Chapter 46 Olivia
OLIVIA
The tender bumps the dock and I grab the rail, legs still loose from too much sun and not enough blood in my brain. Stefan climbs out first and offers a hand. I ignore him and hop off myself. My knees wobble and nearly give out anyway. The costs of having pride, I suppose.
“You’re quiet this morning,” he notes.
“You wore me out last night.”
A ghost of a smile. He guides me toward the waiting car with a palm at my lower back.
The Maybach swallows us. Salt clings to my skin. He rolls his sleeves to the forearms, opens his phone, fires off orders in clipped Russian.
Soon, we’re moving. I watch streetlights smear across the window and try not to replay last night. The smear of my breath across his desktop. Fractured glow from a chandelier swinging overhead.
Neither of us speaks for a while. I want to ask so many questions—What changed that means it’s okay to come back now? is at the top of the list—but it’s easier to just sit here, with Stefan’s hand on my thigh, as we slowly make our way back to the city.
I snort and stare out at the birches as we turn up the drive to his mansion. Their pale trunks shine like bones against the night.
Guards lift the gate. Cameras track our every moment. Home sweet home—complete with safe rooms and panic buttons.
When we go inside, it takes me a second to realize that I’m suddenly walking down the corridor by myself. I stop and turn around to see Stefan sauntering in the other direction with my weekend bag still in his hand.
“Where are you going? My room’s that way.” I point towards where I was headed.
He keeps going in the other direction. “Not anymore.”
“Not anymore, what? Stefan? Stefan!”
Frowning, I go marching after him. When I round the corner, he’s just unlocking a huge set of double doors. They swing inward and he stands back.
My throat goes tight. The room is dark wood and steel as far as the eye can see. The bed is a black, brutal concrete slab with a soft, sinful center. The bay window spills moonlight across the floor. His scent lives here—citrus and smoke seeping from everything.
And on the tufted bench at the foot of his bed sits my suitcase. The one I brought here the first night I stayed. My blue sweater is folded on top like an apology.
“You moved my things.”
Stefan doesn’t even look in my direction. “Yes.”
“Into your bedroom.”
“Correct.”
“Without asking me.”
Now, he looks up, one eyebrow raised. “Would you have said yes?”
“That’s not the point—”
“So no, then.”
I stand in the doorway of his massive suite, staring at my pathetic collection of belongings that somehow look even more out of place here than they did in the guest room.
My drugstore moisturizer sits next to his Tom Ford cologne.
My worn Harvard Medical sweatshirt drapes over his Italian leather chair.
My battered copy of Gray’s Anatomy leans against his first edition Tolstoy.
“Stefan, we need to talk about boundaries.”
“Do we?”
“Yes. We do.”
He sets down my bag with a soft thump and turns around, giving me his full attention. Which is somehow worse than being ignored.
“Enlighten me, Dr. Aster. What boundaries would you like to establish?”
I take a deep breath. “First, separate bedrooms.”
“No.”
“You can’t just say no—”
“I can and I did.”
Through the door into the en suite bathroom, I can see my toothbrush sitting next to his in the marble holder. Such a small thing—pink plastic next to black titanium—but it might as well be a neon sign screaming that I’ve already lost whatever battle I thought I was fighting.
“This is insane,” I croak. “You can’t just decide I’m living in your bedroom now.”
Stefan moves closer. “My grandmother will expect it.”
“Your grandmother?” I spin around, nearly colliding with his chest. “That’s your excuse?”
“She already assumes you’re my girlfriend.” His fingers find a strand of my hair, twisting it between them. “Would you prefer I tell her the truth? That you’re carrying my child for money?”
“That’s not—” I stop myself. Because it is. It’s exactly what this is.
“She’s been through enough disappointment in her life,” he says. “I won’t add to it by explaining that the woman in my bed is there under contract.”
“So instead, you want me to lie to her?”
“I want you to let her believe what makes her happy.” His eyes darken. “Is that really so terrible?”
