Chapter 4 Anton
Anton
I am not a patient man.
It's a fact known from Moscow to Manhattan. I do not wait for shipments, for apologies, or for women. My world is one of immediate action, of taking what I want, of bending reality to my will.
Which is why the last twelve hours have been a special kind of hell.
Talia Brooks said no.
She stood in my office, her body still thrumming from my touch, her lips swollen from my worship, her scent—that intoxicating mix of vanilla, peaches, and her own unique arousal—clinging to my skin, and she said no.
It was... unexpected. And it has lit a fire in my blood that is dangerously close to an inferno.
Now, it’s Christmas Eve. The city is shutting down, a ghost town of empty offices and early closures. And she’s here. She actually came in.
I watch her on the security feed. I’ve been watching her since she stepped into the lobby at 7:58 a.m., two minutes early, as if to prove a point.
She’s wearing a grey pencil skirt and a white silk blouse that whispers of the curves beneath it.
Her hair is pulled back in a severe bun, a futile attempt to look severe.
All it does is expose the elegant line of her neck.
She hasn't looked at my office door once. Not once. She’s been all business, typing with a furious rhythm, answering the few calls that come in with a crisp, professional voice.
She is pretending last night didn't happen.
She is pretending she didn't come apart on my tongue.
She is pretending she isn't mine.
A dark, humorless laugh rumbles in my chest. Malen'kaya. Little one. You can’t hide from me in my own building.
The strain between us is a physical thing, a third entity in the room.
It’s so thick I could cut it with my kindjal.
Elena is gone. The entire executive floor is empty, save for us.
The silence of the massive space is broken only by the click of her keyboard and the howling of the wind outside.
A blizzard has descended on the city, a white wall of fury that matches my own.
I let her stew for another hour. I let her pretend. I review spreadsheets I’ve already memorized, take a call from Dimitri in St. Petersburg that I could have ignored. I’m giving her space, a courtesy I’ve never extended to another living soul.
It’s a lie. I’m not giving her space. I’m drawing the string taut.
At 1:00 p.m., I press the intercom. Her sharp, professional voice answers on the first ring. "Yes, Mr. Ismailov?"
Mr. Ismailov. We’re back to that. The formality is a slap, a challenge. Good.
"My office, Miss Brooks. Now."
I don't wait for a reply. I cut the connection and stand, moving to the window. The snow is coming down so hard, the world beyond the glass is just a white, swirling void. It’s beautiful, in a brutal way.
I hear the door open, the soft click of the latch. I don't turn. I feel her presence, her heat, the nervous energy rolling off her. She smells like peaches and fear.
"Sir?"
"Close the door."
A beat of hesitation. Then the click. We are sealed in.
"The forecasts were wrong," I say, my voice calm, conversational. I’m still watching the storm. "They’re calling it a 'bomb cyclone.' The city is shutting down. The mayor is closing the bridges and tunnels by three."
"Oh." Her voice is small. "I... I should check the train schedule."
"There is no schedule, Talia." I turn to face her.
She flinches at the use of her name. Her eyes are wide, her hands clasped so tightly in front of her, her knuckles are white. That damn blouse is almost translucent under the office lights, and I can see the faint outline of her bra. She’s trembling.
"You're nervous," I state.
"I'm cold," she lies.
"No. You're nervous. You're wondering why I haven't mentioned last night. You're wondering if I'm going to fire you for saying no." I take a step toward her. "Or if I'm going to punish you for it."
Her chin jerks up, and there it is—the flash of defiance that drives me insane. "Are you?"
I'm in front of her now, close enough to feel the shiver that runs through her. I don't touch her. Not yet. "Which one, malen'kaya? Firing you? Or punishing you?"
"You're a bastard," she whispers, the words full of fear and an anger that excites me.
"Da." I nod. "I am. But last night... you were wondering. You went home and you waited. You were angry."
Her brow furrows. "What are you talking about?"
"You were angry I didn't call."
Her face goes pale. She's shocked that I know, that I can read her so easily. "I... I wasn't... Why would I... You didn't even call to make sure I got home."
The accusation is there, the vulnerability she hates. She was waiting. She was looking for a sign that I was more than the monster who cornered her.
I allow myself a small, cruel smile. "I didn't call, Talia, because I didn't need to."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I was twenty feet behind your taxi, in my own car.
