Chapter Twenty-One
Mirabel
The drive back to the estate passes in a blur of green and gray, my mind distracted by thoughts of next week’s payment for Dad’s treatment.
Over these past weeks, Ashwater Heights has become less of a prison and more of a routine—the mansion’s oppressive grandeur now familiar in ways I never expected.
My shopping trip yielded three bags of clothing I couldn’t afford without this job. Diana had begged off due to a deadline, leaving me with two stone-faced security men who tracked my every movement through the stores.
The car stops at the front entrance. A houseman waits at the top of the steps, his face tight with tension.
“Mr. Laurov wants you in his office,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “Now.”
My lungs constrict. I’ve worked here long enough to recognize the warning signs—something’s wrong. Seriously wrong.
“Is he…?” I start.
“Just go,” he cuts me off, already turning away.
I follow him through corridors that suddenly feel too narrow, my footsteps too loud against the marble. At Arkady’s office doors, he knocks once, then disappears before I can ask any more questions.
“Enter.”
The command slices through the wood. I push the door open, stepping into the lion’s den.
Arkady sits behind his desk, utterly still. His stillness is what terrifies me most—yelling would be less intimidating. The afternoon light cuts across his face, highlighting the knife-edge of his cheekbones, the cold calculation in his gaze.
“Close the door.” His accent thickens when he’s angry, Russian consonants sharp and guttural.
I comply, my fingers clumsy on the handle.
“Care to explain,” he asks, his tone cold, “how you got the key to my private room?”
Heat floods my face.
Oh, sweet Jesus, he knows!
Of course he knows. The mansion has cameras I haven’t found, or informants I haven’t identified.
“Anfisa dropped it, and I… I apologize.” The words fall flat in the space between us, hollow with their inadequacy.
Arkady rises. He doesn’t rush. No, that would be too merciful. Each deliberate step around the desk is calculated to extend my dread. I force myself to stand my ground, though my instincts scream to run.
“After such clear warnings, you still chose to ignore the rules,” he says. His right hand flexes at his side; I’ve seen that gesture before, when he was on the phone discussing someone who’d crossed him. That conversation ended with orders I didn’t want to understand.
“I’m sorry,” I say, hating the weakness in my voice. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” He steps closer. Too close. My heart rate is going through the roof. “Did you think the rules didn’t apply to you?”
My mouth dries with fear and shame as I imagine what he saw me doing in there.
He has every right to fire me. I screwed up.
Yet losing this job means Dad’s treatments stop.
It means the twenty thousand I still owe Arkady becomes due immediately.
It means failure. And failure in Arkady Laurov’s world means—
I stop that thought in its tracks.
“No,” I whisper. “I just… I was stupid.”
“Look at me.” He catches my chin between thumb and forefinger, forcing my face up. His touch isn’t gentle. “You went into my private space. You invaded what’s mine.”
A tremor runs through me—fear, yes, but something else too. Something deeply inappropriate. A rush of heat between my legs that makes no sense given the danger I’m in.
“I should throw you out,” he says, his thumb tracing my lower lip. The gesture feels more threatening than tender. “Let you find out what happens when you can’t make your payments.”
Fear spikes through me. “Please don’t.”
“Give me one reason I shouldn’t.”
“I need this job,” I say, hearing the desperation in my voice. “My father—”
“I don’t give a fuck about your father.” His words are ice, his eyes burning with something far more dangerous than mere anger. “I care about loyalty. Obedience. And you’ve shown neither.”
His hand slides from my chin to my throat, resting there—not squeezing, but impossible to ignore. A reminder of his power. His control.
My pulse hammers where his fingers rest against my carotid, and still my body responds with heat instead of fear.
He could crush my windpipe if he wanted to. Stop the air from ever reaching my lungs. End me in this room and bury my body in the woods. They’d never find me.
And still, it’s not fear I feel.
His mouth crashes against mine without warning. It’s not a gentle kiss—it’s possession, domination. His teeth catch my lower lip, the edge of pain making me gasp. He takes advantage, deepening the kiss, his tongue invading my mouth.
I know what I should be doing right now. Push him away. Slap him. Instead, my hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer as something wild and unrecognizable claws through me. Answering something I never knew existed in me.
Dear God, what am I doing?