Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Noelle
He wasn't stopping.
Kholod's scorching breath burned against my neck as his hands traced every inch of my skin with deliberate possession. The garage lights blazed so bright I could barely keep my eyes open, and there he was, pinning me down, amber eyes churning with emotions I couldn't decipher.
"Kholod..." My voice came out hoarse. "Enough..."
"Not enough." He lowered his head, pressing a kiss to my collarbone. "Not even close."
I tried to push him away, but my body betrayed me with its trembling. That man's touch still clung to my waist like something vile, but when Kholod's fingers covered the spot, the nausea began to fade. His touch was rough, demanding—yet somehow it cleansed every trace of disgust from my body.
"You're distracted?" He bit gently at my chest, pulling me back to reality.
"Mmm... Kholod..."
"Look at me." His command was absolute, one hand cupping my face, forcing our eyes to meet. "Noelle, look at me."
"What the hell are you thinking about?" He frowned.
"Nothing."
"Liar." His fingers slid to my waist, pressing exactly where I'd been grabbed. "Still thinking about that piece of trash?"
"No—"
"Then why are you so tense?" His lips brushed my ear. "Relax, Noelle. I'm the only one who gets to touch you."
That possessive declaration brought an absurd sense of safety. I should hate him—he'd destroyed my family, humiliated me in front of everyone. But he'd also saved me, snapped that man's wrist, carried me away, claimed me in the most insane way possible.
"Kholod..." I heard my voice shake. "You..."
"Hmm?" He looked up, eyes burning into mine.
I bit my lip, not knowing what to say, not even knowing what I wanted to say.
He seemed to read my confusion, lips quirking up. "Don't talk."
His kiss came again, impossibly gentle this time. Tongues dancing, exploring, until I melted completely in his arms.
Damn it. Kholod Morozov always knew how to control me.
When his fingers slipped inside again, I couldn't hold back a broken moan.
"See?" he whispered against my ear, voice rough as gravel. "Your body's still hungry."
"Shut up..."
"Why?" He grabbed my hand, making me feel how wet I was. "Don't you like it?"
"I... ah—"
He guided my fingers, finding that spot that made me lose all control, rubbing in maddening circles. My back arched involuntarily, nails digging into his skin.
"Noelle, who makes you feel like this?"
"You do..."
"Louder."
"Kholod!" I practically screamed it, tears threatening to fall. "You... it's you..."
"Good." His satisfied chuckle rumbled through me as he pushed deep inside.
"Ah—!" This angle was deeper, practically nailing me to the seat.
"Remember this feeling," he moved with brutal rhythm, whispering in my ear. "Remember who gives it to you."
I couldn't respond, could only ride the waves he created. The car filled with gasps and the sound of flesh against flesh, shame and pleasure twisted together.
Watching this untouchable man lose control because of me, go mad because of me—something deep inside me thrilled at being needed.
He needed me. Not the savior, not some marriage pawn, but Noelle Bellucci herself. The thought both terrified and exhilarated me.
"Kholod... I... I can't..."
"Hold on a little longer." He pressed his forehead to mine, sweat dripping.
"No... really..."
"Together." His order was final as his hand found where we were joined, fingers working that sensitive spot.
When he touched the most sensitive place, climax crashed over me like a tidal wave. I screamed, feeling him follow moments after.
For a long time, only our ragged breathing filled the garage.
He pushed himself up, studying my face.
"Noelle..." he started, voice unusually hesitant.
"Don't talk." I turned away. "I don't want to hear it."
He fell silent for a few seconds, then said nothing, just lifted me up and fixed my clothes.
The expensive ice-blue dress was wrinkled beyond repair, but he patiently helped me back into it.
"Can you walk?"
I nodded, then immediately stumbled when I tried to stand.
He caught me instantly, then swept me up without a word.
"Put me down—"
"Shut up."
I finally gave up struggling, letting him carry me through the garden back to the master bedroom.
He set me on the bed and headed for the bathroom. Soon, water was running.
"Go shower." He emerged. "I've drawn you a bath."
I didn't move.
"Noelle." He approached the bed. "Don't make me say it twice."
"I can't walk!" I glared at him.
He paused, then simply carried me to the bathtub. Warm water lapped over my body, orange blossom oil filling the air. Kholod sat on the edge, watching me.
"Aren't you leaving?" I asked.
"No. I need to make sure you don't pass out in there."
"I'm not that fragile."
"Really? Who couldn't walk just now?"
My face burned red. "That's your fault—"
"How? Tell me, Noelle. Because I was too rough?"
"Kholod Morozov!"
"I'm listening." His grin widened.
I splashed water at his face.
He froze, then wiped the droplets away, eyes turning dangerous.
I woke up the next afternoon.
Opening my eyes, I found myself in clean pajamas—my favorite fabric. Thank God, he'd finally stopped forcing me into those flimsy dresses. The other side of the bed was empty but still warm. Kholod had actually slept here last night.
I sat up, my whole body aching. Last night's memories flooded back, making me cover my face with my hands.
"Madam, you're awake?" Darya entered with a tray. "The boss ordered lunch prepared for you."