I watched you get out. I watched you fumble with your keys, curse, and drop your bag.
I watched you finally get inside. I know you bought a cheap bottle of red wine and a frozen pizza at the bodega on your corner.
I know you turned your bedroom light on at 10:17 p.m. and turned it off at 1:22 a.m. I don't need to call to keep track of what is mine. "
Horror dawns on her face, a slow-motion crash. The rich brown of her skin fades, her face turning ashen. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. She’s not just scared. She’s terrified. And angry.
"You... you followed me?" she sputters, her voice vibrating with disbelief. "You watched me? That's... insane. You can't do that."
"I just told you I did." I'm so close now I can smell the sudden spike of adrenaline on her, sharp and coppery. "You said no to my offer, Talia. You did not say no to my protection."
"That's not protection," she seethed. "That's stalking."
"It is semantics." I raise a hand, brushing a stray curl from her temple. She's frozen, trapped between her fear and her fury. "You walked out of here last night, wrecked from my touch, and into a city full of wolves. Did you think I would let you go alone?"
"I am always alone," she cries, the words tearing out of her. "I've been alone my whole life. I can take care of myself."
"You won't have to anymore," I say, my voice dropping, rough with a possessiveness that is primal.
Before she can argue, a piercing alarm shrieks through the building. Red lights flash in the hallway, reflecting off the glass walls of my office.
Talia jumps, a small yelp escaping her. "What is that?"
I'm already moving to my desk, hitting the intercom. "Security. Status."
The head of my detail, a man named Kirill, answers immediately.
His voice is gravel. "Pakhan. The blizzard has taken out a primary generator downtown.
The city is enforcing a mandatory power-down of all non-essential high-rises to prevent a grid failure.
The building is locking down. All systems will go to emergency power, which means no heat, no water, and no elevators. .. except one."
"Understood," I say. I look at Talia. She's wrapped her arms around herself, her eyes fixed on the flashing red lights. She's beautiful.
"What... what does that mean?" she asks, her voice shaking.
"It means the building is closing. Now." I round the desk, grabbing my jacket. "We're leaving."
"Leaving? But you said the bridges... the storm..."
"We aren't going far."
I grab her hand. Her skin is ice-cold, but the jolt that goes through me is electric. She doesn't pull away, too stunned by the alarm. I lead her out of my office, through the empty executive floor. The emergency lights cast long, flickering shadows. It’s apocalyptic.
"Where are we going?" she asks as I pull her toward my private elevator, the one that requires my thumbprint.
"The building systems are shutting down. It will be 20 degrees in this office within an hour." I press my thumb to the panel. The steel doors slide open with a silent, heavy thwump. I pull her inside.
"But... where?"
I hit the button. Not for the lobby.
For the Penthouse.
"Home," I say.
The elevator ascends, a smooth, silent rocket. Talia is pressed against the back wall, her eyes wide as she watches the numbers climb past the executive floor, past the roof, to the private residence that crowns the Sindicate Tower.
"I... I can't," she whispers. "Anton, I can't go 'home' with you. Not after... not after last night."
The doors open.
If my office is a kingdom, the penthouse is a fortress.
It’s two stories of glass and steel, with 360-degree views of the city.
The storm is a living thing up here, a raging white beast that batters the 20-foot-high windows, but inside, it’s utterly silent.
The air is warm. A fire is already burning in a massive, modern fireplace.
"You can't go anywhere else," I say, my voice gentle. I am done being the bastard. For now. "The city is closed, Talia. The building is frozen. This is the only safe, warm place for miles. You are here with me."
She looks around, overwhelmed. The space is minimalist, masculine—black leather, dark wood, polished chrome. It is the opposite of her, all soft curves and hidden warmth.
"I... I don't have clothes. I don't have..."
"I have everything you need." I walk to a panel by the door and press a button. A section of the wall slides away, revealing a fully stocked kitchen. "Are you hungry?"
"I... no. I don't..."
"You're lying." I know she hasn't eaten. "You will eat. Then you will shower. You will be warm." I walk to her, stopping a foot away. I can see the battle in her eyes—the pride, the fear, the exhaustion. And something else. A flicker of desire she's trying to kill.
"Why are you doing this?" she whispers.
"Because you are cold, and I have a fire." I gesture to the sprawling sofa. "Sit. I'll make you something."