Chapter 4Valerian
4
Valerian
I lean back in my leather chair, replaying Claire’s shifting expressions. The anger in her eyes, the defiance in her posture, and finally, the resignation that settled over her features. A twinge of something unfamiliar tugs at me.
Guilt? I push it away, burying it deep. This is business, nothing more.
“It’s about the money,” I mutter to myself, running a hand through my hair. “That’s all.”
But even as I say the words, I know they’re not entirely true. There’s something about Claire that challenges me in a way I’m not accustomed to. Her fierce loyalty to her family, her willingness to sacrifice herself for them… It’s admirable, if also a little misguided.
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. “Come in,” I call out, straightening in my chair.
Dmitri enters, his face impassive as always. “Boss, there’s something you should know about the Bennett girl.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“After you dismissed her, she got sick in the bathroom. Heaved her guts out. She said she wasn’t pregnant, but who knows.”
The information upsets me more than I’d expect, but not because I think she’s pregnant. She doesn’t strike me as a liar. More realistically, she’s stressed to the point of sickness about our little deal.
I picture Claire, bent over and retching, her body rebelling against our agreement. The guilt resurfaces, sharper this time. I clench my jaw, forcing it back down.
“I see,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “Anything else?”
Dmitri shakes his head. “That’s all for now. Do you want an update on the Petrov situation after the docks incident?”
I nod, grateful for the change of subject. “Yes, give me a full report.”
As Dmitri launches into the details of our latest clash with the Petrov Syndicate, I try to focus, but my mind keeps drifting back to Claire. I imagine her hands on me, kneading away the tension in my muscles. The thought sends a jolt of heat through my body.
I recall her condition, no “happy endings.” A smirk tugs at my lips. I’ve never expected that anyway, certainly not from someone in her position. Still, I can’t deny the attraction I feel. If things were to turn physical between us... I wouldn’t object.
“Valerian?” Dmitri’s voice cuts through my wandering thoughts. “Did you hear what I said about Matvey’s new shipment?”
I blink, forcing myself back to the present. “Sorry, Dmitri. Could you repeat that?”
As he continues his report, I make a conscious effort to listen, but even as I nod and ask questions, part of my mind remains fixed on Claire. On the way her eyes flashed with defiance, on the curve of her lips as she agreed to my terms.
I shake my head slightly, trying to clear it. This is dangerous territory. Claire is here to work off her brother’s debt, nothing more. I won’t complicate things by allowing my attraction to cloud my judgment.
And yet... the image of her persists. The way she stood up to me, refusing to be intimidated even in the face of my power. It’s refreshing. Intriguing.
“That’s all for now, boss,” Dmitri concludes. “Anything else you need?”
I wave him off. “No, that’s fine. Keep me updated on any developments with Petrov.”
As the door closes behind him, I lean back in my chair once more and try to work, lighting a cigar to pacify my nerves. My gaze drifts to the clock on the wall. It’s taking too long for it to be time for my first massage appointment with Claire. Despite my best efforts, a thrill of anticipation runs through me.
I stand, adjusting my suit jacket. As I move toward the door, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My expression is composed, revealing nothing of the turmoil beneath the surface.
Good. That’s how it needs to stay.
“Remember,” I tell my reflection sternly, “This is about the debt. Nothing more.”
But even as I say the words, I know they’re a lie. Claire Bennett has already become more than just a means to collect on her brother’s gambling losses. She has become a pretty little present with a bright pink bow.
And I bet the inside is even pinker…
I stride through the halls of my mansion across the imported Carrara marble. My mind drifts to Claire’s face, and the slight lift of her chin when she stood up to me. Most people cower. She didn’t, at least not until I threatened to make her parents pay the debt. Even then, she capitulated, but she didn’t quiver with fear.
Movement catches my attention as the familiar silhouette of my head butler appears from the east wing. “Anatoly,” I call out, my voice carrying through the cavernous space.
He materializes at my side within seconds, his black suit pristine, his silver hair neatly combed. At sixty-five, he moves with the same efficiency he showed when I was a boy, serving first as a footman, and finally, as my father’s butler before he passed away.
“Yes, Mr. Rostova?” He folds his hands behind his back, posture military-straight. Decades of service have taught him to read my moods. Today, his usual formality carries a hint of curiosity.
“Prepare the blue room for our guest, Miss Bennett. She’ll be staying with us for the foreseeable future.” I run my finger along the polished mahogany of my desk, picturing the room with its sapphire silk drapes and antique Fabergé collection.
Anatoly nods, his expression unchanging. “Of course, sir. I’ll have Maria change the linens and refresh the flowers. The blue room overlooks the rose garden. Perhaps Miss Bennett would appreciate that view.”
I pause, considering it. The memory of her earlier defiance, that flash of spirit, suggests she needs more than just a gilded cage, no matter how luxurious. “Yes, and inform Chef Mikhail to prepare a special dinner tonight. I want both Russian specialties and some American dishes. Beef Stroganoff, perhaps, alongside a good old-fashioned steak. Something familiar for Miss Bennett.”
“Very good, sir.” Anatoly straightens his already impeccable posture. “I’ll speak with Mikhail about incorporating both cuisines. Would you prefer service in the formal dining room or the private alcove?”
“The alcove. No need to overwhelm her on her first night.”
