Chapter Eight – Maria
I wanted to smash something against the wall.
Anything at all.
Maybe having his head would have sufficed?
I mulled it over. Was I angry? I didn’t think I was. Was I disappointed? That didn’t connect either. But if I was upset or disappointed, what could be the reason?
He rejected the fucking brownies; that’s what.
I paused for a moment, considering it—smashing his head against the wall—and after a while, I gave up. The mental pictures were too gruesome to stomach, and I’d never been the violent type, except when the situation called for some adequate amount of ass-kicking.
But having his head bashed against the wall was not the best idea.
If it could even work.
I was almost at the conclusion that the man was made from steel or maybe titanium and was willing to bet that, if bullets were shot right at him, they would crush against his chest and fall on the ground in a folded heap.
His entire get-up was freaking armor.
Several times, I’d tried to wrap my head around it, wondering if he really had a beating heart somewhere inside his tank. But so far, he’d enjoyed proving me right.
The man was almost impenetrable: no emotions—except where his daughter was concerned, and even then, it was always a flicker of light thawing the coldness in his gaze or a ghostly smile on his lips that died down right after ten seconds. No empathy, although there was the quickest spread of anger through his clenched jaw when I talked about Kian and Evgeni.
Plus... he was impeccably rude and obnoxiously egotistical.
And why was I flustered again?
Simple: The tin man rejected my gesture of goodwill, dammit! My brownies.
I’d swallowed my pride and waved an olive branch, but he beat it out of my hand and crushed it into splinters. The nerve of him.
Turning over on the fluffy bed, I stared out the big glass windows at the city lights.
It was late now—past midnight. Somewhere, about three to four rooms away from mine and down the hallway, Polina slept peacefully after I reluctantly promised to make her brownies for lunch the next day and sang her a lullaby.
Tiny dots of stars stretched out across the night sky from a gazillion miles away, illuminating the vast space with gentle sparks. The view was breathtaking, but even that wasn’t enough to distract my mind from replaying the rejected-brownie moment over and over again.
Why did it upset and disappoint me so much?
Witnessing him commit murder twice in a year and a half didn’t rev my emotions as much as his refusal did.
With a short gruff that did absolutely nothing to relieve my angst, I sat upright. Sleep wasn’t forthcoming anyway.
Kicking my feet off the bed, I ambled closer to the window and leaned against the wall beside it, watching the world beyond. The familiar scene of Manhattan’s bustling streets—the twinkling city lights, car horns, and hushed voices in the night—stirred memories from when my life was normal.
I could almost picture myself hauling out the garbage in the alley, saying goodnight to Dorothy, Rosy’s sister, who seemed to savor her extended hours at the diner and, apparently, the attention of certain male customers, and walking over to my sweet companion to begin a quiet ride home.
I missed it: the nighttime shifts at Rosy’s and the daytime hours at PMAA. I missed being in control, but most importantly, I missed having a life.
Suddenly, I became overwhelmed by everything that was happening. Cian’s death at Hamilton, Polina’s kidnapping, my kidnapping—even if it was technically not a kidnapping. I’d been coerced to accept a job offer I could not refuse. It was a hefty, mouth-watering offer, no doubt, but it didn’t dispute that I’d been asked to leave my whole life behind and start anew without being given a choice.
Blackmail.
Evil.
The weight of my new reality crashed down on me like a tidal wave, threatening to pull me under.
And yet, the image of the man who had forced me into this dark hole of anxiety kept me up at night and left me sleepless.
As I looked beyond the velvety green drapes, he reappeared—just like he always did. He drowned out everything else from my mind and stood there, watching me with that infuriating smug look, like he always did. Every inch and every detail were as clear as they were in the light of day. His eyes were stark and cold and blue, like frozen oceans in the Arctic, holding back secrets that I knew I was better off not knowing about.
I saw his fingers and remembered them drumming slowly against the counter. They were long, slender, and clean, with no dark edges like I sometimes had after assisting Mario on kitchen duty to scrub pots and pans.
My mind drifted, and I wondered how those would feel if they curved around my neck or wound around my body.
