Chapter 13
EVA
It’s four in the afternoon before I even register the time. I’ve been working steadily since eight with barely a break. The only one I’ve taken was when Dmitri came in to check how far along I was on my next target.
All I could say then was ‘closer,’ and not much has changed since.
Frustrated, I bury my face in my hands and scrub at my skin until it feels raw. Focusing on the sensation is better than brooding over what will happen if I fail to crack the files Evgeny wants.
Or that I’m incredibly confused by his behavior toward me ever since our wild ride in his gym.
I would think he was trying to be nice to me if I didn’t know better.
Then again, maybe nice isn’t the word when we nearly fell into each other’s arms again in the library.
I felt the bulge in his pants, and I responded with just as much need.
The idea of feeling him pumping roughly into me again had my panties sopping.
Afterward, I was so horny I almost took care of it myself, except I knew it would be a hollow echo of what Evgeny could give me.
And I want that more than I care to admit to myself.
I push myself up with a half sigh, half groan, my joints popping and rebelling after sitting all day. I think about getting a snack, but I’m not hungry yet, and my brain needs more to do than just staring out at the ocean.
Cautiously, because I still can’t quite believe he gave me unlimited access to this incredible space, I pad across the house to Evgeny’s library.
It’s just as incredible as I remembered, like something out of a fairy tale with shelves of books stories tall.
Dark wood, leather furniture, dusky carpets, the musty smell of old paper and leather bindings that remind me so much of my father’s bookstore.
And above that, the faint scent I have come to know is particular to Evgeny, a smoky blend of cedar, cardamom, vetiver, and the barest hint of fresh citrus.
It’s a blend as dark and intoxicating as the man himself. And I want to inhale it as much as I want to bury my nose in one of those old Russian books to discover the treasure hidden within.
The space looks even more beautiful with light streaming in from the clerestory windows.
Except someone is already in the library. Evgeny sits in one of the big leather chairs, one leg draped over the other, his eyes moving over the pages of the slim book in his hands.
His eyes slip from the book to meet mine, and I freeze as the door clicks closed behind me.
“Sorry. I didn’t know you would be here.”
Evgeny lowers his gaze back to his book.
“Stay,” is all he says, and after a moment’s indecision, I do.
I spend the next hour climbing up and down the ladder, exploring different books on different shelves, and reading a few pages to get a feel for the text before I put it back. Some of the books are so old the leather flakes in my hands, the pages are yellowed, and some of the print has faded.
One particular book has seen much love or strife, with the leather cracked and faded, and the brittle pages have torn and flaked away at the edges. The printed Cyrillic letters are smudged and faded in many places, as though someone has run their fingers over the words repeatedly.
And I’m beyond thrilled to find it.
Trying not to let out a squeal of excitement, I nearly skip to the chair catty-corner to Evgeny and start eagerly devouring the words.
Before long, though, the back of my neck prickles. I look up to find Evgeny’s unsettling gaze fixed on me, almost like he’s the eldritch beast from the story I’m reading.
“The Scarlet Flower?” he asks, faint amusement lifting his tone. “In Russian?”
“It’s always better in the original language.”
His mouth quirks faintly on one side as he lifts his book, and I read the gold-foiled Russian on the spine. Dostoyevsky’s The Gambler and Other Tales. “I’ll agree with that. You enjoy Russian fairy tales?”
My cheeks and the tips of my ears burn. “Yes. I find them darkly enchanting. They have so much pain and sorrow in them.”
“Russian literature is rather depressing,” Evgeny agrees, a faint rumble of laughter at the edge of his words.
“Too much darkness and vodka,” I say, grinning.
“Too much poverty and bleakness,” Evgeny adds.
And just like that, we’ve found something in common.
I smile, and miracle of miracles, Evgeny smiles back at me. Truly smiles, the first one I’ve seen since that night at the club, the breathtaking, disarming smile that makes my heart skip several beats and then race onward.
And, of course, my stomach chooses that moment to announce itself with a loud gurgle.
“Sorry,” I mumble, my cheeks heating. “I guess I forgot to eat lunch.”
He closes his book, places it beside a tumbler nearly empty of whiskey, and pushes to his feet. “Unlike the poor souls in most of these books, I have a remedy for that.”
“Alona?” I ask, pushing up from my chair and trotting to keep up with his long strides.
“It’s her evening off. There’s a place down the road.”
I stop short, my mind trying to comprehend what Evgeny is implying. He looks over his shoulder at me. “Are you coming? You can stay and scrounge if you’d rather.”
I’m after him in a flash, not wanting to give him time to second-guess what seems like an invitation not only to eat but also to leave the estate for a while, unprompted.
“Boss.”
We’re almost out the door when one of the Kucherov men steps into the hallway from a side room.
Evgeny levels him with a look.
“There’s an issue we need to deal with.”
He won’t say what the issue is in front of me, but from the set of his mouth, it’s not a good one.
I start to turn back toward the kitchen when Evgeny shakes his head. “When I return.”
The man’s eyes round, his mouth taking on a frown. “But, Boss, this—”
“I said I will deal with it later.”
There is an edge to Evgeny’s voice that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end, and I take an involuntary step back.