Yes. No. I don’t know anymore. Everything about Stefan scrambles my moral compass until north points directly to him.
“Fine,” I say miserably. “But back to the boundaries thing.”
“Stuck on that, aren’t we?”
“They matter! Rules. Lines we don’t cross.”
“Such as?”
I take a breath, trying to organize thoughts that keep scattering every time he looks at me. “The physical stuff—what we did on the yacht, in your office—it’s not necessary. We’re trying to conceive, yes, but we don’t need to…”
“To what?”
“To make it more than it is.”
Stefan backs me against a leather armchair, his hands bracketing my hips. “And what is it, Olivia?”
“Biology.” My voice cracks. “Chemistry, like you said. Hormones.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” His breath warms my ear. “When you’re alone at night, thinking about my hands on you—is that just biology?”
“Stop.”
“You set these boundaries.” His fingers trace the hem of my skirt. “Tell me where the line is.”
“Stefan—”
“Here?” His hand slides higher, fingertips grazing bare skin above my stockings. “Is this crossing a line?”
My breath catches. “Yes.”
“But you’re not stopping me.”
“I should.”
“Then do it.” His fingers inch higher, finding the edge of my underwear. “Push me away. Tell me no.”
I can’t. God help me, I can’t. My body arches toward his touch even as my mind screams warnings.
“That’s what I thought.” His finger hooks the fabric, pulling it aside. “Your boundaries are made of tissue paper, lisichka.”
“And yours?” I gasp as he strokes me. “What about your boundaries?”
“I don’t have any with you,” he admits. “That’s the problem.”
He slides two fingers inside me and I bite down on a moan. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid—this loss of control, this helpless need that makes me forget who I am and what I’m doing here.
“I do hate it when you look away from me.” His free hand grips my chin. “I want to see your face when you break.”
“I’m not—” But I am. I’m already breaking, falling apart under his touch.
“What if I can’t help myself, either?” He increases the pressure, the rhythm. “What if every time I see you, all I can think about is this?”
“Then we’re both fucked.”
“Yes.” He crashes his mouth against mine. “We are.”
The kiss destroys whatever argument I had left. His tongue lashes against mine while his fingers work magic between my legs, and suddenly, I’m coming apart, shaking against him while he swallows my cries.
When it’s done, he raises his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean.
“So much for boundaries,” he murmurs with a wry chuckle.
I want to argue. Want to push him away and reclaim some scrap of dignity, whatever’s left. But my legs are jelly and my mind is static and all I can do is cling to his shoulders while aftershocks ripple through me, making me twitch and gasp.
“This doesn’t change anything,” I say, knowing even as I say it how stupid it sounds.
“No?” He withdraws his hand slowly, deliberately. “Then why are you already wet again?”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He steps back, giving me space I don’t want. “Get ready for bed, Olivia. Our bed.”
“Stefan—”
“Unless you’d prefer to go break the truth to Babushka yourself?”
The trap is so neat I almost admire it. He’s given me the illusion of choice when really there’s only one option: submit to his demands, or hurt an elderly woman who’s shown me nothing but kindness.
“This is manipulation.”
“Yes. It is.”
“And you’re fine with that?”
“I’m fine with keeping you close, by any means necessary.” He moves toward the bathroom. “Everything else is negotiable.”
I watch him disappear behind the door, leaving me wrecked and furious and desperately turned-on. My inner voice whispers vague promises: I’ll set boundaries tomorrow. New rules, better defenses, stronger walls.
But tonight…
Tonight, I’ll crawl into his bed and pretend it’s just for show. Pretend my body doesn’t crave his heat, his weight, his possession.
Tomorrow, I’ll remember this is temporary.
Tonight, I’m his.
The bathroom door opens and Stefan emerges, shirt already half unbuttoned. “Coming to bed?”
“I need a minute.”
“Take all the time you need.” He strips off his shirt entirely, revealing the tattoos and scars that make me shiver. “I’ll be waiting.”