Chapter 36 Olivia
OLIVIA
FIFTEEN MINUTES EARLIER
It’s unreasonable that Stefan’s floors are this cold. The marble floor is like ice against my bare feet as I tiptoe through the mansion. Sure, the blue-veined Calcutta marble is gorgeous, but when it costs me a frost-bitten pinky toe? No thanks.
The only reason I’m even barefoot in this mansion to begin with is because of him. I know for a fact I didn’t lose my shoes. No, one of his black-clad ninja sidekicks stole them to keep me here.
I do see the appeal of the logic. It’s hard to run away when you’re barefoot. Also when the only path out involves a half-mile long driveway lined with security cameras.
Escape is hopeless, so I should just go back to that ridiculous bedroom and snuggle beneath the silk sheets. Or test out the bathtub big enough for an orgy.
Goodness gracious, that tub. The bathroom has heated floors—what a genius concept—along with a crystal chandelier and bath salts from God’s personal stash. I hate how much I love it.
But muffled voices pull me forward, farther from the glorious tub and orgy dreams. As I reach the pretentious mahogany doors of what can only be Stefan’s study, Russian words shift into English.
The double doors aren’t completely closed—a sliver of light spills onto the floor. And through that crack seeps a name I know.
“Walsh isn’t a concern.” Stefan’s voice is ice-cold, final.
“And how the fuck do you know that?” Taras sounds incredulous. “Christ, Stef. Tell me you haven’t gone off-script already. We agreed—”
Their voices keep going, but my heart has stopped. The world is frozen.
Walsh.
I briefly consider the possibility that Stefan is talking about a different Walsh, not the one who stole my life’s work, is poaching my clients, and currently making my life a living hell.
But it can’t be a coincidence.
Nothing can be a coincidence.
Everything clicks into place with stomach-turning clarity—why Stefan suddenly appeared in my life, why he’s so obsessed with having a baby, why someone shot at us in that parking garage.
I stumble back until my elbow bumps against an accent table pressed against the wall. My funny bone lights up and a tiny gasp escapes before I can stop it.
Instantly, the conversation inside goes dead silent.
Before I can scurry away, the door swings open, flooding the hallway with light. Stefan stands there looking unfairly gorgeous in a half-unbuttoned shirt. He’s lit from behind so his face is almost pure shadow.
Almost pure shadow. Those eyes, though, are bright and furious. “You—”
I don’t even try to pretend I wasn’t eavesdropping. Instead, fury propels me forward.
“You know Walsh? You’re connected to my competitor? Is that what this is about?” My voice shakes as the words tumble out like vomit. “Were you just using me to get information? Or are you another of Walsh’s rich boyfriends trying to ruin me?”
The thought of him with Rebecca, tangled up in bed together, laughing at me…
Ugh, I’m going to be sick.
Stefan isn’t fazed. “Your clinic is hardly thriving. What information could I possibly want?”
I almost wish he’d slapped me instead of that. It came out of him too easily, like he’s been waiting for the chance to tear me down to size.
I turn away before he can see the tears gathering in my eyes.
“You shouldn’t eavesdrop, Olivia,” he chides.
I spin around, nearly losing my balance on the slippery marble in the process. “Oh, I’m so dreadfully sorry. Did I violate the etiquette handbook for hostages? Did I commit a prisoner faux pas?”
“You’re not a hostage.”
“Really?” I gesture wildly at my bare feet. “Then why are my shoes mysteriously missing? And why does every door leading outside need a fingerprint scan?” Before he can answer, I jab a finger at his broad chest. “You’ll have to do a lot more than that if you want to keep me contained, Stefan.”
He strolls closer. “Such as?”
“I don’t know! Handcuff me. Tie me down.”
A beat too late, I realize what I said.
He does, too. His pupils dilate. Eyes turn black in the dim light. “That can be arranged,” he says in a rough whisper that makes my skin prickle.
This—this right here—this is why I have to leave. The man all but kidnapped me, but one look, one husky whisper, and all my righteous fury transforms into… into…
This.
And this is no good. This is no good at all.
“Stop it!” I hiss, lunging back. “You don’t get to do that—to turn this into… You lied to me!”
He shakes his head. “I never lied.”
“I guess I missed the ‘Hey, by the way, I know your professional nemesis’ speech.” My laugh is brittle and high-pitched even to my own ears. “God, I’m an idiot.”
Stefan takes another step toward me. His proximity makes it hard to think straight, especially when he’s looking at me like that.
“Olivia—”
“Don’t.” I hold up my palm to keep him away. “I can’t do this right now. I can’t… I can’t think when you’re this close.”
Something like satisfaction flashes across his face, which only stokes my anger higher. I hate that he knows exactly what effect he has on me. Even now, furious and confused, part of me still wants his hands on my skin—and he’s very well aware.
“We need to talk about this,” he rumbles.