I shuddered, but not in fear or disgust, rather in surprising anticipation as I felt my skin rise in goose flesh.
Deep down, I flagged a reminder: Roman Varkov was a bad man. A vicious murderer and mobster. He was the type of man parents warned their children to avoid. He was the type of man who could afford to have his head in the clouds and shadows on the street doing his dirty work for him. A dangerous man.
But the reminder proved to be useless.
It didn’t shield my mind against thoughts of the firmness and sharp edge of his jaw when it clenched, the tempting fullness of his lips that permanently stayed in a grim line, or the slant curve on his left eyebrow like he’d grazed it with a knife.
He might have been all shades of melancholy and danger signs, but nothing deterred my heart from skipping at how insanely hot he was.
I massaged my temple with a sigh.
I was fantasizing about my boss, the same boss that had dug up information about myself and my father behind my back and threw it in my face like I was a pauper wallowing in the shitty depths of poverty. I should have been infuriated.
I wanted to be, but instead, my annoyance worked up a raving appetite.
I muttered under my breath, “Great,” and moved away from the window. It seemed like I was going to have to take a short walk to the kitchen.
The door silently clicked shut behind me, and I allowed my feet to wander but took breaks in between to tour the house. When I got to the portrait, I paused, looked at it— admired every inch of it, as I’d been doing a lot— and was on my way again.
First thing to note: so many doors.
I was curious to know what lay behind those closed doors, so I tried the first one.
Locked.
The second one.
Locked, too.
And so was the third, fourth, and fifth until I gave up and went down the stairs. Fortunately, there was one unlocked door hidden behind the stairs. If anyone asked me, it was weirdly positioned, and I wasn’t very excited when I discovered it was the library.
I flicked on the switch.
I had to add that it was a very impressive library, with tall and fully stacked bookshelves.
The lights were warm, the floor covered with soft black carpet that quietened my footsteps, and two loveseats were in the corner, positioned especially for reading.
The inside smelled of books, new and old. Unsurprisingly, it was dustless and arranged in alphabetical order under different sections. Special thanks to the boss and his OCD.
I walked through the aisle, letting my finger lightly trace the polished shelves as I passed. I’d never been a bookworm, except with the books featuring action. But I did love the feel of books in my hands.
I tilted my head back, glancing through. Corporate, philosophy, and history texts filled more sections than contemporary literature or anything I was used to. I yawned. In the space of a few seconds, my appetite had grown.
No need to go further.
I retraced my steps to the door, turned off the light, and continued my journey back to the kitchen.
The main living areas had an open layout. The living room and dining room were separated by a thick sheet of glass structured from the ceiling, like I only saw in the movies. In the living room, a wide flat-screen TV and quadruple rows of suede couches were arranged.
I gaped in awe.
Yesterday, I’d been too shaken to observe the surroundings, and before now, I could only dream of living in a house with a space fifty times the size of my apartment. And now, here I was, living in that very dream.
I strode into the kitchen, passed the island gleaming with stainless steel and black granite, and went straight to the fridge. I didn’t bother with the light switch.
My belly grumbled.
The fridge lit up, and a cool gust of air brushed my cheeks. I ducked my head lower, scanning for ingredients to prepare a quick meal.
The partial smile on my lips faded. Apples, milk, dried fruits, some other products, more apples…and the list went on.
The fridge, like the rest of the house, was lacking nothing. The pantry was fully stocked; there was more frozen chicken and yogurt than I’d ever seen in my life stored in one place.
But there were no leftovers. Whipping up a quick meal with the available ingredients would take more than a few minutes.
And it’s past midnight.
I eyed the milk carton and grabbed it from the diary compartment. Making a quick meal would have to wait till after dawn. A bowl of Cheerios suddenly didn’t sound so bad for an actual midnight snack.
The partial smile was back up, as I could already taste the rich milk on my tongue. I closed the fridge and turned around.
“Jesus!” I barely had a grasp on the carton when my hand flew to my chest, my breath coming out in ragged puffs. “Dear God. Shit, you scared me.”
