Chapter 18 Lena
LENA
I made it to my room before I let myself feel it.
The door clicked shut behind me and I slid down against it, pressing my back to the wood until I sat on the cold marble floor.
My legs wouldn’t hold me. My hands were shaking.
I could still taste him on my tongue, still feel the ghost of his release on my skin even though he’d wiped it away with hands that had been almost tender.
Almost.
What did you just do?
I pressed my palms against my eyes and tried to breathe. Tried to think. Tried to understand how I’d gone from “guard your heart” to tracing his scars like I had any right to his pain.
I’d touched his face like he was something precious. I’d tasted him like I wanted to know what he was made of. I’d felt his arms wrap around me, holding me like I mattered, and I’d forgotten every warning, every wall, every promise I’d made to myself just hours ago in this same room.
And then he’d thrown me out like I was nothing.
Clara’s voice cut through the fog in my head, sharp as broken glass: Whatever tenderness he shows you, it’s all part of the hunt. The wolf doesn’t actually care about the rabbit. He just wants to eat it.
I’d been so sure I understood that. So certain I could keep my heart locked away while my body paid the price of our arrangement.
But tonight, when he’d kissed me slowly instead of claiming me roughly, when his hands had moved over my skin like I was something to be cherished rather than consumed, I’d let myself believe.
Stupid. So stupid.
The worst part wasn’t that he’d pushed me away. The worst part was the look on his face when he’d turned and watched me leave. For one heartbeat, I’d seen something raw behind his eyes. Something that looked almost like regret.
And I’d almost broken. Almost crossed back to him, almost reached for the wounded man behind the monster.
Then I’d remembered the hallway floor. The cold marble against my knees as I sobbed, dress bunched around my waist, while he walked away satisfied. I’d remembered that every moment of gentleness was followed by cruelty, every crack in his guard slammed shut harder than before.
So I’d built my own wall. Right there in his doorway, I’d felt it rise. Brick by brick, mortared with humiliation and sealed with resolve.
He’d seen it. I’d watched him see it, watched something flicker in his expression that might have been surprise. Good. Let him see what his hot-and-cold games created. Let him understand that I could play this game too.
I stood on shaking legs and stripped off my clothes, dropping them in a pile I’d deal with tomorrow. The shower was scalding, hot enough to turn my skin pink, hot enough to burn away the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he’d held me after like I was something he couldn’t bear to release.
I scrubbed until my skin was raw. Washed my hair twice. Stayed under the spray until the water ran cold and I was shivering, teeth chattering, finally feeling something other than the ache in my chest.
By the time I emerged, wrapped in a towel that smelled like the manor’s expensive detergent and nothing like him, I’d made my decision.
He wanted a possession? Fine. That’s what he’d get. A body that responded when he touched it. A cunt that got wet when he walked into the room. His words, not mine.
I’d give him exactly what the contract demanded. Not one ounce more.
My heart was mine. It would stay mine. And if some treacherous part of me had started to feel something real for him tonight, I would cut it out and bury it so deep he’d never find it.
I climbed into bed, pulled the covers up to my chin, and stared at the ceiling until exhaustion finally dragged me under.
I dreamed of wolves. Of being chased through dark woods by something I couldn’t see. Of running until my lungs burned and my legs gave out, only to turn and find him standing there, not chasing at all.
Just watching. Just waiting.
Like he knew I’d come back to him eventually, no matter how fast I ran.
I woke with the taste of him still on my tongue and hated myself for it.
Morning light filtered through the heavy drapes, turning the room gray and cold. I forced myself out of bed, forced myself through the motions of showering and dressing. A shield, I reminded myself as I pulled on a professional blouse and wool trousers. This was a shield.
The manor was quiet as I made my way downstairs. His scent lingered in the hallways, and my traitorous body responded before my brain could intervene. Heat between my thighs. Pulse quickening. I gritted my teeth and kept walking.
Alice was in the kitchen, arranging a breakfast tray with her usual efficiency. She looked up when I entered, and something in her eyes made me want to turn around and walk back out.
“Good morning, Miss Hughes.” Her voice was gentle. Too gentle. Like she knew exactly what had happened last night and was choosing not to mention it.
