Chapter 11 #2
He shrugs. "Sometimes, yeah. Mostly, it’s just me. I’m not here a lot."
“Oh?”
“But that’s going to change."
That throws me. I look down at his massive hands, the same ones that pinned me down and held me, and imagine him carefully folding… towels. It’s disturbingly intimate. Domestic. Because now I can’t stop imagining those hands back on me, peeling my clothes off instead of washing them.
I swallow hard and wish I had a pile of dirty clothes to wash, suddenly eager for distance. I need a break from the intensity already. His gaze drops, dragging down the curve of my back, and I feel it—his desire, a little hum between us.
"I’m surprised you care as much as you do," he says suddenly, his voice low, cutting.
I straighten slowly and turn to face him. "About what?"
Don’t tell me he’s seen through my fake nonchalance already.
He takes a step toward me, closing the space until my back hits the dryer. "About how you look. About what my family thinks. About what I see when I look at you."
Fuck.
"Okay, get over yourself, Matvei,” I snap, but my voice betrays me. "I don’t really care about any of that."
He bares his teeth at me, and it would be a smile if it didn’t look so much like a threat. "Liar."
So what if I do care? So what if I like the disguises because they feel like armor? So what if I like the fact that I can move from place to place without ever putting down roots—because when I do, if I do, someone always comes along and rips them up again.
So what?
How does he flay me open without even trying?
And the scariest part? Why do I like it?
He leans in, one hand braced beside my head. His eyes are stormy and beautiful. My heart beats faster. I want him to touch me, and I don’t want him to be gentle.
He smells like vodka and soap. I lick my lips.
"Why do you think I’m not afraid of you running anymore?" he asks in a whisper.
The truth is, he should be.
He should be waiting for me to slip up, but instead, he watches me.
The air between us snaps like electricity.
I roll my eyes to hopefully hide my reaction to my pounding heartbeat. "Because you know how to track me."
He touches my chin, tracing the line of it. My breath hitches for a second.
"Yeah, little ghost. But we both know that’s not the truth. Not all of it anyway, is it?"
He’s just as fucked up about me as I am about him.
He’s supposed to hate me. Even his parents hinted at that.
I can’t look away. I can’t stop myself. My fingers curl into the front of his shirt, dragging him to me. His body presses up against mine, and I crave being closer, connected. Flesh against flesh, mouth against mouth, tongues tangled. Because I’ve never been more attracted to someone in my life.
I don’t know what the hell that says about me.
His hands skate down my sides, rough and possessive, leaving a trail of heat behind.
"How long is the wash cycle?" I whisper.
His low, dark chuckle makes my nipples harden. "Long enough."
I sigh and close my eyes as his lips meet mine.
His kiss isn’t soft—too much wanting, too much need. His hands fist in my messy hair, keeping my mouth locked to his, and I feel it… I feel it.
The way he’s holding back.
The way his control slips through his fingers like sand.
Fuck it. I want to make him lose control. I want to see exactly what happens when Matvei Kopolov snaps.
"The tour," I tell him. "You going to finish giving me the tour?"
“Right.”
I feel a giggle bubbling up because—god help me—he’s kind of cute when he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“So this is the laundry room. Down the hall are some guestrooms, and upstairs is the bedroom. Our bedroom,” he says in a rush of words.
"That’s great, but I hope you know I’m gonna buy something pink. Maybe lots of pink.”
He makes a face. "Pink?"
"The ultimate feminine color, and it’s my favorite. Don’t judge."
"I don’t want pink in my bedroom." His nose crinkles.
“Challenging your fragile male ego? I thought it was our room?”
He growls and pinches my ass.
“Fine then. Creams, golds, neutrals. Is that better? Your whole house is like some kind of control freak manifesto."
He shakes his head. "You’re unbelievable."
I smile at him sweetly, and my stomach growls. Still starving.
Something buzzes between us.
"Either you’re packing a vibrator or someone’s calling you."
"Option two."
He answers his phone, lifts it to his ear, and, with his other hand, keeps me pinned against the wall, holding me there like I might vanish if he doesn’t keep a grip.
I watch his eyes while he talks, and for no reason at all, I lick my lips. His fingers tighten on my shoulder, a silent don’t you fucking start.
Yum.
I swallow hard.
"Yes. No problem. Yeah, she knows because my mother’s got a big mouth, so we need to get together soon. Of course, yeah. Bye."
He hangs up and looks at me. He shrugs, all nonchalant, but his hand is still on me. "Guess they’re not coming after all."
My stomach knots. I don’t know what to do with the swirl of conflicting feelings.
On one hand, I’m disappointed. I have a sister, and I wanted to meet her. Surely no one can be as bad as his mother?