“I’ll see to it immediately, sir,” says Anatoly with crisp efficiency. He executes a perfect about-face, his polished shoes pivoting on the gleaming marble floor without a sound. His movements are fluid, reminiscent of his military background.
As he glides away, I call out, “Anatoly?”
He halts mid-stride, turning back to face me with an expectant expression. “Yes, Mr. Rostova?”
“Did the items I ordered arrive today?” I ask, my tone casual but my interest keen.
A flicker of understanding crosses Anatoly’s face. “Indeed, they did, sir. As per your instructions, we’ve converted the smallest guestroom, the gray one, into a massage space. Everything is set up and ready for use.”
I nod, satisfied. “Very good. Carry on.”
Anatoly inclines his head respectfully before resuming his silent departure. I watch him disappear around the corner, then turn toward the grand staircase leading to my private quarters.
As I ascend, trailing my hand along the cool, polished banister, my thoughts drift again to Claire. I’m used to inspiring fear. It’s a tool of my trade, and as natural to me as breathing, but Claire’s fear gnaws at me, an uncomfortable sensation I can’t quite place.
Reaching the landing, I pause before a large window overlooking the manicured grounds. I loosen my tie, feeling inexplicably constricted.
“Why does her fear bother me so much?” I murmur to myself, my reflection in the window frowning back at me. The answer eludes me, slipping away like smoke through my fingers. With a shake of my head, I continue down the hallway to my rooms, determined to unravel this puzzle that is Claire Bennett.
I enter my bedroom and yank at my silk tie, the expensive fabric slipping through my fingers as I cross to the window. Through the wall of glass, with the blinds currently open, my estate unfolds like a master painting with its manicured gardens, stone fountains, and the long driveway lined with Italian cypress trees. All mine. All meaningless right now.
“Control,” I say, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. “Repayment. Business.” The words taste hollow on my tongue. “She’s just another debt to collect.” Even as I speak the lie, Claire’s face appears in my mind.
Running a hand down my face, I turn from the window. The manila folder on my nightstand draws my attention like a magnet. It contains identical copies to the information contained in the other folder I keep in my office. I pick it up, though I could recite its contents in my sleep.
Claire Bennett. Twenty-seven. Massage therapist. No criminal record. Outstanding student loans. Close relationship with her soon-to-be-incarcerated brother.
“Dammit.” I flip through the pages, but the black and white text fails to capture what I’ve witnessed firsthand, how she lifted her chin and stared me down in my own office, how her voice never faltered when she stood up to me, and how she eventually accepted my maneuvering with quiet grace.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
I slam the folder shut and toss it back on the nightstand. “She’s nothing more than her brother’s debt,” I tell the empty room, but the words ring false, even to my own ears.
I look at the report again, but its clinical facts feel hollow. “What makes you smile like that?” I whisper to her absent form. “What keeps you awake at night?” Questions I’d never bothered asking anyone before.
In the master bath, I hang my suit with mechanical precision. The shower hisses to life, filling the marble space with billowing steam. Hot water washes over my stiff shoulders, but my mind wanders to golden-flecked eyes and a voice that trembles yet never yields.
“Damn you, Claire,” I murmur, my voice rough with frustration. I brace one arm against the cool tile, feeling the smooth surface beneath my palm. Rivulets of hot water cascade down my back, but they do nothing to ease the fire burning inside me.
My other hand slides down my abdomen, muscles tensing beneath my touch. Fingers seek lower, desperate for relief from this maddening tension that’s been building since I first laid eyes on her. I grasp my cock with a grunt.
Behind closed eyelids, I see her as clearly as if she were standing before me. Those lush curves barely contained by whisper-soft silk, teasing and tempting. That stubborn mouth, usually set in defiance, finally yielding to mine in a passionate kiss. I speed up the pace of my hand, squeezing hard as though punishing myself for this stolen pleasure while yearning for it to be her mouth instead of my hand working my shaft.
“Claire.” I groan, her name catching in my throat as pleasure crests and breaks. My balls tighten, and I cum on the tile floor before the water swirls it down the drain. The intensity of it leaves me weak-kneed, sagging against the shower wall. Water pounds against my shoulders, but I barely notice, lost in the aftershocks and the lingering image of golden-flecked eyes.
I draw in a ragged breath, trying to regain my composure, but even as my body relaxes, my mind remains fixated on her. On the enigma that is Claire Bennett, and the inexplicable hold she has over me.
“What are you doing to me, Claire?” The words dissolve in the steam, unanswered.
Afterward, as I dry off and dress for dinner, I tell myself I’m not ashamed. It’s a natural response to an attractive woman. Nothing more, but the memory of the guilt I felt earlier in my office resurfaces.
I banish it quickly. There’s no room for such weakness in my world.
I check my watch. Claire will be arriving soon. Despite my best efforts to remain detached, a thrill of anticipation runs through me. Tonight’s dinner will be... interesting, to say the least.
As I adjust my cufflinks, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My expression is composed, revealing nothing of the turmoil beneath the surface. Good. That’s how it needs to stay.
“Remember,” I tell my reflection sternly, “This is about the debt. Nothing more.”
Even as I say the words, I know they’re a lie. Claire Bennett has already become more than just a means to collect on her brother’s gambling losses. If things get heated and physical between us, I’ll have no regrets.