22. Sasha
22
SASHA
Despite the fact that I explicitly told him not to get me a laptop…
He got me a laptop.
Not just any laptop, mind you. A matte black, top-of-the-line, so-sleek-it-looks-illegal kind of laptop. It came in a velvet-lined box like it was holding the crown jewels, not Microsoft Excel.
It’s been a week. A full week of wandering around Damien’s mansion like some exiled royal, trying not to go insane while pretending this isn’t the weirdest, most off-the-rails chapter of my life.
At first, I resisted. Hard. No laptop, no working, no acknowledging this new hostage-luxury-hotel reality. I read books. I stared at ceiling tiles. I alphabetized the tea collection in the kitchen.
But after the fifth day of my soul slowly dissolving into rich-people wallpaper, I cracked.
I logged in to my work email.
To my surprise, the VPN still works. My work ID hasn’t been revoked. Even my Slack is oddly quiet, except for a message from my supervisor:
Hey, Sasha! Hope you’re feeling better! Totally fine to work remote for a bit. Just jump in when you’re ready :)
…What.
What??
I mean, I didn’t tell him I was sick. Unless sick is a new code word for being abducted by a suspiciously hot boss and relocated to his high-security castle with minimal explanation.
When I messaged ger back, she replied, “No worries! Mr. Zaitsev let us know. Take your time!”
Mr. Zaitsev let us know.
Of course he did.
Because why wouldn’t Damien pull CEO strings behind my back while pretending to stay out of it?
I glare at the camera as I settle in for my first team meeting. The screen loads, and I’m greeted by a Brady Bunch grid of tired faces in too-close lighting.
“Hey, Sasha!” chirps one of the finance girls, waving like we’re on a sitcom. “You look…um, different. Is that a chandelier behind you?”
I angle my laptop discreetly away from the gilded monstrosity above my head. “Nope,” I say. “That’s just…a very aggressive ceiling fan.”
Ryan isn’t on the call—thank God—but Brittany is. She raises one brow like she can smell something suspicious through the screen.
“Nice place you’re in,” she says slowly. “You house-sitting for someone rich?”
I smile sweetly. “Yep. Exactly that.”
I try not to glance at the door, half expecting Damien to stroll in shirtless holding a grapefruit and ruin my entire lie with one well-timed smirk.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, I plaster on a smile and pretend everything’s fine.
The worst part? A small, traitorous part of me feels…warm about it.
The man may drive me completely insane, but he keeps showing up in ways I don’t expect. He protects me. He listens—well, kind of. Bossy listening.
And okay, yes, he bulldozes my requests and makes decisions like I’m a fragile Victorian orphan—but it’s starting to feel less like control and more like… care. Dangerous thought.
Backspace that mental note.
Once the meeting is over and I’ve delegated my tasks for the day, I sigh and sit up, brushing crumbs off my lap. This is my life now.
I need air.
I grab my hoodie—well, Damien’s hoodie, which I’ve completely claimed at this point—and make my way outside. No one stops me.
When my phone buzzes in my pocket, I take it out, expecting a text from my supervisor. It’s not uncommon for her to reach out even after I log out. But it’s not her, it’s my roommate.
Melanie: hey. haven’t seen you in a while. are you okay?
I blink at the screen.
Melanie, who has spent the past month treating me like I was a stray cat she didn’t remember agreeing to adopt. The same Melanie who once used my oat milk and never made eye contact again.
She’s…worried?
I stare at the message, rereading it twice before typing back.
Me: I’m okay. Just…stuff. Sorry I didn’t say anything.
Her reply comes almost immediately.
Melanie: was starting to think you got kidnapped or joined a cult. just let me know if you need anything. seriously.
I smile—actually smile—as something warm and weird settles in my chest.
Maybe she’s not so aloof after all.
Maybe we’ve just both been bad at reaching out.
Me: thanks. that means a lot. really.
I put the phone back in my pocket, feeling a little less alone.
There’s a gravel path that winds around the side of the estate, past some ridiculous hedges trimmed into shapes I don’t understand. Seriously, is that a lion? Or a suspiciously angry squirrel? The air smells like pine and money. Birds chirp in a charming, Disney-princess way.