On the other hand, I have exactly zero desire to see Rafail anytime soon, so yeah—relief.
And I’m still starving.
"I guess I have a little more time to get some clothes."
“Or not.”
My pussy throbs.
"And some food," he says. “I’m about five minutes away from throwing shit."
He pushes away from the wall, but his fingers lace through mine.
He’s holding my hand.
I’m not a hand-holder. I’m not a cuddler. But I like holding his hand.
"Here," he says, handing me his phone. "Order what you want."
I take his phone in my right hand while he leads me down the hall.
"Anything I want? What if I want a pony?"
He grunts.
"A pink pony?"
"Guestrooms," he mutters, jerking his chin toward a few doors. "Bathroom. This one’s nice—it’s got a waterfall… thing. Whatever you call it."
He speaks with quiet pride. This is his house, one he crafted in some way for himself, one that’s all his—away from his parents’ suffocating bullshit. Even if they’re still circling, waiting to pull him back under.
"And I really don’t give a fuck what you order. Just get me some food. Fast."
I pull up the app, scroll, and place an order for the greasiest takeout I can find. I throw in a side salad to appease my conscience.
I press the button. "Are you a big tipper?"
"Of course. They’re bringing me food, and I don’t have to cook. Tip them whatever the hell you want."
I like that.
I tip big and hand him the phone back.
He opens a door at the very end of the hall. “And this room here, it’s—"
He stops. I do too. Instead of moving forward, I stare.
Inside, the walls are lined with shelves. Books—old, worn, their spines cracked with use. It smells of varnished wood and aged paper.
A framed quote hangs over the desk.
"Even in the grave, all is not lost."
I freeze.
"Edgar Allan Poe?" My voice comes out soft.
Matvei shrugs, but there’s something guarded in the set of his jaw. "Yeah. So?"
I stare at him, heart racing. "You know I like Poe."
His head tilts. He doesn’t respond. Did he put this here for me? Or…
My skin crawls, that familiar flash of how long has he been watching me bubbling up. Of course he knows. Of course he’s been in my shit.
Except—
I haven’t read Poe in years.
Years.
But when I did, I didn’t just read, I consumed. Memorized. It was all I read because, for the first time in my life, I felt seen. Someone else understood the complex emotions of being human, of wanting to live and sometimes hating every second.
But how would he know?
I didn’t leave that trail for him to follow. I didn’t post it, didn’t leave a book lying around, barely thought about it… until right now.
"So how did you know?" I whisper.
His eyes darken. "I didn’t. Are you giving me shit?”
I shake my head.
We stare at each other, and the air between us shifts. Not just hunger. Something stranger. Older.
"Maybe you’ve been stalking me," he says, his voice low and dangerous.
My breath catches. “Is that a joke?” I laugh to cover the way my pulse spikes. "You wish."
But my hands tremble when I touch the book lying on the desk. My fingerprints have never been on this one—but it still feels like it’s mine.
Or his.
Or ours.
“And so being young and dipped in folly…” My voice trails off.
“I fell in love with melancholy,” Matvei finishes.
My head snaps up.
Something behind his gaze flickers. Sharp. Knowing.
Vulnerable.
My pulse beats faster. Maybe he’s been watching me longer than I thought? But no, that doesn’t make sense…
I glance down at another page, my voice quieter now. “Deep into that darkness, peering, long I stood there…”
“Wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams…” His voice trails off. I mentally complete the line.
…no mortal ever dared to dream before.
The doorbell rings, soft and delicate, like wind chimes. It doesn’t belong in a house like this, too pretty for all this dark wood and sharp edges. I glance at him, curious.
He shrugs. "Food."
Oh. Right. I almost forgot. I’ve been too distracted by him—his hands, his voice, the weight of his attention.
Our shared madness.
He locks the door behind him and double-checks it like a man who’s never been safe a single day in his life. And when we head for the living room, his hand finds mine again… like it belongs there.
"Sit on the couch," he orders. "Hands in your lap, where I can see them."
He tries to sound sharp, but some of the bite is gone. He’s not as angry anymore—just possessive. Watchful.
I nod like the obedient little brat he thinks I am and give him mocking servitude. “Yes, sir."
He doesn’t trust my obedience. I can feel his eyes drilling into my back as I walk to the couch, which means—he’s exactly where I want him. I wink over my shoulder, and his jaw ticks.
He checks the peephole. Checks the cameras. Touches the gun at his hip before unlocking the door. He doesn’t trust anyone—not the delivery guy, not the air, not the night itself.
It should be sad, and it is, but mostly, it’s familiar. Too familiar.