I take another step away before I do something stupid. “Actually, I think we both need to cool off. Separately. And far apart.”
I turn and hurry down the hallway. The tub once again seems like a brilliant idea. I need loofahs and lavender. If I can just get a pinky toe in the suds, then everything will be a-okay.
But I don’t make it far.
Stefan catches up in seconds. His hand wraps around my arm—but it’s not the iron grip I expect. His touch is gentle, his fingers barely making divots against my skin.
Somehow, that’s worse than if he’d dragged me down by the hair like a brute.
Slowly, gingerly, I turn around to face him. I’m equal parts torn and terrified. Too many things are happening inside of me to keep a firm handle on all of them.
“I know nothing about you, Stefan,” I say hoarsely.
“Nothing real. And yet I might be carrying your child right now. Your child!” I pull my arm free and retreat across the hallway until I bump into the far wall, hugging myself tightly.
“And now, apparently, you know Rebecca Walsh? And people are trying to kill us? Someone shot at us in a parking garage! Shot. Like with bullets. I’m not— This is—”
I stop because how in the hell am I supposed to find words adequate for the absurdity of the situation I’ve found myself in?
“I’m a fertility doctor, not some… some character in a thriller movie.
I went to medical school to help people have babies, not to dodge bullets or get mixed up with whatever dangerous business you’re involved in.
I feel like I’m drowning here. I am drowning here. ”
I lean against the wall, breathing hard. The ceilings have to be at least twenty feet high, but it all feels too small and claustrophobic.
I thought getting those words out of my overcrowded head and into the world would make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
I don’t know why I even bothered ranting to begin with. What’s he gonna do? Wipe my tears and hand-feed me Belgian chocolates?
Unlikely.
He’s gonna growl, Toughen up, buttercup, maybe take me up on my offer to be handcuffed, and probably throw in a ball gag for good measure, just so I don’t disturb his beauty sleep.
He opens his mouth and I brace myself for what’s coming: tough love, minus the love.
What comes out instead is something entirely different.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you, lisichka.”
I blink, and blink, and blink again. But he doesn’t take the words back. As I watch, Stefan shoves both hands through his hair until it stands in wild disarray.
I study his face, trying to reconcile the dangerous man I overheard with the one standing before me. Shadows are carved beneath his cheekbones. His eyes remain storm-dark, fathomless, but something in them has changed.
I don’t know how it’s changed—I just know it has.
And I don’t know when I moved, but suddenly, I’m not leaning against the wall anymore. I’ve drifted closer to him. A moth circling a fire that’s inevitably going to kill it. The hallway is smaller than ever and I still can’t breathe, but it doesn’t seem all that bad anymore.
Drowning in here, burning in him—it all seems like a good way to go.
“Why not?” I ask timidly.
He shakes his head. “I can’t tell you everything right now.”
“Are you working with Walsh?”
“No.” His answer is immediate and firm. “She’s just an obstacle to my business interests.”
“And what exactly are those business interests?”
His eyes hold mine, but he doesn’t say a word.
“Feels like you can’t tell me anything,” I mumble.
I shouldn’t be disappointed. I never expected Stefan to let me in. I didn’t sign that contract expecting to get to know him.
But right now—no, not just right now; for far longer than I’m willing to admit—I want to know him.
Maybe that’s why, when his hand reaches out to cup my cheek, I lean into the warmth.
His eyes are huge and dark as he asks the last question I expected to hear right now: “Are you still in your fertile window?”
They’re clinical words, science-y words, but the heat surging underneath them is anything but that. I know what he’s doing: He’s letting me hide behind the things I can dissociate with. I can pretend this is work, even though it’s become…
… This.
“Yes,” I admit as my eyes flutter half-closed. “I am.”
He takes a step closer, erasing what little space remained between us. I can feel the heat radiating from his body now, smell the faint trace of expensive scotch on his breath.
“It would be foolish not to take advantage of it… if it could improve our chances.” The excuse is a flimsy veil for the hunger in his eyes.
“We shouldn’t,” I whisper.
But even as I say it, my hands are reaching for the open collar of his shirt. My fingers brush against warm skin, hard muscle.
He explores me, too. His thumb traces my lower lip, his eyes never leaving mine. I can feel his pulse pounding against my throat where his wrist rests.
“Say the word and I’ll stop,” he growls, just like he offered the very first time. “Tell me you don’t want this and it will end right now.”
I try. I swear I do. I wrack my brain hunting for those words, but Stop isn’t something I’m capable of saying anymore.
Because Stefan Safonov—the man who can have anything—is looking at me like there’s nothing else in the world he could ever want.
That’s the reason—the only reason—I find myself shaking my head.
“I can’t say that,” I confess. “It wouldn’t be true.”
There’s a single breath of hesitation—a crackling moment balanced on the edge of Will we, won’t we—before his mouth covers mine.
Then we both take the leap together.