And for a moment, I breathe.
I take my time circling the grounds, trailing my fingers along the stone wall and pretending—for a second—that this place is mine. That I chose to be here. That I’m not just a complication in a suit’s very dramatic life.
But peace has a short lifespan around here.
As I round the bend back toward the side of the house, I hear voices. Low, clipped. One of them immediately recognizable.
Damien.
Curious, I slow down, careful not to let the gravel crunch too loudly beneath my shoes.
He’s standing just beyond a row of rose bushes, one hand gesturing slightly as he speaks to someone—his voice unreadable, like it always is when he’s trying to sound calm. Controlled.
Then he shifts slightly.
And I see her.
Nina.
My stomach drops.
She’s dressed to the nines, of course—tailored jacket, perfect makeup, long hair twisted into something effortlessly intimidating. She stands too close to him, one hand resting on her hip like she’s done it a hundred times before.
What the hell is she doing here?
The conversation pauses. Damien says something I can’t hear, but it’s short. Clipped.
Then Nina spots me.
Her lips curve just slightly—not a smile. More like a hm, interesting .
And just like that, the talking stops.
Damien turns, following her gaze. His eyes lock with mine.
I don’t move. Neither does he.
For a second, none of us say a word.
Then Nina glances between us like she’s reading a page in a book she already knows the ending to.
I hate that my heart is pounding. I hate that I feel like the outsider.
Damien takes a slow step toward me, expression unreadable. My pulse thunders in my ears as I plant my feet where I stand, jaw set.
“Well,” Nina says lightly, adjusting the strap of her designer bag. “This explains a few things.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. I’m too busy trying to figure out if I’m supposed to throw a shoe or laugh hysterically.
Damien glances over his shoulder at her, then back at me. “Sasha?—”
“Don’t,” I say, holding up a hand. “Don’t Sasha me right now.”
He stops, arms hanging loosely at his sides. “It’s not what you think.”
“Oh? Because from where I’m standing, it sure looks like you’re having a secret garden moment with your ex-girlfriend in the middle of Versailles.”
Nina snorts, completely unbothered. “Still as dramatic as ever, Damien.”
“Still as unwelcome,” he mutters.
I raise a brow at him. “So…what is she doing here?”
He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “She showed up uninvited.”
“Correction,” Nina says with a smile. “I showed up concerned. You haven’t returned any of my messages. I thought something had happened. Or someone.” Her eyes flick back to me.
I cross my arms. “You’re very subtle.”
“I try,” she says sweetly.
“Enough,” Damien snaps, stepping between us. “Sasha, go inside. I’ll handle this.”
I don’t move. “You’ll handle this?”
His jaw tightens. “Yes.”
I stare at him for a long moment. His tone is firm, his face hard—but I see it. That flicker in his eyes. Like he’s not mad at me—he’s mad at everything else.
Still.
I give him a short nod, turn on my heel, and walk away.
And as I head back toward the mansion, every step feels like a matchstick dragging across pavement. By the time I get back inside, my hands are clenched into fists, my chest tight, and I’m seriously considering rage-eating a croissant the size of my head.
Why was she here?
Why didn’t he tell me she was here?
And why the hell did she look so smug, like she already knew she still had a place in his world?
I make it halfway up the grand staircase, practically vibrating with questions I won’t let myself ask—because asking them means I care, and caring right now feels stupid and messy.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out, thumb hovering with just enough residual rage to assume it’s Damien.
But no.
Ryan: Hey. Just checking in—everything okay? Still on for tonight?
I stop mid-step, the blood draining from my face.
Tonight?
Friday.
Shit.
I’d completely forgotten.
I blink at the message, brain scrambling through the week. Friday night.
Our date. The one I had casually agreed to like a functioning adult. Before the kidnapping—okay, relocation .
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
Still on for tonight?
My stomach twists.
Because technically, I never canceled.
And technically, Damien isn’t really my boyfriend.
He’s just…the guy who took my virginity, sent my coworkers packing, kissed me like sin, and made me question everything about my life.
