Chapter Thirty
Mirabel
The nausea slams into me before I even open my eyes.
I lurch from bed, bare feet sliding across the polished hardwood as I make a desperate dash to the bathroom. My knees hit the marble tiles with bruising force as I grip the toilet bowl, my body convulsing as I empty what little remains in my stomach.
When the heaving finally stops, I slump against the cool porcelain, my skin clammy, hair sticking to my forehead. The bitter taste of bile slicks my tongue.
“Just a stomach bug,” I whisper, trying to convince myself despite knowing better.
I flush and drag myself to the sink, avoiding my reflection as I rinse my mouth. The mansion is quiet this early, the silence pressing against my skin. Through the window, dawn is breaking across the mansion’s impeccable gardens—a beautiful backdrop to my misery.
This is the fourth morning I’ve woken like this. Four days of exhaustion that seeps through my bones, of unexplained nausea, of my body betraying me in ways I’m trying desperately to ignore.
My uniform feels tighter across my chest than it did last week. I tell myself it’s bloating—stress, poor diet, anything but the truth hovering at the edges of my consciousness.
By ten, I’ve barely made it through half my morning tasks. The east wing’s corridor stretches endlessly before me, the silver to polish multiplying with every piece I finish. My arms feel like lead, vision blurring at the corners. I’ve been working for less than three hours. It feels like twelve.
The living room beckons with its plush sofas and quietude. I glance around, confirming I’m alone, then slip inside. Just five minutes off my feet. Five minutes to gather my strength. I sink onto the sofa, the buttery leather yielding beneath me, and let my eyes drift closed.
“Is this what I’m paying for?” Arkady’s voice cuts through my momentary peace, drawing a sharp gasp from me.
My eyes snap open to find him standing in the doorway, arms folded across his broad chest, expression unreadable.
The tailored lines of his black suit accentuate the breadth of his shoulders, the narrowness of his waist. Power emanates from him in waves.
He looks good enough to eat, goddamn him.
“What?” I croak out.
“Am I paying for my housekeeper to be sleeping on my sofa?”
I straighten immediately, hands flying to smooth my uniform. “Sorry.” My voice is meek. “I’m just tired.”
Something shifts in his gaze—a calculation, an assessment. He crosses the room in three long strides, pulling a chair opposite the sofa. He sits, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. The posture brings him closer than comfort allows.
“Tired of what?” His Russian accent thickens the consonants, making even a simple question feel like an interrogation.
I glance away, unable to meet his eyes. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“Why not?”
I release a bitter laugh. “Not sure you want to know.”
“I do.” His tone shifts, softening unexpectedly. “You listened to me last time. It’s my turn.”
I study him, trying to reconcile this version with the man who barged in, questioning me like I’m failing at basic tasks.
The man who pinned me to his bed two weeks ago, his mouth demanding things I shouldn’t give.
The man I’ve been carefully avoiding since that night, when my body betrayed my better judgment.
“But I can’t afford to pay you for therapeutic listening,” I say, aiming for lightness and missing.
“You don’t need to.” His gaze remains steady, intense in its focus. “Tell me what’s making you exhausted.”
“Okay, then. Two things.” I shift on the sofa, creating distance. “One, I’m worried about my father.”
“You keep in touch?”
“Sure.”
“When did you last speak to him?”
“Yesterday.”
“How is he doing?”
“Better. Cancer under control, thanks to the treatment.”
“You need more money?” He asks it casually, as if offering thousands is nothing. To him, it probably isn’t.
“No.”
“Okay. What’s the second one?”
I hesitate, my throat tightening around words I rarely speak aloud. The vulnerability of sharing this with him—with Arkady Laurov of all people—feels dangerous. Yet something about his stillness pulls the truth from me.
“Debra. My twin sister,” I say finally. “I’ve been having dreams about her more often lately.”
“Debra, huh?” A shadow crosses his face.
I nod silently, swallowing the tight knot that’s formed in my throat.
“Tell me.” His voice drops lower, rougher.
