Charlotte
The uniform pinches at my ribs when I breathe too deep, but I don’t dare tug at it. The head housekeeper has eyes everywhere, mirrors, cameras, reflections in polished silver. She notices everything. Especially weakness.
So I keep my head down and stay quiet. Invisible.
That’s what they want from maids like me in the Dubovich mansion. We appear, we clean, we disappear again. Rooms go from chaos to perfection while guests pretend we were never there at all.
It’s safer that way.
Usually, the Pakhan prefers to over-winter in his mountain lodge, but now he is married with a newborn, he decided to return to the main house year-round.
I push my trolley down the corridor, the wheels whispering over the carpet thick enough to drown a scream. My feet ache, I’ve been on shift since before dawn, but complaining is a luxury I can’t afford. Someone always has it worse. Someone is always waiting to take your place.
I knock, soft and practiced. “Housekeeping.”
Silence.
I use the master key, step inside, and let the heavy door seal shut behind me. The air smells like sandalwood soap, expensive cologne, and the kind of wealth that doesn’t need to brag.
But something feels… different.
I pop my earbuds in and press play on the language podcast. With an exam looming and my Russian not being as strong as it needs to be, I’m willing to take the risk of wearing them while I try to absorb some of the words that I’m struggling with.
I’m allocated twenty minutes per room. That’s twenty uninterrupted minutes that I can learn while I’m working.
I begin cleaning, quickly and efficiently. Whoever is using this room is neat and tidy, and it makes my job a whole lot easier. I’ve never been in one of the upper-level family suites before, I want to prove I can handle it. That I can be trusted here.
Lesson Twenty: Common Phrases for Everyday Conversation.
I clear the bin in the living room, polish the desk and plump cushions on the chaise before making the bed.
The tasks are second nature now, allowing me the brain space I need to focus on the course. The audio in my ear chirps:
Я не понимаю.
I don’t understand.
Oh, the irony.
I repeat the phrases quietly, working hard to get the sounds right as I move into the bathroom. The door swings open and I’m hit with a blast of warm air.
Steam blurs the glass shower screen, but not enough. The man in the shower is huge. Huge in every conceivable way. Tall and broad and covered in sharp black ink and swirls of white frothy bubbles.
I gulp. I freeze. My eyes are locked on his body and my brain is short circuiting as the Russian words repeat in my ears.
Я не понимаю. Я не понимаю. Я не понимаю.
I don’t understand, I don’t understand. I don’t understand.
A hand lifts to slick dark hair back from his forehead. He tilts his face upward into the spray, eyes closed, body stretched out with every part of him on display. He turns slightly, and the blurred shape of him becomes clearer. Powerful. Male. Entirely naked.
My lungs lock. My throat goes dry.
Before I can retreat, his voice slides through the steam.
“Enjoying yourself?”
I yank the earbud out like it’s caught fire and close it in my palm, words tangling on my tongue.
“Я не понимаю,” I choke out, instantly hearing how stupid I sound. I turn and slam the bathroom door behind me, gathering up my cloths and sprays and launching them onto my trolley.
Just get out, get out, get out. I will myself to move fast, but it’s not fast enough. I’ve not quite reached the door to the suite when the bathroom door opens and his dark, sinful voice booms across the room.
“Stop.”
My body instantly obeys, and I freeze mid-step like a cartoon character.
“Look at me.”
I turn slowly, and meet his eyes. He is still naked. Still wet. There are still bubbles on his shoulders and in the little dips between his defined muscles. I can’t breathe and hold a hand in front of me to protect his…modesty… from my peripheral vision.
“I—I’m sorry. I thought the room was empty. I knocked, and no one answered.”
His face, sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, eyes the color of a winter storm… I need to stop looking at this man, but I can’t.
A droplet runs from his hairline to his throat. My gaze follows without permission. My tongue darts out in a desperate bid to moisten my lips, and my brain decides now is the time to imagine running my lips over his wet skin to achieve the same outcome. I squeeze them tightly shut.
“Drop your hands, and open your eyes.”
I whimper, actually fucking whimper, as I do what I’m told.
His brow lifts, slow. Controlled. “You’re new.”
“Yes,” I breathe. And then, quickly correcting myself, “I mean no. I’m not new, just… new to this floor.”
His eyes drop to the earbud still clutched in my fist.
“You listen to music while working?”
I shake my head too fast. “Language program. Perhaps you could grab a towel?” Perhaps I could grab one for you? My brain interjects, and I shout at it to shut up.
A beat of silence, but he doesn’t move. I didn’t know men could be so big. Granted, I’ve only seen what was obscenely flashed at me without my permission, but still. I whimper again and drag my eyes back up to his and find him looking at me with something that’s almost amusement.
Then, unexpectedly, he asks, “Which language?”
My cheeks burn. “Russian.”
His eyes narrow with what looks like interest. “And what have you learned?”
My mind blanks.
Then the last phrase I heard through the earbud spills out in a whisper:
“Я не понимаю.”
I don’t understand.
His mouth curves, not into a smile exactly, but something close. Something warm and dangerous.
“You understand more than you think,” he says.
His skin is pebbling now. The water on his skin turning cold. His nipples pebble and I stumble back, nearly tripping over the trolley.
“I’ll come back later.”
“You’re not leaving. Not yet.”
His tone stops me cold. Not because it’s harsh. But because it leaves no room for anything else.
I swallow. “What—?”
He finally reaches for a towel, movements efficient, unhurried. “How old are you?”
Disappointment curls through me when he wraps it around his waist and I silently admonish myself. If I still have a job by the end of the day, it will be a miracle.
My shoulders slump. This is it. I’ll be out of a job in the next twenty seconds all because I wanted to pass my Russian exam. “Twenty-five.”
His eyes narrow as he drops them to the name embroidered on my uniform.
“Charlotte.” He says it like he is measuring the weight of it in his mouth, and it sends a quick, hot pulse through my chest and straight to between my legs, which I instinctively clamp together.
“Yes?” My voice is tiny.
He towels water from his hair and looks straight at me. I have to swallow to stop myself from making another inappropriate sound.
“I have a proposition for you.”
Oh.
His eyes darken as he rakes his gaze over me.
Oh.