and I slide his pants down enough to free him. His cock is already hard, thick and heavy in my hand, hot as I wrap my fingers around him. Aleksander hisses in a breath, jaw clenching. I like making him lose control.
I don’t rush. I lick the head, tasting him, slow circles with my tongue, watching his eyes flutter closed.
“Fuck, Bella,” he mutters, voice rough. I take him in deeper, sucking him in slow, savoring the weight of him on my tongue, the way he fills my mouth.
I move my hand in sync, twisting, stroking, taking him deeper with each bob, until I can feel him hitting the back of my throat and tears prick my eyes, but I keep going, loving the way he’s trembling.
His fingers find my hair, tightening, guiding but never forcing. He’s letting me set the pace—my pace, my mouth, my rules. I hum around him, letting the vibration travel through him, and he curses again, head falling back. I glance up, loving how wrecked he looks, how undone I can make this man.
I pull back, letting my lips drag along the length of him, then suck him in hard and fast, my hand moving with more urgency.
I want to taste him, want to ruin him. He’s so close—I can tell by the way his thighs are tensing, his grip in my hair getting desperate.
I hollow my cheeks and take him in as deep as I can, swallowing around him, and that’s it—he loses it.
“Bella, I—fuck—”
He tries to pull away, but I hold him tight, and he spills, hot and salty on my tongue, spilling past my lips, thick spurts that coat my mouth and chin. I let some of it drip onto my chest, not caring, watching him shudder above me, watching him completely unguarded.
When he’s done, I pull back, licking my lips, wiping the mess with the back of my hand, grinning up at him, breathless. “Now you smell like me,” I say, voice smug and playful, and I see the way his eyes darken all over again.
He’s still catching his breath, pants barely held up, chest heaving, but he laughs, this low, wrecked sound, and reaches for me. “Come here,” he says, voice softer, but rough at the edges.
I stand, and he pulls me into him, his mouth crashing onto mine, tasting himself on my lips.
His hands slide into my hair, fingers tangling, tugging me closer.
There’s nothing gentle about the kiss—it’s raw, messy, desperate.
I can taste his release, feel the slickness on my chin, feel how wild I’ve made him.
His hands find the hem of my shirt, tugging it up, and I let him, skin prickling in the cool air. He palms my breasts, pinching my nipples through my bra until I gasp, my own knees going weak. I can feel how wet I am, how badly I need him, and I grind against his thigh, chasing friction.
He grins against my mouth. “You like taking charge, huh?”
I nod, biting his lower lip. “Sometimes. Sometimes I just want you in my mouth, want to taste you, want to see you lose control.”
He growls, deep in his chest, and grabs my ass, lifting me onto the desk, spreading my legs. “And what do you want now?” he asks, voice dark, fingers teasing at the waistband of my jeans.
I shiver, anticipation curling in my belly. “I want you,” I whisper, barely able to speak as his fingers dip beneath the denim, brushing over my slick heat. “Now.”
He doesn’t make me wait. In a blink, my jeans are down, his mouth hot on my neck, biting, sucking, his fingers sliding through my folds, pushing into me, making me gasp and writhe against the desk. He’s rougher now, urgent, but I love it, love knowing I can make him lose it like this.
My jeans are halfway down my thighs, panties tugged aside, and there’s barely a second to breathe before his mouth is on mine again—hungry, desperate, tasting himself on my lips. His cock, already hard again, and still slick and heavy from my mouth, presses hot against my inner thigh.
I reach between us, wrapping my hand around him, guiding him right where I want him.
The need is molten inside me now—my pulse throbs between my legs, everything tight and aching.
Aleksander holds my gaze, eyes dark, his breath coming harsh against my cheek as I rub his tip along my soaked folds, teasing us both, spreading the mess he made across my skin.