No big deal.
I sigh, thumb resting over the screen as I walk to my bedroom and shut it behind me.
I type, erase. Type again. Stare. Sigh. I finally settle on:
Me: Hey! Totally forgot about tonight—sorry, this week’s been…weird. Are we still doing that place near the station?
I hit send and immediately want to launch myself into a hedge.
What am I doing? Why didn’t I just cancel? Say I had food poisoning? Say I got whisked away by a Russian billionaire who might actually be a Russian mobster?
Ryan replies almost instantly.
Ryan: No worries! Yeah, 7 PM, same place. I’ll grab a table. Can’t wait
Can’t wait. Ugh. I like Ryan. He’s nice. Easy to talk to. He doesn’t come with armed guards and emotionally loaded hallway kisses.
But he also doesn’t make my skin feel electric. He doesn’t look at me like he wants to burn the world down just to keep me warm.
Damien.
There’s a knock at my door. I jump.
“Miss Caldwell?” a voice calls—one of Damien’s quiet staffers, no doubt trained in the art of polite lurking.
I open the door a crack. “Yes?”
“Mr. Zaitsev has asked if you’d like dinner in the garden again this evening.”
I blink. My mouth opens, then shuts.
“Uh…tell him I have plans.”
The man blinks, nods, and walks off like I just said I’m joining a cult.
I close the door, heart pounding. I don’t even know why I said it. Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to remind myself that I still have a life outside Damien’s gilded cage.
Maybe to remind him.
But as I stare down at my phone and the words 7 PM flash on my screen…
…I already know this is going to blow up in my face.
Ugh.
* * *
I’m sitting cross-legged on the massive bed, stabbing aggressively at a bowl of strawberries I’m not even hungry for. The laptop is still open on the nightstand, muted on some project dashboard I gave up pretending to care about twenty minutes ago.
Every so often, I hear voices in the hallway—too far away to make out, too close to ignore. I assume Damien’s somewhere else in the house, probably pacing dramatically with his broody eyebrows and saying things like “increase surveillance” or “handle it” in that deadly calm tone of his.
Whatever. He can pace all he wants. I’m still fuming. Nina? Really? If she just happened to drop by, then I just happened to trip into Versailles and land in a five-figure bathtub.
And just as I plop another strawberry into my mouth with a growl?—
The door swings open.
No knock. No warning. Just six feet of billionaire Bratva storming into the room like he’s entitled to the air I’m breathing.
“You have plans?” Damien asks, voice low and loaded. “What plans?”
I nearly stab myself in the eye.
“Jesus—do you knock?” I hiss.
His jaw tics. “Answer the question, Sasha.”
I toss the fork into the bowl and stand. “Why? So you can approve them?”
“I just saw one of the guards. He said a car was requested.”
“Yeah,” I snap. “By me. Shocking, I know.”
He takes a step closer, arms crossed. “You’re not leaving.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do!”
“I told you, it’s not safe?—”
“And I told you that if you try to run my life like one of your meetings, I will make a scene so loud even your stoic kitchen staff will need therapy!”
He narrows his eyes. “Who are you going to see?”
I hesitate for one second. One tiny second. That’s all it takes.
“Ryan,” I say. “We had plans. I forgot. But now I’m going.”
Damien stares at me like I’ve personally stabbed him with a gold-plated dessert fork.
“I’m having that man fired first thing tomorrow.”
I lunge forward like he just said he’s replacing my Netflix password. “You’re doing no such thing!”
“He asked you out while working under me. That’s grounds for termination.”
“Oh my God, you are not Terminator HR! What is wrong with you?”
“You’re mine!” he explodes, hands clenched. “You think I’m just going to stand by while some guy takes you out for ravioli and tries to get in your pants?”
I stare at him, stunned silent.
That’s the second time he’s said it out loud. You’re mine.
The silence stretches. My heart is beating out of rhythm. My hand is still clenched around the strawberry bowl like it might save me.
Finally, I manage a whisper. “Is that what you think Ryan wants? To get in my pants?”
Damien’s eyes darken. “They all do.”
“You think you can stake a claim on me and keep the rest of the world out?”
