Chapter 3 Dripping Water, Burning Skin
DRIPPING WATER, BURNING SKIN
DANI
Iwoke to Egyptian cotton and the taste of fear fermenting on my tongue.
Afternoon light bled through curtains I hadn't closed. My mouth tasted like I'd been sucking on pennies; that copper tang of anxiety mixed with morning breath. The guest bed held me like a secret, sheets twisted from dreams where large hands and ice-pale eyes featured too prominently.
The apartment was silent. I attempted to open the locked door and, to my surprise, it was no longer locked.
Too silent.
I padded out barefoot, the marble floor arctic against my skin. Each step echoed in the emptiness.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
A note was on the kitchen counter in handwriting sharp enough to cut: Mr. Zverev will return this evening. Clothes in bag. Wear them. - N
Next to the bag sat a plate. A sandwich, cut diagonally. Still fresh—I could smell the mustard, sharp and yellow. A glass of orange juice, condensation beading like sweat.
He had left food.
The sandwich tasted like normalcy. Turkey and swiss and the pretense that this was anything other than captivity. I drank the orange juice and it was too sweet, coating my throat like a lie.
The clothes fit perfectly. Cashmere soft as whispers against my skin. Jeans that hugged in all the right places. I could smell the newness on them—that department store chemical tang that said expensive and untouched.
I spent the day mapping my prison. Testing windows that didn't open. Memorizing the rhythm of the building—elevator dings at 3:17, 4:43, 6:22. Never stopping on this floor. The Christmas tree lights blinked every forty-five seconds. Even the decorations were on a schedule here.
By evening, I was drowning in silence.
That's when I heard it.
His office door clicking open.
He had been here. All day. Listening to me pace like a caged animal.
He emerged as darkness pressed against the windows.
Black slacks that whispered money with every step.
White shirt with sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that looked like they were carved by someone who understood sin.
The smell of him filled the hallway—cologne dark as midnight, coffee, and something underneath that made my stomach clench.
"Productive day?" His voice was mocking silk.
"Imprisoned day." My mouth was desert-dry. "There's a difference."
He moved past me, close enough that I felt the air displacement, the heat rolling off him like a threat.
"I need to shower. Don't do anything stupid."
His bedroom door closed.
I stood there, listening to him move around his room. The whisper of fabric as he undressed. His footsteps on hardwood. Then,
Water. From his bedroom.
The shower started, and the sound filled the apartment like white noise.
I should go back to the living room. Should stay as far from his bedroom as possible.
His phone. He had it in the office. Where does he put it when he showers?
My feet moved before my brain approved.
Down the hallway. Into his bedroom.
The space was darker than the rest of the penthouse. Heavy curtains blocking most of the light. Just thin shafts cutting through where the fabric didn't quite meet, illuminating dust motes floating lazy and slow.
The air smelled like him. Cologne and something masculine that made my stomach clench.
The bathroom door was cracked open. Steam escaping in slow curls. Water pounding against tile, loud and steady.
He was in there. Right there. Ten feet away.
My hands were shaking as I scanned the room.
Nightstand. Dresser. The massive bed that took up half the space.
Where's the phone? Where would he—
There.
On the dresser. Black. Expensive. Face-down like he tossed it there without thinking.
I crossed the room on silent feet, my pulse so loud in my ears I was sure he could hear it over the water.
I grabbed the phone.
The screen lit up when I flipped it over.
Unlocked.
You stupid, arrogant—
I didn't waste time being grateful for his overconfidence.
Just pulled up the dial pad with trembling fingers.
Who do you call? Who would actually help?
I typed the numbers.
My thumb hovered over the call button.
Do it. Just do it. They'll trace the call. They'll find you.
I pressed it.
The water kept running. He was still in there.
Hurry. Hurry.
One ring.
My breath came in short gasps.
Two rings.
The bathroom was still billowing steam. He hadn't heard.
Three—
"911, what's your emergency?"
Professional. Calm. The voice of someone who saves people.
Tell her. Tell her everything.
"I—" My voice came out as a whisper. I cleared my throat. Tried again. "I've been kidnapped. I'm being held—"
Heat.
Sudden and overwhelming.
Behind me.
So close I could feel it against my back like standing too near a fire.
No. The shower's still running. He's still—
Drip.
