Chapter 8 Misha
MISHA
The drive to my house takes twenty minutes through the quiet streets of central Moscow.
Vera sits beside me, her hands folded in her lap, occasionally glancing out the window at the passing buildings.
The wine from dinner has relaxed her, made her movements softer, more trusting.
I can feel her nervous energy, the way she shifts in her seat when I turn off the main road.
"Where are we going?" she asks as the streetlights become sparser.
"My home."
Iron gates part automatically as I approach. The private drive curves through mature oak trees, their branches creating shadows that dance across the windshield. Vera presses closer to the passenger window, trying to see through the darkness.
The house reveals itself gradually as we round the final bend.
Three stories of glass and stone rise from manicured grounds, every window glowing with warm light.
The architecture is modern but timeless, clean lines softened by natural materials.
Water features flank the entrance, their gentle sounds audible even through the car windows.
I park in the circular drive beneath a portico supported by stone columns. The engine ticks as it cools, the only sound in the evening’s stillness.
"This is your house?" Vera's voice carries wonder and something else—intimidation, maybe. Fear that she doesn't belong here.
"I prefer privacy." I step out and walk around to open her door, extending my hand to help her from the car.
She takes my hand and rises slowly, her eyes never leaving the facade of the house. "It's enormous. How many people live here?"
"Just me."
"All of this for one person?"
"I believe in having space to think. To breathe." I place my hand at the small of her back and guide her toward the entrance. "Come. I want to show you something."
The front door is solid walnut, twelve feet tall and carved with subtle geometric patterns. It opens to reveal a foyer that rises two stories, dominated by a chandelier of hand-blown glass that catches and scatters light across the travertine floors.
Vera stops just inside the threshold, her mouth slightly open. "Misha…"
"You haven't seen anything yet."
I lead her through the foyer into the great room, watching her face as she takes in the space.
The ceiling soars twenty feet overhead, supported by steel beams that create dramatic shadows.
One entire wall consists of floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the private gardens.
Italian leather furniture is arranged around a fireplace carved from a single block of granite.
Original paintings line the walls—not reproductions or prints, but actual canvases hand-signed by the artists themselves.
She moves to the windows and presses her palm against the glass, staring out at the illuminated gardens. A reflecting pool stretches toward a grove of birch trees, their white bark glowing in the moonlight.
"I can't believe you live here," she whispers.
"Do you approve?"
She turns back to me, and I see something shift in her expression. The nervousness is still there, but underneath it is something else—desire, maybe. Or recognition that I'm offering her a glimpse into a world she's never imagined.
"It's the most beautiful place I've ever seen."
"Would you care for a drink?" I move to the bar cart positioned near the fireplace, its crystal decanters catching the light from the flames.
"What do you recommend?"
I select a bottle of cognac, 1947 vintage, an expensive bottle too. The liquid glows amber in the firelight as I pour it into two Baccarat glasses.
"This has been waiting for the right moment."
She accepts the glass and takes a small sip, her eyes closing as the cognac warms her throat. "It's incredible. I can taste… I don't know. History."
"Complexity takes time to develop. The best things are worth waiting for."
I settle onto the leather sofa and pat the cushion beside me. She joins me, closer than strictly necessary, her thigh brushing against mine as she curls her legs beneath her.
"This is all so beautiful," she says, gesturing around the room. "Everything here is perfect. Do you ever feel lonely in all this space?"
The observation surprises me. Most people see wealth and assume satisfaction, but she's identified the emptiness that expensive things can't fill.
"Sometimes," I admit. "Success can be isolating. People want things from you—money, connections, favors. It becomes difficult to trust anyone's motives."
She sets down her glass and turns to face me fully. "Is that why you brought me here? To figure out my motives?"
"I brought you here because I want you here…" And I need to connect the dots that put you in my path, Vera… The longer I spend around you, the more likely you are to open up and the more fully you'll trust me, too. Only then will I be able to dismantle the Radich plague behind you.
"What if I disappoint you?"
I reach out and brush my fingers along her jawline, feeling her skin warm under my touch. "Impossible."