His disinterest shouldn’t have surprised me. If “unfazed” was a person, it would be a six-feet-three Russian man with blue eyes and dark hair named Roman Varkov.
He stood there, one hip pressed against the marble counter and toned arms crossed over his chest as he stared me down with a guarded but thoughtful gaze.
“Why?”
Why?
Is he fucking kidding me?
“What do you mean why ? You literally appeared out of nowhere.”
“I’ve been here the whole time.”
I wanted to smack that smug look off his face once and for all. My feet moved closer on their own will, and soon, I was standing chest-to-chest with the man I should have been awfully terrified of.
My eyes dipped, and I wished I could release a kick on his arm for giving my heart such a shock.
“No, you weren’t.”
“Yes, I was.”
I gritted my teeth.
“Your eyes were on the fridge the whole time,” he said strangely in a tone that had the faintest hint of mirth laced underneath.
Hah! As if he could be fascinated or amused by anything.
He pointed to one of the high stools by the glinting black granite. “I was seated right there.”
I studied him and watched intently for signs that would give him up. Signs that would prove that he’d intentionally scared me to feed on my misery.
But I found none.
Consciously, I took a meaningful step back because it suddenly became hot—too hot to breathe, too hot to think. My lungs were working uncontrollably, and when my heart stopped jumping in a crazy frenzy, I became self-aware.
I was standing alone in the darkness with Roman Varkov.
“You were snooping around.”
His voice's familiar hardness returned, and he was accusing, but while I opened my lips to respond, my mouth refused to form words.
I was distracted.
The kitchen lights weren’t on, but silver moonlight flooded through the wide-spanning glass-paneled windows, offering a panoramic view of the night sky, and the pale light illuminated his angular profile.
From the hard lines of his jaw down to the rough edges that fit him better than it could possibly have anyone. I’d never thought anyone could pull off a roguish appearance like my boss could.
Slowly, my gaze swept across and down the whole length of him, taking in his new wardrobe. After drawing my conclusions that the man slept in Tom Ford suits, slacks, and ties, he’d gone ahead and worn a pair of black sweatpants and a snug t-shirt that didn’t care about modesty.
The sharp definition of his broad shoulders seemed to dare me to draw closer yet warned me to keep my distance. A stretch of black ink, running from the crook of his elbow down to his wrist, called my attention, and I had to bite my tongue to stop my curiosity from becoming words.
Tattoos weren’t my thing, but there was no prejudice behind my preference. For me, clear skin appeared more appealing. That was…until now.
And damn, was he sexy.
The strange symbols and shapes etched into his skin and encircling his wrist made my fingers itch; the need to trace them was an instant craving.
I swallowed and fanned my cheeks. “Is it hot in here?”
Shit. Those words should never have made it out.
He lifted a concerned brow. “No. It’s not.”
“Okay.”
I needed to sit down. I’d officially lost my grip on reality and was floating in a world where the man in front of me glowed brighter than a million stars in the galaxy. Every detail, every inch of him, stuck, and I couldn’t shake them off no matter how I tried.
Change the topic, Maria.
I remembered that he’d accused me of snooping around his house and chose that as the perfect way to take my mind off…whatever it was that was going on.
“I wouldn’t call it snooping around.”
“Hm.”
He gave me that look that meant he didn’t believe a word I’d said.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, feeling uncomfortable under his scrutinizing gaze.
“You have a beautiful home. So, I did some looking around.”
There was a subtle flash of surprise, and then, it was gone.
“Looking around at twelve-forty. Doesn’t sound suspicious at all.”
“Don’t be paranoid.”
Double shit.
I expected a death glare, the type that would have sent the weak-minded to an early grave in seconds, or maybe an animalistic growl, ordering me out of his sight and up to my room for daring to accuse him of paranoia. But it was none of that.
He nodded, and his voice was calm when he spoke. “Isn’t that what you call being cautious?”
“I’m just saying, you don’t always have to think the world is against you.”
I shrugged and nibbled my lower lip. His eyes followed the movement, and a sudden burst of warmth flooded my chest and trickled down to my toes.
He frowned, his expression sour and unreadable once more. “You don’t wish you could have my head served on a platter for messing up your life?”
