Chapter Thirty-Two
Ilona
Yesterday feels like I imagined it all.
Osip showing me through each room of this impossible mansion, his deep voice explaining duties and schedules while my body hummed with awareness I couldn’t hide.
The way he stood just close enough that I caught hints of his cologne— dark, expensive, intoxicating.
How his fingers brushed mine when he handed me the master key ring, that brief contact sending electricity shooting up my arm.
Head in the game, Ilona.
But God, the tension between us was suffocating. Every time he looked at me, I felt stripped bare, like he could see straight through to the part of me that wanted to press him against the nearest wall and find out if his mouth tastes as dangerous as it looks.
I was so wet by the end of that tour I could barely walk straight.
Actually wet, not just aroused— like my body had forgotten every rule about appropriate employer-employee boundaries.
When he said goodbye, his voice dropping to that gravelly murmur, I nearly came undone right there in front of him.
Professional.
You’re his professional housekeeper.
Nothing more.
Today is my first real day of work, and I need to prove I can handle this job without melting into a puddle every time he’s near me.
I know he’d said that there’s a cleaning crew, but I feel like simply overseeing everything isn’t enough work.
Besides, what better way to get to know the place than by scrubbing it all?
I work my way through, room by room, until I finally manage to shake most of my inappropriate thoughts away. Until I reach the end of the upstairs hallway.
His bedroom door stands slightly ajar as I reach the master suite, and I knock softly before pushing it open. “Mr. Sidorov… um… Osip? Housekeeping.”
Silence. The space beyond feels empty, charged with his absence rather than his presence.
I step inside and immediately understand why this room commands the entire top floor.
Wall-to-wall windows frame the Danube like a living painting, light streaming across plush gray carpet and custom furniture.
Everything is precisely arranged, meticulously clean— except for the unmade bed that still carries the indent of his body.
The sheets are twisted, pillows scattered like he fought battles in his sleep.
I approach the bed slowly, my eyes tracing the depression in the Egyptian cotton where his body lay just hours ago.
The covers are thrown back carelessly, and I can almost see him there— all that controlled power finally relaxed in sleep.
His dark hair mussed against the pillow, those sharp cheekbones softened by rest.
Would he sleep shirtless?
The thought sends heat spiraling through my core.
God, I bet he would. A man that confident in his own skin wouldn’t bother with pajamas.
I imagine the morning light playing across the broad expanse of his chest, highlighting muscles I’ve only glimpsed beneath expensive suits.
His body would be a roadmap of controlled strength— defined abs, powerful shoulders, maybe some interesting scars.
Stop it, Ilona.
That’s enough.
But my treacherous mind keeps painting pictures. The way his breathing would sound in the quiet darkness. How his face might look stripped of that careful mask he wears, vulnerable in sleep. Whether he dreams of violence or something softer.
I force myself to move away from the bed before I do something insane like press my face into his pillow and breathe him in.
The nightstand holds a single framed photograph that makes me pause— a pregnant woman with gentle eyes and dark hair, her hand resting protectively over a clearly pregnant belly.
Who is she?
Pretty, serene, clearly important enough to keep beside his bed. His wife? Ex-wife? Where is she now, and why haven’t I seen her in this house? The jealousy that spikes through me is immediate and irrational. I have no claim on this man, no right to feel territorial about his past.
Cut out the jealousy, Ilona.
You’re his housekeeper.
But the possessive ache in my chest doesn’t listen to logic.
I start with the bathroom— black marble and gleaming fixtures that belong in a luxury hotel. The rainfall shower dominates one corner, glass-walled and spacious enough for two people. More than two people.
The thought makes me stop in my tracks. Osip, naked under that cascading water. Steam rising around that powerful body— I can imagine exactly what he’d look like stripped bare and it makes me squeeze my thighs together.
My pulse quickens as unwanted images flood my mind.
Water streaming down the carved planes of his chest, following the trail of dark hair I’m sure leads south to…
God. The man radiates raw masculinity even fully clothed.