He clenches his jaw, teeth practically grinding. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what this is. You feel it as much as I do.”
“Feel what, exactly?” I demand, even though my pulse is racing. “Because right now, all I feel is you being a controlling jerk.”
Damien’s nostrils flare, and before I can blink, his hand shoots out, gripping my upper arm—not hurting, but firm. Our faces are inches apart.
“Don’t you get it? You can’t?—”
He moves. Faster than I can think, his mouth crashes down on mine. It’s a collision of frustration and need, all the fury pouring out in a fiery kiss that has me gasping.
My back hits the wall with a dull thud, and he presses against me, trapping me with his body. I should push him away, should keep yelling, but the second his lips part mine, my resolve shatters.
I kiss him back just as fiercely, hands curling into the fabric of his shirt. Our teeth clash, tongues tangling in a desperate attempt to claim the upper hand.
He tears his lips from mine just long enough to rasp, “You drive me insane,” against my mouth.
“Good,” I snap breathlessly, sliding my fingers into his hair and yanking him back in.
His responding growl vibrates against my lips, sending heat racing through my veins. My heart feels like it’s going to explode.
He grabs the hem of my shirt, tugging upward impatiently, his knuckles grazing my rib cage. I gasp, arching into him. My own fingers find the buttons on his shirt, ripping one off in my haste to yank it open.
He exhales sharply, half a laugh, half a curse, and then devours my mouth again. His hips pin me to the wall, and I moan as I feel him, hard and unyielding against my stomach.
We’re a mess—hot breaths, frantic hands, clothes hitting the floor in haphazard confusion. His shirt slides from his shoulders; my top tangles around my arms. Neither of us cares.
I drag my nails down his chest, mapping the ridges of muscle, the heat of his skin, the pounding heartbeat beneath. He grips my waist, fingers digging in as if to remind me exactly who’s driving me to this madness.
“Damien—” I whisper, breathless, the one word holding every ounce of frustration and longing.
He silences me with another fierce kiss, swallowing whatever else I was going to say. His teeth graze my lower lip, and I shiver, a wave of pure desire flooding me.
My pulse feels like a drum in my ears, and every inch of me is strung taut with want and anger and something that tastes suspiciously like need.
Damien’s hand slides beneath my thighs. With a quiet, guttural sound, he lifts me off my feet, and I gasp, wrapping my arms around his neck to steady myself.
He’s so much older than me—silver hair at his temples, the lines of his face sharper in the low light—and I can’t help a flicker of awe at how easily he handles me, how effortlessly his strength holds me up. It’s intoxicating.
Our mouths collide again, and he carries me toward the bed, stumbling slightly against a stack of books or something scattered on the floor. Neither of us cares. We’re a mess of tangling limbs and half-formed curses.
My back hits the mattress, the plush duvet sinking beneath me. Damien follows, his body covering mine, his hair brushing my forehead when he leans in for another searing kiss.
I sink my fingers into those silver and black strands, yanking him closer. His low groan vibrates through me, and I arch my body up, welcoming the press of his skin.
He breaks from my mouth, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down my neck—slow at first, then faster, as if he can’t help himself. My breath catches when his lips find my collarbone, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks dancing under my skin.
One hand skims my waist before sliding up to cup my breast. His thumb brushes my nipple, and I let out a shuddering moan, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in the world.
He presses his face to my chest, mouth finding one breast, then the other, his breath ragged. His tongue circles my areola, teasing until I gasp. Then he sucks, and I nearly lose it.
“Damien,” I gasp, voice trembling.
He doesn’t stop. He kisses and nips along my skin, taking his time even though the tension still hums with the remnants of our fight. There’s something desperate in the way he tastes me, like he’s trying to prove a point—both of us are, really.
I grip his shoulders, his muscles taut beneath my fingers. The silver hair at his temples glints, and I find myself oddly fixated on it—a reminder that he’s older, far more dangerous than any man I’ve known. But it just makes him hotter—that raw, forbidden edge.