Water hitting marble.
Right behind me.
Every muscle in my body locked.
Don't turn around. Don't—
Drip.
Closer.
I could feel him now. Radiating heat like a furnace. The air displaced by his presence. Steam rising between us.
Oh God.
"Ma'am? Are you there? What's your location?"
The operator's voice sounded like it was coming from another universe.
I turned.
Slowly.
Konstantin stood two feet away.
Completely naked.
Water ran down his body in rivers, following the harsh lines of muscle, the brutal landscape of scars.
Steam rose from his skin like he was something that shouldn't exist in the real world.
His hair dripped onto shoulders marked with ink—black Cyrillic letters wrapping around his arm, across his ribs, telling stories in a language I'd never read.
The shower was still going behind him.
He had left it on. He had heard me and he had left it running so I wouldn't know he was coming.
"Ma'am, if you can hear me, officers are being dispatched to trace this call. Stay on the line."
His eyes dropped to the phone in my hand.
Back to my face.
He didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Just stood there dripping, steam curling around him like smoke, his gaze locked on mine with an intensity that made my lungs seize.
Then he moved.
Fast.
One step and his hand was wrapping around my wrist. Ripping the phone away with enough force to make my bones grind.
He ended the call with one tap.
“Ma’am? Ma’am, are you there?” the operator’s voice crackled faintly from the floor where the phone had landed, tinny and far away.
Konstantin bent, picked it up, and hit another button without even looking at the screen.
“Wrong number,” he said in that flat, accented English. Calm. Bored. The way normal people ordered takeout. “Put it through the usual channel.”
Whoever was on the other end must have understood exactly what that meant. He listened for two seconds, then ended the call for real and tossed the phone onto the dresser like it weighed nothing.
Set it on the dresser.
The silence was deafening.
Just my ragged breathing and the shower pounding and the steady drip drip drip of water falling from his body onto marble.
His hand was still wrapped around my wrist. Hot. Damp. Strong enough I couldn't break free if I tried.
"That was stupid." His voice was soft. Deadly.
I couldn't respond. Couldn't do anything except stare at him while my brain tried to process that he was completely naked and close enough I could see individual water droplets sliding down his chest.
My eyes betrayed me.
Dropped.
Took in everything I shouldn't be seeing.
The scars weren't just on his ribs. They were everywhere. Puckered bullet wound on his shoulder. Long thin line across his abdomen that looked like a knife got too close. Marks that spoke of a life lived violently.
The ink was intricate. Beautiful in a brutal way. Cyrillic script wrapping around his side. Symbols on his hip that might be religious or might be something darker.
And below that—
Don't look. Don't—
Too late.
He was hard.
Thick and curving up toward his stomach, impossible to miss, impossible to ignore.
My face went nuclear.
Heat flooded from my cheeks down my throat, spreading across my chest like wildfire while shame burned just as hot in my gut.
You're staring at your kidnapper's cock. You're actually standing here staring.
"Enjoying the view?" His voice cut through my spiral.
I forced my eyes up. "Fuck you."
"Not yet." His free hand found my jaw. Gripped. "But we're getting there."
What—
He yanked me against him.
Suddenly there was no space between us. His wet chest pressed to my dry one, soaking through my thin pajama top in seconds. His thigh between my legs. His hand on my jaw holding me in place.
"You want to call police?" His breath was hot against my lips. "Want to tell them big bad Russian is keeping you prisoner?"
Yes. Exactly that.
"Go ahead." His thumb brushed my bottom lip. "Tell them. See if they come."
"They will," I whispered.
"No, kotyonok." His smile could cut glass. "They won't."
Then his mouth was on mine.
The kiss was brutal. Claiming. His tongue invading with zero permission, his hand in my hair yanking my head back at the angle he wanted.
I should bite him. Should fight.
Instead, I kissed him back.
Hate and want mixing until they were the same thing.
My hands found his wet shoulders. Nails digging in. Drawing blood probably.
Good.
If I'm going to hell for this, you're coming with me.
He broke the kiss, both of us gasping.
"You're soaking wet," he growled.
"You're dripping on me."
"Not what I meant." His hand slid down. Cupped between my legs. "Here. You're wet here."
Die. Just die right now.
I tried to shove him away.