My heart sank to the pit of my stomach, and I stared, tight-lipped.
When I didn’t respond, he made an annoying motion with his head, sending his point across: He was right.
“Exactly what I thought.”
Even I was against him.
Awkward silence rested between us, and I chewed my lips, not sure what to say or how . Words failed me, and they seemed to be doing so a lot lately whenever he was around.
I didn’t want to ponder deeply on why guilt prodded like a fucking needle at the back of my mind for being against him—despite my many justifiable reasons. So, I refocused on something else that presented itself. Something that ate deep and created more puzzles as the day went by. Something that could cost me my job and probably my only opportunity to repay Finn Jameson.
I piped up, “I have a question.”
“Up until this very moment, you haven’t needed my permission to speak.”
Verified: He was pissed about the paranoia thing.
I chewed the inside of my cheek and smacked my lips. “I’ve been wondering…you and Polly…do the two of you, um, live here, in this house, alone?”
Roman didn’t need a minute, not even a second more, to process the question as soon as it went flying out of my mouth. His stare was solid, tentative, and as cryptic as the Voynich Manuscript. He knew what I was asking, and every sensible thing in me pointed to the slow construction of his lips as it formed a thinner line. He didn’t appreciate the question.
I held my breath.
He opened his mouth, and his jaw flexed. “Polina only has one parent. And that is me.”
That was his way of saying the conversation was over. It had come to a final close, had been locked in a big vault, wrapped with the thickest chains on planet Earth, and tossed into the ocean, never to see the light of day or be spoken of again.
I nodded.
And strangely, I felt a tingle zap to the core between my legs.
Great.
No talk of Polina’s mother or his wife, and there I was, experiencing a dark thrill. I wondered about who she was, where she might have been, and the reason she was not in the picture, but I didn’t want to risk having a bread knife aimed at my head. So, no more questions.
On the bright side—which was the reason I’d felt a thrill in the first place—I was the only woman in the house. And being the only woman in a house with Roman Varkov meant undivided attention.
Christ, Maria!
I scolded myself. I had to get my head out of the gutters.
There were more important things. Things like getting out of there before things became more awkward.
He clearly wasn’t going anywhere. It was his house, and the man I’d seen in action would never excuse himself from the kitchen for a girl like me. And I sure as hell didn’t want to run away like some scared mouse.
Which led me to another conversation.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
I gestured to the four walls surrounding us. “A man in the kitchen after midnight could mean only two things; he’s either a stalker or a burglar.”
It flickered again, that tiny hint of amusement that illuminated his face and made him appear softer in seconds.
“What about being the owner?” he asked.
“Doesn’t count.” I smiled, and I could almost swear he mirrored it. “What would the owner be doing in here at this time?”
I might have imagined it or not, but Roman moved closer. Like an actual move—with his feet consciously closing the distance until I felt the heat again.
His eyes fell to my chest, and under the warmth of his gaze, my nipples hardened to pebbles.
Triple shit .
Blood rushed all the way up to my cheeks, and my arms flew to my chest, thankfully with the milk carton shielding my arousal from his sight.
“I was hungry,” he said when his eyes found mine again, his voice raspy. “I tasted some of your brownies.”
Feeling awfully aware that standing close to this man was messing with my ability to be rational, I swallowed.
“And how did they taste?”
His gaze flickered to my lips. In them was a brewing intensity I had never seen before, with eyes glowing like embers.
“Delicious.”
A tremor ran through my skin when the heat from his mouth fanned my lips.
I suddenly felt thirsty.
Gone was the appetite for food. Awakened in its place was now a fierce hunger to know if his lips tasted as delicious as those brownies or even more so.
I moved away. Knots formed in the pit of my stomach, and the rest of my thoughts blanked. Butterflies danced, and my heart raced faster.
“Um…okay. Glad you enjoyed it. I, uh…I have to….” I was half-skipping and half-running toward the door already, having abruptly set the milk carton down.
Without looking back, for fear of falling into something deeper than I could handle, I yelled, “Goodnight,” and slammed the door on my way out.