Naked, he’d be devastating. All that controlled power on display, tattoos I’d want to explore with my hands and mouth.
“Don’t be nuts, Ilona,” I mutter under my breath. “How do you know he has tattoos.”
Of course he has tattoos.
I bet he’d be magnificent. The kind of man who owns every space he enters, who commands attention without trying. In the shower, with his guard down, would he still carry himself like a king? Or would the water wash away some of that careful control?
Focus, you deranged woman!
I grab the cleaning supplies, desperate for distraction from the vivid fantasies playing in my head.
But even cleaning his sink, I’m hyperaware that this is where he starts each day.
Where he stands while shaving, those gray eyes focused in the mirror.
Where he brushes his teeth, runs water through that thick, dark hair.
The medicine cabinet reveals an army of prescription bottles that make me pause. Sedatives. Anti-anxiety medication. Sleep aids. All prescribed to Osip Mikhailovich Sidorov.
Osip Mikhailovich. His full name rolls through my mind like something wicked. Russian patronymic, same heritage as Dad’s family. The coincidence feels strange, meaningful in ways I can’t articulate.
But why does a man who radiates control and power need medication to sleep? What keeps someone like him awake at night?
More secrets.
This house is full of them, and I’m starting to realize my employer carries more darkness than I initially understood.
Back in the bedroom, I focus on the massive bookshelf that spans an entire wall—leather-bound volumes in multiple languages, first editions that probably belong in museums. I’m running the microfiber cloth along the spines when my elbow accidentally bumps against a thick volume of Russian poetry.
The book depresses like a button.
With a soft mechanical whir, the entire bookshelf swings inward on hidden hinges, revealing a space beyond that makes my breath catch.
Holy crap.
I don’t think I’m supposed to find this.
But I can’t move. I’m frozen, unable to do anything but stare at what Osip Sidorov keeps hidden behind false walls.
The secret room is small, maybe six feet deep, lined with built-in shelving that holds an inventory of impossibilities. The first shelf stops my heart— weapons arranged in tidy rows. Handguns, knives, something that looks like it could level a small building. Not collector’s pieces. Working tools.
The second shelf explains how he can afford eight-bedroom mansions and designer everything— stacks of cash in multiple currencies, bound with rubber bands like they’re grocery receipts instead of small fortunes.
But it’s the third shelf that makes my knees weak.
Toys.
That kind of toys.
An entire collection of items that should make me blush and retreat, but instead flood my body with heat that pools low and desperate. Handcuffs lined with silk. Vibrators in shapes and sizes that suggest very specific intentions. Restraints that whisper promises about surrender and control.
All unopened.
Unused.
Waiting.
Images crash through my mind without permission— Osip’s hands securing those cuffs around my wrists, his voice commanding my submission while he explores every inch of my body with devices designed for pleasure.
The fantasy is so clear I can almost feel the cool metal against my skin, almost hear the low rumble of his approval when I arch beneath his touch.
For fuck’s sake, Ilona.
I’m wet again. Soaking. My body responding to imagined scenarios with a desperation that should embarrass me.
But standing here surrounded by evidence of Osip’s hidden appetites, all I can think about is how perfectly those handcuffs would fit, how it would feel to surrender completely to someone who knows exactly how to take control.
“What the hell is wrong with you, girl?” I whisper to myself, but my voice sounds breathy, affected.
I need to leave. Now. Need to close this shelf and pretend I never saw any of it. Need to maintain the professional boundaries that are already crumbling just from proximity to his secrets.
But my feet won’t move. My hands shake as I stare at items that promise the kind of pleasure I’ve only dreamed about, with a man who makes my body sing just by existing in the same space.
This is insane. I’m his housekeeper, not his… whatever kind of woman uses items like these. But the want coursing through me doesn’t care about logic or appropriateness or the fact that I barely know him.
I take a step backward, finally finding the strength to retreat before I do something catastrophically stupid like touch anything in here.
That’s when a voice stops me cold.
“Find something interesting?”