Chapter Twenty-Three
Mirabel
I lie tangled in Arkady’s sheets, my skin still burning from his touch.
The imprints of his fingers mark my hips, tender reminders of how he held me down. My inner thighs ache pleasantly, muscles protesting against how hard he used me.
The scent of sex and sweat hangs heavy between us, mingling with his animal pheromones that make my body respond even when my mind knows better.
His weight shifts beside me. He traces patterns on my bare shoulder, each touch sending aftershocks through nerve endings already raw from stimulation. I steal a glance at him and nearly forget to breathe.
His face is different now—the hard angles of his jaw relaxed, those ice-blue eyes warmed to something almost tender. The feathered tattoos across his throat and chest rise and fall with each calm, deep breath, the black ink stark against his sun-bronzed skin.
I’ve never seen him like this before. Unguarded.
“I knew this was going to happen,” Arkady murmurs, his accent thicker in this private space, vowels elongated in a way that makes my stomach clench. “Even before I said ‘I don’t’ at the wedding.”
The confession jolts me. I turn to face him, propping myself up on one elbow, the sheet falling away to expose my breasts. His eyes flick down, darkening with renewed hunger.
“Why did you say no?”
His fingers draw invisible lines across my collarbone, then lower, circling my nipple without quite touching it. A deliberate tease.
“That wedding was never meant to be.” A smile flickers at the corner of his mouth. “And then, I got a look at your tits in that dress.”
I swat his hand away, but laughter bubbles up despite myself. “I was trying to be invisible. Hard to do when your dress splits apart mid-ceremony.”
“That tear saved me from making the worst mistake of my life.” His thumb finally brushes across my nipple, sending a jolt straight to my pussy. “Though watching you scramble to hold it together was… distracting.”
“I was mortified,” I admit, remembering the way the fabric had given way, how I’d clutched the pieces together while dozens of cold eyes had turned to stare. “Erica tried to warn me it was too tight across the back.”
“I’m glad you ignored her.” His palm settles warm against my ribs, so large it nearly spans my torso. The size difference between us hits me anew—how easily he could hurt me if he wanted to.
How easily he could protect me.
We fall quiet, our bodies a tangle of limbs and shared heat. My mind drifts to Rosanna, the woman who could have been in this bed instead of me. The woman whose heart he broke in front of the entire Russian community.
“What will happen to Rosanna now?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me as always.
“Nothing,” he answers, voice neutral. “She’ll find a better husband than I would have been. Someone who wants children.”
The statement hangs between us. I tilt my head to study his profile—the sharp cut of his jaw, the stubble darkening his skin, the slight notch in his right eyebrow I hadn’t noticed until now.
“You don’t?” I ask softly.
His expression hardens instantly. The transition is jarring—like watching ice crystallize over flowing water. His muscles tense beneath my fingertips, the relaxed lover vanishing beneath the return of the ruthless businessman.
“Nyet.” The single Russian syllable is cold and hard. “Let’s change the topic.” His hand captures my wrist, not painfully but with unmistakable authority. “Why did you go to my private room?”
My mouth goes dry, pulse accelerating against his grip. The key weighs heavy in my memory—the lock turning, the forbidden threshold crossed. I feel suddenly, acutely aware of my nakedness beside him. Of my vulnerability.
“I was curious,” I admit quietly, fighting the urge to look away from that penetrating gaze.
“I need the key back,” he says firmly, his thumb pressing against my racing pulse. “Now.”
I reach over the side of the bed, my movement constrained by his grip until he releases me.
I fish through the pocket of my discarded dress; the metal key is warm from being pressed against my body all day.
“Here it is. And… sorry again.” I place it in his palm, watching his long fingers curl around it. “But can I ask you something?”
His muscles tense beneath the sheets. The shift is subtle but unmistakable—like watching a predator move from rest to alertness in a heartbeat.