She leans into my hand, her eyes fluttering closed. "I keep thinking about what you said at dinner. About teaching me to put myself first sometimes."
"What about it?"
"I want to learn. But I don't know how to stop taking care of everyone else long enough to figure out what I want."
"What do you want right now?"
Her cheeks flush pink, but she doesn't look away. "You. I want to kiss you."
The confession is honest and vulnerable. I slide my hand to the back of her neck, feeling the soft skin beneath her hair, the rapid pulse at the base of her throat.
"Are you certain?"
"I've never been more certain of anything."
When I kiss her, she responds immediately, her hands finding the front of my shirt, gripping the fabric as if she needs something to anchor her. The taste of cognac on her lips makes me want more—more of her mouth, her skin, her soft sounds of pleasure.
I break the kiss and stand, extending my hand. She stares up at me for a moment, her lips swollen, her breathing uneven. I may be risking the entire mission by pushing, but I want so much more than just kissing. My dick is rock hard, and I need release.
"Come with me."
She takes my hand without hesitation, letting me pull her to her feet. Her legs are unsteady—from the wine, from the cognac, from the way I'm looking at her. I steady her with a hand on her waist, feeling the warmth of her body through the thin fabric of her dress.
I lead her through the house, past the dining room with its table that seats twelve, past the library with its floor-to-ceiling shelves, past the home office where I conduct business that would terrify her if she knew the details.
The master suite occupies the entire east wing, accessible through double doors of frosted glass.
The bedroom is spacious but intimate, dominated by a king-sized bed dressed in Italian linens. Another wall of windows looks out over the gardens, but these are fitted with automatic blinds for privacy. Moonlight streams through the glass, causing silver patterns on the hardwood floors.
"It's beautiful," she breathes, taking in the space.
"So are you."
I turn her to face me, my hands settling on her waist. She looks up at me with a mixture of nervousness and desire that makes my pulse quicken. Her skin glows in the moonlight, and I can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
She rises on her toes and kisses me. It's soft but insistent, and I wonder if she's ever done this. But I don’t back away.
I deepen the kiss, my hands moving to explore the curve of her spine through her dress.
She arches into my touch, a soft sound escaping her throat.
When I find the zipper at the back of her dress, she goes very still.
"Breathe," I murmur against her lips.
I lower the zipper slowly, my fingers tracing the line of her spine as more skin is revealed. She shivers under my touch but doesn't pull away. The dress is well-made but simple—nothing compared to the designer gowns I could buy her—but on her body, it looks perfect.
"You're trembling," I observe.
"I'm nervous. It's been a long time since…"
"Since what?"
"Since anyone made me feel beautiful. Desired. Important."
"You are all those things. And more."
The dress pools at her feet, and she steps out of it with grace that takes my breath away. She's even more stunning than I imagined—all curves and soft skin and quiet strength. Her undergarments are simple, practical, but they can't diminish the effect she has on me.
I remove my jacket, then my shirt, watching her eyes widen as she takes in the tattoos that cover my arms and chest. The ink tells stories she doesn't know yet—family loyalty, blood spilled, debts paid in full. But tonight, they're simply decoration on skin she wants to touch.
When I reach for her again, she comes willingly, pressing herself against me with a soft sound of pleasure. Her skin is warm, impossibly soft, and the way she fits against me feels inevitable.
"I want to worship every inch of you," I murmur against her ear. "I want to show you what it feels like to be cherished."
Her answer is a kiss that conveys everything words cannot. When she pulls back, her eyes are dark with desire.
"Show me," she whispers.
I lower my mouth to hers again, slower this time, savoring her taste. She parts for me, pliant and eager, her hands threading into my hair as if she never wants me to stop. My palms roam her body—shoulders, waist, hips—mapping her curves until I find myself kneeling before her.
Her breath catches. I slide my hands down her thighs and press a reverent kiss to her stomach.
Her skin tastes of salt and warmth, and she trembles under the press of my lips.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties and peel them down her legs, pausing only to trail my mouth lower, worshiping as I go.