He didn't budge.
Just pressed harder, his palm grinding against me through thin cotton, and I made a sound that's half gasp, half moan, fully humiliating.
"That's what I thought." His eyes were black now. Pupils swallowing the gray. "You want this. You want me. Even while you hate yourself for it."
"I don't—"
"Yes, you do." He yanked at my pajama top.
Buttons flew.
Suddenly I was bare-chested in his bedroom while he was naked and wet and looking at me like I was his next meal.
"Tell me no." His hand found my breast. "Tell me to stop and I will."
Say it. Say no. Preserve something.
"I..." My voice wouldn't work.
His thumb circled my nipple and thought evaporated.
Oh God.
"Say it, Dani." His mouth found my neck. "Say no."
"I can't." The confession broke me. "I can't say it and I hate myself."
His teeth sank into my shoulder.
Not hard enough to break skin.
Hard enough to make me cry out.
"Good." He yanked my pajama pants down. "Hate yourself. Hate me. I don't give a fuck."
Then I was naked and he was lifting me, my legs wrapping around his waist, my back hitting the wall so hard it knocked the air from my lungs.
His mouth was everywhere. My neck. My collarbone. My breast.
When his tongue circled my nipple, I arched into him, my hands fisting in his wet hair.
This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong.
His hand slid between us. Found me slick and ready and absolutely mortified.
"Fuck, you're soaked." The word was reverent. Awed.
One finger slid inside.
The stretch was foreign. Intense.
"Oh God—"
He added another.
I cried out, my head falling back against the wall.
"So tight." His voice was strained. "When was the last time?"
Never. It's been never.
But I couldn't say it.
Couldn't admit I was twenty-four and pathetic and completely inexperienced.
His fingers curled. Found something that made stars detonate behind my eyes.
My hips bucked.
"Please." I didn't know what I was begging for. "Please—"
His thumb pressed and I shattered.
The orgasm ripped through me, my body clenching around his fingers, my mouth open in a silent scream.
He worked me through it, drawing out every pulse until I was boneless and gasping.
When I could breathe again, his fingers slipped out.
He brought them to his mouth.
Sucked them clean while maintaining eye contact.
Oh fuck.
"You taste like you're mine," he said.
Then he was moving.
Carrying me to the floor.
Carpet soft under my back. His body covering mine.
"I need to tell you something." His voice was rough.
What? What could possibly—
"This is going to hurt." His eyes locked on mine. "First time always does."
My brain short-circuited.
First time. He knows. How does he—
"I've never—" The words stuck in my throat.
"I know." His hand cupped my face. Almost gentle. "I can tell."
How? How can you—
"The way you move. The way you flinch from touch." His thumb brushed my cheek. "You're a virgin, kotyonok. And I'm about to change that."
Panic flooded sharp and cold.
"Wait—"
"No waiting." His hand slid between us. "You want this. I want this. Rest is just noise."
Then I felt him.
Blunt pressure against my entrance.
This is really happening. This is—
He pushed inside.
The burn was immediate.
White-hot.
Tearing.
My body fighting him, muscles clenching, trying to push out the invasion.
Too much. Too big. Stop—
"Breathe." His voice was strained. "Breathe through it."
But breathing was impossible when he was splitting me open, when pain was lancing through my core, when I could feel myself tearing to accommodate him.
He slid deeper.
I bit down on my lip. Tasted copper.
"Almost." His forehead pressed to mine. "Almost there, kotyonok."
One more push and he was buried completely.
Filling me. Owning me. Changing me irrevocably.
We both froze.
The fullness was overwhelming. The stretch burning. My body screaming in protest.
"Okay?" His voice was tight.
No. Nothing about this was okay.
"Move." The word fell out. "Just move."
He did.
Pulled out slow. The drag exquisite torture.
Pushed back in.
The pain started to fade. Replaced by pressure. By friction. By something building that made my toes curl.
Oh.
His rhythm increased. Each thrust deliberate. Deep. Hitting something inside that made coherent thought impossible.
I was making sounds I'd never made.
My name fell from his lips like a prayer and a curse.
When we both came, it was violent.
His release flooding me with heat.
Mine clamping down on him, milking every drop.
We collapsed together on expensive carpet.
Both shaking.
Both destroyed.