“Morning.” I poured myself coffee, kept my hands busy so they wouldn’t shake. “Is he… is Mr. Antonov here?”
“He left early. Business downtown.” A pause. “He mentioned he won’t be back until this evening.”
Relief rushed through me, followed immediately by something that felt disturbingly like disappointment. I crushed it before it could take root.
“Good. I’m going to the hotel. I have work to do.”
Alice nodded, but her eyes stayed on my face a moment too long. “Of course, Miss Hughes. Take care of yourself.”
The drive to the hotel was escape. Every mile between me and that manor was a mile I could breathe easier, think clearer, remember who I was outside his orbit.
The Hughes was recovering. I could see it the moment I walked through the lobby, in the way the staff moved with renewed purpose, in the comfortable bustle of guests checking in and out.
A gust of warm air hit me as soon as I entered.
The heating crisis had been handled. The scent here was familiar: fresh flowers and the faint trace of the coffee they served in the restaurant.
Home. The hotel had survived. Because of me.
I threw myself into work with a desperation that probably looked like dedication. Budget meetings, staff reviews, vendor negotiations. Anything to keep my mind occupied, to drown out the memory of his hands on my skin, his voice telling me to come.
“You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
I looked up to find Michael standing in my office doorway, two cups of coffee in his hands and an easy smile on his face. He was wearing a blue button-down with the hotel’s logo on the chest, sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking like something out of a hotel management catalog. Approachable. Safe.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I accepted the coffee he offered, wrapping my hands around the warm cup. “I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” He settled into the chair across from my desk, completely at ease. “The boiler’s been fixed, Lena. The guests are happy. The staff thinks you walk on water. You can stop running on fumes.”
“I’m not running on fumes. I’m running on caffeine and spite.”
He laughed, and the sound was warm and uncomplicated in a way that made my heart skip. This was what normal was. Easy conversation. Genuine kindness. No hidden agendas, no power games, no desperate wondering what came next.
“The quarterly reports are ready for review,” he said, setting a folder on my desk. “I also had a conversation with the Paradise Peaks tourism board. They’re interested in featuring the hotel in their spring campaign.”
“That’s great, Michael. Thank you.”
“It’s my job.” He shrugged, but his smile widened. “Also, I like seeing you succeed. Your father never let you show what you could do. It’s about time someone did.”
The words landed somewhere soft and bruised inside me. I thought of Raphael, who touched me like I was something to be owned rather than valued. Who made me feel wanted but never capable. Who seemed surprised every time I proved I was more than just a body in a contract.
“You handled that crisis better than anyone I’ve seen,” Michael continued. “The way you coordinated the staff, managed the guests, kept everything running while the temperature was dropping. Your father would be proud.”
I wanted to believe that. Wanted to believe my father had ever seen me as anything other than a disappointment to be managed.
“Lena.” Michael leaned forward, his expression softening. “When’s the last time someone took care of you? Instead of the other way around?”
The question landed too close to the wound I was trying to ignore. I thought of last night. The way Raphael had cleaned me with gentle hands, then held me against his chest like I mattered. The way it had felt, for one terrible moment, like being cared for.
Before he’d thrown me out.
“I can take care of myself,” I said, and my voice came out sharper than I intended.
Michael held up his hands. “I know you can. I’ve seen it. I just…” He hesitated, something flickering behind his easy smile. “You deserve someone who doesn’t make you look like that. Exhausted. Guarded. Like you’re bracing for the next blow.”
I opened my mouth to argue, to defend, to deflect. But the words wouldn’t come. Because he was right. That was exactly how I felt around Raphael. Constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the tenderness to turn to cruelty. For the warmth to become ice.
“I should get back to work,” I said instead.
Michael nodded, rising from his chair. At the door, he paused. “If you ever need anything, Lena. Anything at all. I’m here.”
“I know.” And I did know. Michael had been a steady presence since my father’s stroke, reliable and competent and kind. The opposite of everything Raphael represented.
So why couldn’t I stop thinking about that dark, rich scent and the way Raphael’s eyes had looked when he watched me leave?