He shifts lower, following the line of my ribs, pressing more wet kisses across my stomach. Each touch sends little shock waves of heat through me. When his mouth hovers near the top edge of my panties, I bite my lip so hard I taste copper.
For a moment, he looks up—storm-gray eyes locking with mine, unspoken questions and furious need swirling there. My heart clenches. I can’t speak. I can barely breathe.
Then, with a low groan, he slides up again, reclaiming my mouth in a bruising kiss. The shift in angle presses his body flush against mine—every inch of him hot and hard.
I let my hands roam his chest, marveling at how each labored breath feels. My fingers trace the lines of his abs, the light dusting of hair trailing down from his navel. He shudders when I scratch softly, muscles twitching.
“God, you drive me crazy,” he mutters against my lips, voice raw and thick with lust.
“Good,” I whisper back, fingers tangling in his hair again, pulling him closer. “Because you drive me insane too.”
He captures my lips once more, this time slower, gentler.
My legs part instinctively, welcoming his weight between them. The faint smell of him—woodsmoke, whiskey, something purely male—swirls around me, making me dizzy.
I roll my hips, arching up, searching for friction, for something to ground me in the madness. He gives it, pressing down, letting a low curse slip when our bodies align. The feeling of him, even through our remaining clothes, sends a jolt of liquid heat through my veins.
He breaks the kiss with a ragged inhale, then lowers himself, peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses down my throat. I shiver, arching beneath him, my body humming with anticipation.
My fingers clutch his hair—silver and dark strands slipping through my grip—while his lips travel lower. Each press of his mouth sends sparks dancing under my skin, leaving me breathless and dizzy with need.
He reaches my waist and grips my hips firmly, sliding down the last scraps of fabric standing between us. My legs tremble, blood roaring in my ears as he settles between my thighs, his breath hot against my sensitive skin.
“Damien…” I whisper, voice shaking. My hands fist in the sheets.
He doesn’t answer—just kisses the inside of my knee, slowly working his way up, leaving a trail of soft, tormenting warmth. When he finally reaches the spot where I crave him most, he pauses, glancing up at me with that storm-gray gaze.
I can’t look away.
Then, gently—almost reverently—he parts me, and his mouth finds my clit. My back arches off the bed with a sharp gasp, fingers immediately flying to his hair as the heat of his tongue sends a shock wave of pleasure through my body.
He moves slowly at first, exploring, teasing, circling that sensitive bundle of nerves until my breath comes in shallow, stuttered gasps.
Desperate for more, I tilt my hips, meeting his mouth.
He complies, pressing in deeper, sucking softly, then firmer, the wet sounds filling the room.
My nails rake across his scalp as I struggle not to fall apart too quickly. But it’s impossible—my body tenses, heat blooming in a heady rush, and I let out a strangled cry.
He doesn’t stop, only intensifies his rhythm, mouth working my clit until I can’t hold back. With a gasping moan, I shatter under him, pleasure rolling through me in deep, pulsing waves.
He stays there, guiding me through the aftershocks, tongue gentling until I’m left breathless and limp against the sheets. Slowly, he eases off, planting a final, tender kiss to my inner thigh before looking up, lips glistening, hair thoroughly disheveled from my grip.
He crawls up my body, pressing his weight against me, pinning me to the mattress in the most intoxicating way, and captures my lips in a kiss where I can taste myself.
Damien groans softly into my mouth, one large hand gripping my hip to keep me pinned beneath him. In the low lamp glow, his silver-streaked hair looks wild.
A trembling, hungry kind of eagerness coils in my belly. My heart thunders. We’ve done this before, but not like this—so much anger, so much need, tangled into a single desperate moment.
My thighs fall open to cradle him, and I feel him, hot and hard against my inner thigh. A shiver runs through me, and I instinctively arch up, searching for more contact. My body answers before my brain can form words.
He shifts again, lips leaving mine in a trail of kisses down my jaw, nipping lightly at the curve of my neck. I gasp and tangle my fingers in his hair, trying to guide him where I need him.