The sheet slides lower, revealing more of the dense artwork across his chest and shoulders—the wings stretch toward his throat in a way that makes him look both angelic and demonic simultaneously.
“What?” His eyes narrow slightly, the ice in them hardening.
I know I’m crossing a line, but I can’t stop myself. “Who is Mishka?”
Arkady’s face transforms. The man who touched me with such tenderness minutes ago disappears completely. His jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath taut skin.
“Chert voz’mi,” he mutters, the Russian curse sliding through his clenched teeth. He turns away, presenting me with the rigid line of his back, the sheet falling to his waist to reveal more tattoos spanning across his shoulder blades.
“Forget about the urn,” he says. Each word is sharp, cutting.
I reach for his shoulder, feeling the heat radiating from his skin, the tension coiled in every muscle. “Arkady—”
He whips around with frightening speed, gripping my shoulders in hands large enough to engulf them completely.
His fingers dig into my flesh, not enough to bruise but enough to command absolute attention.
His body looms over mine, using his size to intimidate as he stares down at me, no longer ice but something darker, wilder.
“You do not ask questions,” he says, each word precise and controlled. His accent thickens with his anger, voice dropping an octave. “Understand?”
My lungs constrict, heart thundering madly.
This isn’t just anger—it’s raw pain wrapped in fury.
I’ve touched something far more dangerous than I realized.
Yet even now, with his fingers pressing into my skin and his face twisted with rage, my traitorous body responds—nipples tightening, heat building between my thighs.
“I understand,” I whisper, hating the tremor in my voice.
He releases my shoulders and rises from the bed in one fluid motion.
I watch, frozen in place, as muscles ripple beneath his skin with each controlled movement.
He’s beautiful in his anger—terrifying and magnificent.
The sinewy strength in his thighs, the powerful line of his back, the casual display of his naked body that reminds me how completely he’d dominated me barely an hour ago.
He grabs his boxer briefs and pants, dressing with fast, abrupt movements. I can’t look away as he transforms back into Mr. Laurov—unreachable, unknowable. Each piece of clothing is armor sliding into place, rebuilding the walls between us.
“This should never have happened,” he says, not looking at me as he buttons his shirt, fingers moving rapidly over the expensive fabric. His signet ring catches the light as he works, the heavy steel a reminder of whatever power he wields beyond these walls.
The words hit harder than I expect. Just minutes ago, he was inside me, groaning against my neck as he came. Now he might as well be on another continent.
I snap back into reality, into my role. Just the housekeeper who crossed a line, who will now face the consequences.
I scramble for my clothes, yanking them on with clumsy fingers, painfully aware of how my body still throbs from his attention.
The inside of my thighs are sticky with evidence of our coupling—the juices he drew from me still slick upon my skin.
“I’d better get down to work,” I say, the words hollow in my throat.
I don’t look at him as I slip out of the room, keeping my head down like the servant I’m supposed to be.
My dress feels too tight, too revealing, the fabric carrying his scent.
I imagine every person I pass in the hallways will know what I’ve done, will see the marks his mouth left on my neck, will smell him on my skin.
In the safety of my room, I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window and take a shuddering breath. My body still carries the ghost of his touch, still wants more despite how much he scared me.
Arkady is right. This should never have happened.
He isn’t just my employer—he’s something darker.
A man with secrets that turn him feral when threatened.
A man connected to the Russian underworld in ways I don’t quite understand, a world filled with distant violence I pretend not to be aware of.
A man who creates sanctuaries for the dead and locks them away from the world.
Until I can figure out my next move, I’ll keep my head down and my questions to myself. Lips zipped. And other parts too. Specifically, my throbbing pussy.
But even as I make this resolution, my mind replays the way his hands felt on my body, the way he’d whispered Russian words against my skin as he moved inside me. The way his eyes had warmed in those precious moments before I ruined everything.
Some doors are meant to stay locked. Some secrets have teeth.
And some men—like Arkady Laurov—are addictive despite the danger they promise.