My movement draws the attention of the bratva member, and I can almost feel the chill interest of his gaze.
That look sends a shiver through me, but I push it down and glare a warning at him.
Except it’s not necessary.
A low sound in his throat becomes a growl, a warning to match the frightening look in his narrowed eyes. He doesn’t need words to scare the guy off or intimidate him into backing away.
“S-sorry, Boss,” the man yelps before he turns tail and nearly runs back into the room.
Evgeny takes my hand and pulls me along as though nothing happened, and I follow.
I sit stunned in a beach shack in Torrance as a version of Evgeny I’ve never seen talks to the couple who run the sandwich shop.
I watch him interact with them as the man assembles our sandwiches and the woman makes my milkshake.
He is smooth, and his quirk of a smile is so easy I almost don’t believe it.
He inquires after their children and grandchildren as though he were an average guy and not the pakhan of a powerful Russian mafia family.
As much as I hate to admit it, it’s an enormous turn-on, the dangerous, lethal predator hiding behind that sexy, sophisticated exterior.
A shiver runs through me, from my head down my arms, through my torso, all the way to my toes, and a throbbing takes up residence between my thighs that’s hard to ignore. When Evgeny brings my milkshake with our sandwiches, I down it like it’s putting out a fire.
And it kind of is.
I wonder at the change as we both stare out at the ocean, the strip of early evening sunlight shimmering on the surface.
Umbrellas dot the sand, surfers bob beyond the break, and kids dart in and out of the water, screeching and laughing.
A runner passes by on the path behind us, shifting aside as a couple on bikes ride past, ringing their bells.
“God, it’s good to be out.” I clap my hand over my mouth as soon as the words are out, a cold dread chilling the heat instantly. Expecting instant anger, I’m not sure what to make of the smile that lifts the corners of his mouth.
“You said you like Russian fairy tales. Aren’t you excited to live one out yourself?”
I laugh nervously. Did Evgeny just make a joke? Or was that a not-so-subtle reminder that, despite the sandwiches and hint of freedom, I am still his to do with as he wants, per my punishment?
“Relax,” he murmurs, no edge of danger or warning in the word.
I nod and force myself to do as he says, taking another long slurp of my milkshake.
Evgeny takes a chip from the pile, and I nervously gnaw on the pickle. “So,” he says, swallowing. “Why The Scarlet Flower?”
I shrug, taking another bite of the pickle. “I just like it. I read it over and over when I was younger until my copy fell apart, and I had to wait until my birthday to get another one.”
From the way Evgeny watches me, he suspects that’s not the entire story. And it isn’t. I just don’t want to admit my weakness for romantic fairy tales in front of him, as though it might erode what little respect he seems to have gained for me.
“The age-old tale of the princess finding a beast in a forest, only to learn he’s a prince under a spell? She changes his heart and falls in love with him despite his monstrous appearance?”
My ears are hot again, and I pick up my sandwich for a big bite. I can’t help but groan with pleasure. “You’re right, this is so good.”
Evgeny only chuckles, then takes a large bite of his, too.
“What’s your favorite book?” I ask him.
He waits until he’s swallowed and wiped his mouth, then answers. “The Death of Koschei the Deathless.”
I’m surprised he names another fairy tale and not one of the great Russian epic tragedies.
“Why?”
“Ivan Tsarevich creates his greatest enemy because he does not heed the warning and releases Koschei the Deathless. But he rights his mistake, killing the evil wizard and rescuing his wife, a powerful warrior in her own right. I appreciate the theme of mistakes and redemption. And earning the love of a strong woman.”
As Evgeny analyzes my choice, I study his. What does his appreciation for mistakes and redemption say about him? What about releasing a great evil into the world because of those mistakes? What do they tell me about his beliefs about the world and himself?
“You seem to know a lot about Russian literature.”
Evgeny’s question, disguised as a statement, pulls me away from the deep thoughts I don’t have answers for.
“My dad taught me. I think, in another life, if we’d had the money, or Mom was still alive, or if my family weren’t so dependent on me staying strong, I would have been a literature professor.”
“You would have drawn your students in with your passion,” Evgeny says, and the words and the expression in his green eyes startle me into silence.
Words slip into my mind, a passage I know nearly as well as the back of my own hand:
There, he gifted the girl a life of luxury, and servants fulfilled her every wish. Though the beast never appeared, he would write her beautiful messages in fire on the marble walls. And through these, the girl found the beast was kind as well as generous.
In time, she wished to see his true form. The beast worried that his grotesque appearance and fearsome voice would frighten her away. But eventually, she convinced him to reveal himself.
“The girl was frightened at first because he did indeed look like a horrible monster, but she overcame her fear, and a fondness grew between them, then blossomed into something more.”
Neither of us says anything when I finish the passage from The Scarlet Flower out loud, and our gazes stay locked. Something shifts between us, as though the words, written so long ago, have allowed us to express what we couldn’t say otherwise.
It’s not an admission, but it’s a start to something. Even if I don’t know exactly what.
And when Evgeny’s hand covers mine, big, warm, gentle, curled possessively, I don’t pull away. Instead, I wind my fingers through his.