Then he presses down, and I moan at the sensation. There’s no missing how thick he is, how ready. Part of me still marvels at the sheer size of him—long, thick, veined, straining against my stomach when he grinds closer. Even in the haze of lust, I remember the first time I saw him, how his cock took my breath away—so much bigger than anything I’d imagined, enough to make me tremble with both excitement and nerves.
And somehow, I want it even more now.
He draws back just enough for me to see him, his gaze flicking down to where our bodies meet, then back up to my face.
I reach between us, hand slipping over the hot, rigid length of him. Damien’s head falls forward, a hiss breaking from his lips, and I feel the throb of his pulse under my fingertips. Carefully, I guide him to my entrance, lining him up, breath catching in my throat as he nudges against my pussy.
He presses forward a fraction, and I suck in a sharp breath, toes curling. The burn is sweet, the stretch unmistakable. My voice trembles as I whisper, “Damien…” It’s half plea, half prayer.
He holds my gaze, something pained and primal flickering across his features. “Sasha…” he rasps, voice nearly cracking with emotion and lust. Slowly, inexorably, he pushes deeper, swallowing my gasping cry with a bruising kiss. My nails scrape his shoulders, struggling to cling to him as the pressure mounts.
A flush of heat rolls through me as his pelvis meets mine, and I realize with a heady rush that he’s fully seated inside me.
For a moment, we just breathe, chests rising and falling in unison. The room spins, and all I can focus on is the profound fullness, the way my heart hammers in my ribs like it’s trying to match his.
“Fuck, you were made just for me,” he says as he starts to move inside me.
My mind has no room for anything else—just Damien’s hard, insistent thrusts, his whispered curses against my lips, the hot press of his chest on mine.
He adjusts his angle, and I cry out softly at the rush of pleasure that crackles up my spine.
Damien murmurs my name like a curse, or a prayer, his grip firm on my thigh as he tilts my hips. I answer by arching up, meeting each thrust, eyes fluttering shut when he leans in to kiss along my neck. A gasp breaks from my throat—he’s found that spot that makes me lose my mind, right near my pulse.
I tug at his hair, silver strands gleaming in the dim light. He lets out a low groan, hips stuttering for a moment. The intimacy of that sound sends a wave of warmth through me.
No one has ever made me feel like this—out of control yet more alive than I’ve ever been.
We move together in frenzied sync, bodies slick and glowing with sweat, the sheets tangling around our legs. I brace my hands on his shoulders, and he grits his teeth, pumping into me with a slow, punishing force that leaves sparks dancing behind my eyes.
It’s then—amid the heady swirl of sensation—that it hits me like a thunderbolt: I’m in love with him.
I’m in love with a man I barely know, who turns my life upside down, who rips me away from everything comfortable and safe. I’m in love with a man who can’t stop dominating every space he enters, who’s older and more dangerous than any man I’ve met. And yet, here I am, wrapping my legs around his waist, craving more, surrendering to a truth I can’t take back.
I don’t say it aloud. I couldn’t even form the words if I tried. But the knowledge throbs through me, fueling each dizzying thrust.
Damien presses his forehead to mine, our ragged breaths mingling. I feel the tension coil in my belly again, wound so tight I can barely breathe. My nails rake down his back, and he curses in a low, broken voice.
“Sasha,” he rasps, voice strangled.
I open my mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a moan as the wave crashes—my muscles clenching around him, the world bursting into bright shards of bliss. My cry mingles with his harsh groan. He buries himself deep one last time, heat pulsing between us as he falls over the edge with me, eyes squeezed shut.
Damien collapses onto his forearms, head bowed near my neck, and I cling to him, my own breath coming in shallow gulps.
He recovers first, lifting his head to look at me.
I force myself to stay silent, to not blurt out the confession pounding behind my teeth. Because saying I love you now would crack me wide open, and I’m not sure I can handle the look in his eyes if he doesn’t say it back.
So I just wrap my arms around his neck, drawing him closer until our noses brush. He exhales shakily, pressing a tender kiss to my temple.
We lie there in the aftermath, tangled limbs and heaving chests, the faint glow from the bedside lamp casting shadows across his chiseled features. I wonder if he feels as undone as I do. If some part of him realizes what we’ve just stepped into, a territory neither of us can map.