21. Arkadiy
21
ARKADIY
“ W hat the hell are you doing?”
My eyes shoot to Mara, arched over the top rung of a wooden ladder, to Rafael, watching her daring maneuver from the safety of an armchair in the corner of the room.
“And what the fuck are you doing watching her?”
I don’t give him a chance to answer. I enter the den faster than I exited my office when my mother blindsided me for the umpteenth time the past week and stabilize the wobbles of an ancient-looking ladder before Mara can hurt herself.
“Down. Now.”
“Ark.” Mara starts her defense with a giggle, downplaying my panic as if it is irrational. “The chandeliers are d-dusty, and you have a ton of guests arriving next weekend.”
The ladder wobbles in the aftermath of her shudder when I say, “I don’t give a fuck if they’re covered with cobwebs. I didn’t hire you to clean the chandeliers. Down. Now! ”
With my snapped command leaving no room for arguing, Mara commences climbing down. Her scent gets stronger with each rung she descends—as does the firmness of my cock.
That is the exact smell I seek anytime I shower, and the exact smell my mother is using against me to paint me as an evolving monster. She said it is too innocent for a “real man” to find appealing, and anyone who believes otherwise should seek a psych evaluation.
Halfway down, Mara mumbles, “I don’t understand why you hired me, Ark. The toilets, showers, and sinks are cleaned every morning before I arrive, and all the beds are m-made. I’ve got nothing to do but dust chandeliers and polish silverware.”
I’m stolen the chance to relish how fast her stutter is lessening in my presence when Rafael mumbles under his breath, “It isn’t the silverware he wants you to polish.”
My glare would have more heat if I hadn’t noticed how much Mara’s confidence thrives from his multiple underhanded comments that I want her. The self-assurance that flourishes in her eyes makes her even more fascinating, and it has me hopeful I can block out my mother’s hurtful comments for just an hour.
That’s all I want—an hour of peace. Then maybe my head will stop thumping as ruefully as my heart does anytime I force myself to walk away from Mara instead of walking toward her.
My mother hasn’t stopped harping in my ear for the past two weeks. I’m at the end of my tether. Her prolonged visit to Myasnikov has put me in such a bad mood everyone is avoiding me—even the woman who has had more impact on my life in weeks than my mother has had in decades.
“What is it? Are you hurt? Did you hurt yourself?” I ask Mara when a hiss follows her final step down from the ladder.
“It’s n-nothing.”
This woman’s ability to lie is as woeful as her ability to sit still. I kept on the cleaning service company Val helms to ensure Mara didn’t need to clean toilets and make beds for a living, but it seems as if she would rather be elbow deep in shit than sit around, twiddling her thumbs all day.
I’ve caught her scrubbing the inside of the wall oven, cleaning the tracks of the windows, and rearranging the linen cupboard this week alone.
Now, she’s dusting the damn chandeliers.
If she had the appropriate equipment, she would have scaled the building by now to clean the floor-to-ceiling window of my office from the outside. I do not doubt that.
Mara has work ethics by the bucketload. Veronika—the woman who refused to leave town until she received the whole nine yards for our “date” multiple media agencies ran as front-page news—can’t say the same.
She didn’t even show up to the etiquette class my mother organized for her, hoping it would have me seeing her in a different light, because it was scheduled to start at 10 a.m.
She stood across from my mother, the very essence of a woman who would sell her soul to the devil for the right amount of coin, and told her she doesn’t get out of bed before midday for anything or anyone.
Her lack of interest in bettering herself proves she isn’t the woman to stand by my side, but my mother isn’t convinced. She’s confident that once the “hero complex” fueling my obsession with Mara wears off, I’ll be grateful Veronika is in the wings, ready to swoop in and save the day.
Mara entering the kitchen to collect the food I have Chef prepare in excess each meal stole my rebuttal.
Mara thinks Chef is bad with portion control. She has no inkling I ordered him to triple the quantity he usually serves each day to ensure there are leftovers for Mara to take home. I don’t care what she does with the food once she leaves here with it. Knowing she can eat when hungry makes me desire to hand-feed her anytime her stomach growls.
When Mara’s second hiss is strained through clenched teeth, I guide her toward the armchair Rafael vacated. I don’t know where he goes after placing Mara into a situation that demands a response from me, but he disappears if it means Mara and I will be the only two people in the room.
I know what he’s doing. He knows I’m not strong enough to withstand the magnetizing pull that forever cracks between Mara and me and is hopeful it will remind me that my mother is not a woman I should take advice from.
It does. Every spasm affects me, but I am stuck between a rock and a hard place. It isn’t solely my skeletons I’m fighting to keep hidden. They’re not even Mara’s, but I have no right to steal her cloak of invisibility any more than the woman I have an unhealthy obsession with.
Partway across the den, Mara says, “I’m fine, Ark. Truly. The arch of my foot is just a little tender from trying to m-maintain a grip on the ladder.”
“Grip on the top rung of a ladder you should have never been on.”
“It is my job to c-clean?—”
“It is your job to do whatever the hell I tell you to do,” I interrupt, doubling the rise and fall of her chest. “And for now, I am telling you to sit.”