I lowered my hands, looking at her. "Where's Kholod?"
"The boss went out for an important meeting."
I nodded silently.
Sensing my mood, Darya asked gently, "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. Thank you, I'd like to be alone for a while."
After she left, the room fell quiet again. Looking at the eggs, steak, and fruit on the tray, I couldn't help wondering—was this man who drew baths and prepared thoughtful meals really Kholod?
I shook my head, pushing away the confusing thoughts.
After lunch, I got up to wash. The woman in the mirror looked flushed, her neck and collarbone marked with intimate bruises. I touched those red marks, remembering how he'd looked claiming me last night. Damn it. I was thinking about him again.
A knock interrupted my thoughts. Darya announced, "Madam, Mrs. Anastasia requests your presence in the study."
I paused. "Now?"
"Yes. She's waiting for you in the study."
I straightened my clothes and followed Darya to Anastasia's study.
The door was ajar. I knocked.
"Come in." Her voice called out.
I pushed inside. Anastasia sat behind her desk with several thick ledgers spread before her. She looked up, something appraising in her gaze.
"Sit." She indicated the chair across from her.
I sat down, waiting for her to speak.
"I heard about last night." She closed the ledger. "Kholod did right. That trash got what he deserved."
I said nothing.
"You don't need to feel guilty or ashamed." She continued. "In our world, only the weak get bullied. And you, Noelle, you're the lady of the Morozov house. No one will dare treat you like that again."
"Thank you," I said quietly.
"That's not why I called you here." She stood and walked to the bookshelf, retrieving a set of keys from a drawer. "Follow me."
I followed her through corridors to a concealed door. Keys turned, and we descended stairs to a metal door. After entering a code, it slowly opened.
When the lights came on, I froze completely.
The massive climate-controlled vault gleamed with Faberge eggs, diamond tiaras, antique paintings, and exquisite jewelry—every piece priceless.
"This is the Morozov family collection, inherited from Imperial Russia," Anastasia spoke slowly. "Never displayed publicly."
I stared at the artwork, speechless.
"I need to update the insurance inventory," she turned to me. "Someone needs to carefully catalog every piece. Anya lacks patience and constantly makes mistakes. Now you'll take over."
"Me?" I looked at her in surprise. "But..."
"This is a very important task." She cut me off. "If you do well, you'll have preliminary authority over Morozov family assets. If you don't..."
She didn't finish, but the meaning was clear.
"I understand." I took a deep breath. "I'll do my best."
"Good." She nodded. "Starting tomorrow, you'll work here every afternoon. I'll assign someone to assist you."
The following days, I immersed myself completely in the artwork. Each piece carried history, and I carefully recorded their provenance and value. Anastasia often checked my progress, occasionally sharing stories behind the pieces.
This afternoon, I was cataloging jewelry. Anastasia came to check again, watching me record an ornate necklace, then suddenly asked, "Do you know its background?"
"Not yet, I'm still documenting the materials."
"This necklace once belonged to a Grand Duke."
"Oh?" I looked up.
"He was incredibly powerful. Owned entire provinces, wealth beyond measure. Even the Tsar showed him deference." She paused, eyes distant. "But he had one fatal weakness—gambling."
My hand trembled slightly.
"He lost everything at the card table. Land, wealth, including this necklace." Her voice was soft. "What finally destroyed him wasn't battlefield enemies, but his most trusted friend at the gambling table. That man didn't just take his fortune—he framed his business rival for his death."
She gave me a meaningful look. "A clichéd story that keeps repeating."
I didn't understand why Anastasia was telling me this.
Seeing my confusion, Anastasia seemed to understand, adding, "Noelle, truth is often different from what appears on the surface. Don't trust what others say without solid evidence. Now, we need to pick up the pace."
After she left, I kept pondering the story. What other truths didn't I know?
That evening, I sat alone in my room, flipping through a fashion magazine. Looking at the jewelry, I couldn't help thinking of Kholod.
He loved giving me these things, which often left me feeling helpless. I'd be happier if he just let me go shopping than receiving limited edition Chanel perfume.
I found myself thinking about Kholod's actions last night, the things he'd said. If only he weren't my father's killer!
Wait. Father?
Anastasia's story suddenly became crystal clear in my mind, especially that phrase "framed his business rival for the death." The story Anastasia told suddenly echoed in my head, especially that line about "framing his biggest business rival for the death."
Could it be? No! This was impossible! Everyone knew Morozov drove my father to death, that their pressure left him with no choice but suicide. The Morozov family's pressure cornered my father, leading to his suicide jump. Everyone in our circle knew this.
I knew Father gambled, but... that story kept replaying in my mind.
What if father's death had nothing to do with Kholod?
What if someone exploited Father's weakness and framed Kholod?
I knew father was a gambler, but... that story kept playing over and over in my head.
What if father's death wasn't because of Kholod?
What if someone else exploited Father's weakness, then framed Kholod?
My whole body shook. If Kholod didn't kill my father, then all this hatred I've carried for so long...
I squeezed my eyes shut, afraid to think any further.