Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Kholod
"Boss, Miss Vance has left."
"I know." I didn't look up, just stared at the surveillance feed on my computer screen. "What did they talk about?"
"Mostly women's stuff. Clothes, bags, makeup—that sort of thing. But..."
"Speak."
"Miss Vance mentioned Lorenzo Conti. She told Mrs. Morozov that Lorenzo got hurt trying to save her. And she advised Mrs. Morozov to behave and not anger you anymore."
My fingers froze.
Lorenzo. That name was like nails on a chalkboard.
"Keep watching her," I said coldly. "And check Isabella's movements too."
"Yes, boss."
After Dmitri left, I pulled up Noelle's phone records.
The phone I'd given her—every call and text automatically backed up to my servers.
I'd expected to find evidence of her carrying on with Lorenzo Conti, or plotting with the Bellucci family.
Instead, the records showed nothing but spam, ads, and communications with Sofia and Isabella.
Isabella's messages were all trivial nonsense—"Isn't this new Chanel gorgeous?" "Want to get spa treatments next week?" "I saw these shoes that would be perfect for you"...
Boring as hell.
But Sofia's texts piqued my interest.
The latest one came this afternoon. "Noelle, I know you're struggling right now, but you have to hold on. The family needs you. Kholod is a good man—he's helped us so much. You need to repay him properly, understand?"
Good man?
I snorted.
Sofia Bellucci was definitely a practical woman.
I scrolled up to find more of the same—
"Have you figured out how to get Kholod to help us again? It would be great if we could get that dock property back."
"Noelle, you need to learn to use your position. You're the lady of the Morozov house—that's your advantage!"
"Any signs of pregnancy? Are those methods I taught you working?"
...
Every message coached Noelle on how to use me, please me, and exploit me for the family.
I leaned back in my chair and lit a cigar.
I wanted her to come begging.
Better yet, I wanted her to walk into my study of her own accord. Her movements might be clumsy, inexperienced, but just imagining her trying to please me with that not-quite-tamed body and those eyes. Those clear eyes looking up at me, whispering "please"—
I could picture the entire scene.
Under my gaze, she'd reach out with trembling hands, tentatively trying to unbutton my shirt. She'd be so nervous she'd fumble helplessly, the button slipping from her fingers again and again. Her eyes would redden with frustration, but she still couldn't manage that first button.
I'd watch coldly, offering no help.
Would she give up on the button and rise on her toes, clumsily pressing her tear-salted lips to mine?
Or would she go further?
She'd wear that stubborn expression as she slowly sank to her knees beside my chair. Tear stains would still mark her face, eyes red-rimmed, like a little beast forced into submission.
I'd raise my hand, spreading it before her. She'd resist at first, but eventually extend her warm tongue to lightly trace my cold palm.
No, that wouldn't be enough.
I'd make her pull down my zipper, take me in her mouth, submit to me completely.
That would be more exquisite than mere physical conquest—crushing her pride utterly, making her offer everything willingly.
The thought intoxicated and excited me more than any liquor, making my lower body tighten, hard and aching.
But none of it happened. Nothing.
She was like a stone, giving no response, never asking me for anything. She'd rather wear plain clothes every day, hold books about distant landscapes, rather sit in her room staring into space than bow her head in submission.
I scrolled through the records again. Noelle's replies to Sofia were brief—"okay," "fine," "Yeah"—utterly dismissive.
She'd even hung up on her mother several times.
I felt like I'd thrown a powerful punch into soft cotton, the rebound filling me with frustration.
Why couldn't she just be like other women—content to enjoy all this, or at least like a proper commodity, knowing how to please her buyer?
She simply couldn't.
At dinner time, I didn't return to the manor. An important meeting detained me, but all evening, those business terms and profit distributions couldn't capture my thoughts.
Noelle's face kept surfacing in my mind. What was she doing? Would she feel relieved that I wasn't there? These thoughts were maddening. When had I started caring so much about a woman's thoughts?
By the time the meeting ended, it was late. I drove back to the manor, snow-covered driveways gleaming coldly under the headlights.
I pushed open the master bedroom door. Noelle was curled up on the sofa by the window, a book in her lap, but she clearly wasn't reading. Her gaze was fixed blankly outside, looking forlorn.
I stood in the doorway watching her for a while, then approached silently.