I take a deep breath, the familiar pain blooming fresh beneath my ribs. “She disappeared six years ago. From a class outing.” My voice catches. “We had a stupid fight about something insignificant. She went for a walk in the forest to be on her own and cool off.”
“Go on,” he says quietly, an edge to his voice I can’t decipher.
“I searched the forest until it got too dark to see. I didn’t find a sign of her. Except…” I pause.
“Except what?” he presses.
“There was this man—huge, his head covered. Something about him felt wrong.” The memory sits cold in my chest.
Another shadow crosses his face, this time more visible, but his body remains perfectly still. Too still.
“Did he see you?” he asks.
I shake my head. “It was like he was there and then gone. I almost thought I imagined it,” I say. “So I kept looking. But the teachers pulled us back, said we weren’t allowed out there at night. Told us the police would handle it.”
I pause, fighting against the pressure building behind my eyes.
“They didn’t. Debra never came back. She’s still on the missing persons list.” Tears begin to spill without permission, hot tracks down my cheeks.
I hate crying in front of him, showing weakness to a man who seems built from steel and ice.
“She was my soulmate. My other half. My identical twin. And I will never be able to forgive myself for having that stupid fight. It was all my fault she went into the forest.”
I wipe angrily at my face, embarrassment burning alongside grief.
I shouldn’t have told him this. I don’t know why I got so emotional so suddenly.
But when I look up, the change in his expression stuns me.
His face has softened, the hardness in his eyes replaced by something I never expected to see—not pity, not exactly sympathy, but understanding. Recognition of a shared wound.
“Come here,” he says, his voice rough.
I freeze, uncertain what he wants. Then his hand reaches toward me—not demanding, but offering. Like for the first time, he’s reaching out rather than taking.
I stand unsteadily and take a careful step closer.
Once I’m within reach, he doesn’t hesitate. His arm circles my waist and pulls me onto his lap with frightening ease. I catch the heady scent of his cologne before his mouth claims mine and feel almost giddy for a moment.
The kiss is different from the last time; less frantic, more deliberate.
His lips move against mine with purpose, one hand cradling the back of my head while the other splays possessively across my lower back.
Heat floods through me, a shameful, unwanted response to a man I should keep at arm’s length.
His tongue slides against mine, demanding entrance I shouldn’t grant.
My body betrays me, melting against him like I’m under some ancient spell I can’t break.
My hands find his shoulders—solid muscle beneath expensive wool—as my head spins from his taste, from the intoxicating danger of being this close to a man who rules his world through fear.
I’ve heard the rumors among the staff. The calls he takes behind closed doors. The men who visit at odd hours, armed and watchful. The way his name is spoken in hushed tones even within these walls.
Yet here I am, responding to his touch like he could save me instead of destroy me.
When he pulls back, his eyes are darker, pupils dilated with desire. His thumb traces my bottom lip, and I realize I’m trembling.
“You’re not responsible for what happened to your sister,” he says, voice like gravel. “You couldn’t have known.”
The words touch a wound I’ve kept open for years. I want to argue, to tell him he doesn’t understand the burden of survival guilt, but something in his expression stops me. The pain in his eyes matches my own—raw and familiar.
“Arkady, I…” I trail off, not knowing how to continue.
“Shh…” he murmurs. His mouth finds mine again, more urgent now, an edge of raw need beneath the desire. His teeth graze my bottom lip, and the sting sends a shameful heat zinging to my clit. One of his hands slides to my hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh.
This kiss speaks of possession, of claiming.
When his lips trail to my neck, I catch sight of a shoulder holster beneath his jacket, the handle of a gun visible against the white of his shirt.
The reality of who he is crashes back—this man isn’t just my employer.
He’s dangerous in ways I’ve barely glimpsed.
This is madness. I should remember my place. Instead, I tilt my head, giving him better access as his teeth graze the soft skin of my throat.
When we finally separate, both breathing hard, reality reasserts itself in the cold light of day. I’m his housekeeper. He’s my employer. He’s involved in things I don’t want to name.
And right now, I don’t give a damn about any of it.