She plops onto the armchair, her submissiveness sending a current straight to my cock. It acts as if I didn’t find release only hours ago when the hem of her maid’s outfit slips high on her thigh from me carefully lifting her foot to inspect her ankle.
I’ve told Mara numerous times to wear whatever she feels comfortable in, but each day, without fail, she arrives looking like every billionaire’s wet dream, and I’m forced to stroke my cock for the second time before midday.
Heat creeps across the back of Mara’s knees when I roll down the cuff of her sock. It matches the coloring that hits my cheeks when I notice her ankle is swollen.
“Did you fall? Your ankle looks inflamed. That isn’t arch damage from gripping a ladder too firmly.”
“It’s nothing?—”
I flash her a stern glare, stopping her lie before it can be fully issued. I have enough people lying to me and for me. I don’t need more.
You’d swear Mara heard my inner thoughts when she confesses, “I wasn’t watching where I was going, and I t-tripped over a box in the entryway this morning.” The color drains from her face as she glances at the floor. “It was addressed to Veronika.”
Her hiss this time is more in jealousy than pain, but I let her play it off as if it is in response to me removing her shoe, because she has no reason to be jealous.
Even weeks after our first meeting, I still can’t be in the same room as Veronika for ten minutes without wanting to dig a pen in my ear. There’s no way we would have lasted the eight-year term of the contract Fyodor wanted us to sign, and mercifully, both Veronika and my mother are out of time to prove otherwise.
Veronika’s “invitation” expired this morning at 8 a.m. sharp.
She is finally out of my hair, leaving me only one gargoyle left to wrangle—and perhaps a heap of guilt I’ve never truly acknowledged belongs on my shoulders as much as it does everyone else’s.
When Mara’s chest sinks, disappointed by my lack of reply, I wet my lips before saying, “Apparently, the makeup Veronika left behind when she packed this morning is invaluable to her, so Rafael organized to have it couriered to her hotel.”
Needing to keep my focus off the rapid rise and fall of her chest before it forces me to make a similar mistake to the one I made last Friday, I lower my eyes to her foot.
When I saw Mara through the boutique window, my feet moved for her before my head could talk me out of it. That’s how hard I have to fight to keep my distance when our exchanges could be eyeballed by a lady threatening to throw more than my career under the bus if I act on my desires.
Annoyance about how close I came to forcing Tillie to walk in on a scene inappropriate for a child grinds my back molars together as I inspect Mara’s foot more diligently.
It is swollen, but I don’t believe it is broken. She should still seek medical attention, though. Even if she didn’t make my dick ache, she is an employee who was hurt on my watch. Seeking medical assistance is the right thing to do.
“Did you have your ankle looked at when you rolled it?”
The shampoo I’m obsessed with wafts into my nostrils when Mara shakes her head. “Rafael offered”—when I growl, she speaks faster—“to take me to the ER, but I told him it wasn’t necessary. My foot is fine. Look…”
She rolls her ankle and almost howls.
When I shoot up to my feet, confident I never want to hear her cries of pain again, Mara’s watering eyes follow my stalk. “Where are you going?”
“To call a doctor,” I answer, not looking back.
“A doctor? Don’t be absurd. I rolled m-my ankle. It isn’t an emergency s-situation.”
“Dr. Morgasten is a resident of the Chrysler building. He’ll come straight down. Then you can get back to…” A growl ends my reply when I peer up at the chandelier. It is even more hazardous from this viewpoint. “Home. You can go home as you should have hours ago.”
I loosen the tightness of my jaw with a quick grind when the receptionist answers my call. “Good evening, Mr. Orlov. How can I help you?”
“Dr. Morgasten’s residence, please,” I request through clenched teeth, frustrated by her inability to refer to me by my given name as asked numerous times over the past three weeks.
Apparently, my mother’s orders outrank mine.
“Right away, sir,” she replies, not missing the sternness of my bark.
A clank sounds before it is swallowed by a noise I never want to hear again. “He-he? Dr. M-Morgasten is a m-man?”
Mara’s eyes widen when they meet mine. Although they still stimulate a jolt of excitement to my cock, that isn’t the only response they entice.
They announce that she is scared.
My focus momentarily rips away from Mara’s whitening cheeks when a gravelly voice sounds down the line. “Arkadiy, what a pleasure it is?—”
I hang up before Dr. Morgasten can issue all of his greeting, before twisting to face Mara front on.
I don’t need to ask the profession of the man who hurt her.
Her frightened expression tells me everything I need to know.
Medical professionals are meant to save lives.
Her unvoiced confession just cut one of theirs short.
I try to keep my tone neutral. It is a woeful waste of time. It couldn’t be more possessive if I tried. “If you don’t want to see someone about your foot, you need to ice it.”
Mara’s chest sinks when she sighs in relief. “I will. The instant I get h-home?—”
“No. Now. You will ice it now.”
“Now?”
She looks as bewildered as I feel when I stride across the den, pluck her from the armchair, lift her into my arms, and then veer my steps to my bedroom.