She didn't notice. I stopped behind her, close enough to smell the fresh orange blossom scent in her hair.
"Your friend left." I broke the silence.
Her body stiffened, but she didn't turn around.
"You won't even let me see female friends?" Her voice was calm, but she deliberately emphasized "female."
My lips curved slightly.
"This isn't about gender, Noelle." I leaned down. "Male or female, your heart shouldn't belong to anyone else."
"Then where should it belong?" She finally turned, those eyes looking straight at me. "With you?"
Her question caught me off guard.
"Of course." I quickly recovered, my fingers lightly stroking her nape.
Her skin was warm and smooth. The moment I touched her, she trembled as if shocked. This pleased me—at least her body still remembered my touch, remembered who was in control.
"You're shaking."
"Your hands are cold." She turned away.
"Liar. Are you afraid of me, or... anticipating me?"
"You're overthinking it."
"Am I?" My fingers traced down her neckline, stopping at her collarbone. "Then why is your heart racing?"
She didn't answer, just stood up abruptly, putting distance between us.
"If there's nothing else, I'd like to rest."
"There is something." I straightened, adjusting my cuffs. "Come with me."
"Where?" she asked warily.
"My study." I walked toward the door. "Now."
Noelle stood in the study doorway, not entering, her body tense as a drawn bow.
"Come in. Close the door." I walked to my desk and opened a drawer.
She hesitated for a few seconds, then complied.
I took out a velvet jewelry box and placed it on the desk.
"Come here."
She approached slowly, her gaze falling on the box.
I opened it. A platinum necklace—twisted thorn vines encrusted with diamonds, with a holly berry carved from ruby hanging at the center, blazing brilliantly in the firelight.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" I lifted the necklace, diamonds flowing between my fingers.
"Yes, it's beautiful." Her voice was soft. "But I don't need it."
"I'm not asking for your opinion." I met her eyes. "Put it on."
"I don't want to."
"This is an order, Noelle."
"And if I refuse?"
I stared at her for several seconds, then smiled.
"You won't."
I moved behind her, wrapped the necklace around her throat, and fastened it.
"Look." I embraced her from behind, turning us toward the floor-to-ceiling window.
The glass reflected our image. The beige dress complemented the twisted thorns at her neck, the blood-red ruby flickering with her breathing, startlingly beautiful.
I stood behind her, chin resting on her head, arms around her waist.
"How beautiful," I whispered in her ear, breath washing over her earlobe.
I could feel her breathing quicken.
My hands began wandering over her body, sliding from her waist to her stomach, then slowly upward until I cupped that fullness.
I played with the delicate sensation in my palm, fingertips lingering lightly around the peak. I caressed the textured skin where my name was etched, feeling her body's uncontrollable trembling in my arms.
She didn't pull away. Good.
I lowered my head and kissed her neck.
"The most beautiful collar can't change the fact that this is a cage."
My movements stopped abruptly.
"What did you say?" I released her, moving to face her, wanting to see her expression clearly.
She looked up, those eyes clear and calm.
"I said," she spoke deliberately, "the most beautiful collar can't change the fact that this is a cage. Kholod, you can possess my body, control my actions, and put the world's most expensive necklace on me. But none of that changes the fact—"
She reached up, touching the necklace at her throat.
"I am your prisoner. And you are my jailer."
Her words were like ice water, instantly extinguishing all my desire.
In its place came rage.
This woman—she could always maintain that damned clarity at the most crucial moments.
"You really know how to kill the mood."
"I'm just stating facts."
Fury churned in my chest. I wanted to tear her apart, destroy that clarity, see her collapse and beg beneath me.
But I didn't.
Because doing so would only prove she was right—prove I really was just a savage who could only assert dominance through violence.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down.
"Get out." I turned away from her, voice ice-cold. "Now. Get out of my study immediately."
She didn't move. Just looked at me calmly.
"What are you waiting for?" I raised my voice. "I told you to get out!"
"Can I take off the necklace?"
"No. You have to wear it."
"But—"
"Get out!" I spun around and roared.
She straightened her spine and walked toward the door.
At the doorway, she stopped without turning back, just said softly:
"Good night, Kholod."
Damn. Damn woman.
I slammed my fist on the desk, scattering papers everywhere.
I walked to the liquor cabinet, poured myself a vodka, and knocked it back hard.