Chapter Thirty-Six
Mirabel
I slam the list against the granite countertop hard enough to bruise my palm.
The impact echoes through the kitchen—empty now, but soon to be filled with men who kill for a living.
“Do what I pay you for,” I hiss, mimicking Arkady’s Russian-tinged baritone. Blood rushes to my face, hot with rage and humiliation. “Mudak.”
The Russian curse feels right on my tongue.
I’ve picked up more than I should living in this house of violence and secrets.
The list taunts me from the counter—prep dinner for seven from scratch, clean every guest room, fresh linens, and make the massive conference room presentable after months of neglect. All before 4 PM. All alone.
My fingers press against my abdomen, where nothing shows yet, but everything has changed.
“Your father isn’t just a jerk,” I whisper to the life forming inside me. “He’s a killer who rejected his last pregnant fiancée at the altar.”
The morning’s food delivery sits in bags and boxes by the pantry.
I push up my sleeves and survey what will become a battlefield by day’s end.
My body aches with exhaustion—the bone-deep, cellular fatigue of first-trimester pregnancy that no amount of sleep can touch.
Just weeks in, and the nausea comes without warning, leaving me clutching toilets and trash cans while the manor’s security pretends not to notice.
The irony suffocates me. I’ve trapped myself in a mansion working for the most dangerous man I’ve ever met—a man who walked away from his last unborn child—while I’m carrying his baby in secret. My entire future balanced on a knife’s edge.
You did this to yourself, Mira.
I grab onions and carrots from the refrigerator, movements mechanical, practiced. The knife slides through vegetables with satisfying resistance. For a moment, I imagine it’s something else beneath my blade. Someone else.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I wipe my hands on a towel and see Diane’s name lighting up my screen.
“Hey,” I say quietly, wedging the phone between my shoulder and ear while returning to my chopping. Even in the kitchen, I’ve learned that walls have ears in Ashwater Heights.
“How’s Mr. Bosshole treating you today?” Diane’s voice carries the familiar mix of concern and irreverence.
I glance toward both doorways, verifying I’m alone. “He’s impossible,” I whisper fiercely. The kitchen might be empty, but Arkady’s surveillance system is legendary. “Seven guests arriving tonight with zero notice. Expects me to prepare everything alone before four.”
“Deep breaths,” Diane says. “Remember why you’re there.”
“I know.” The knife slows in my hand as reality settles back over me like a shroud. I scrape diced celery into a pot and reach for herbs that cost far too much for such little green bundles. “But he treats me like property, not an employee with rights. And after what happened between us—”
I stop, throat constricting as memories flood back.
Stop it, Mirabel!
“After what?” Diane prompts sharply.
I lower my voice to a whisper. “After we started sleeping together. It’s maddening, Diane. One moment, he’s making me feel… everything, and the next, he’s treating me like I’m nothing. All while I’m carrying his child that he knows nothing about.”
“Have you thought about telling him?”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “Tell the man who humiliated his pregnant bride in front of Moscow’s entire criminal elite? He’d either fire me on the spot. Or…” I don’t finish the thought. I’ve seen the cold calculation in Arkady’s eyes when dealing with problems.
“Right,” Diane says, understanding what I can’t articulate. “Focus on your dad, Mirabel. That’s the only reason you need to stay in that house of horrors.”
My hand stills over the pot. “I know.”
“Speaking of which,” Diane continues, her voice softening, “I visited your dad yesterday.”
Something tightens in my chest. “And?”
“The treatments are working, Mir. Really working. He was gardening when I arrived—not just sitting, but actually digging and planting. He said he hasn’t felt this strong in months.”
The wooden spoon drops from my hand. I turn away from the food, pressing my fingers against my mouth to trap the sob building in my throat. The treatments Arkady’s blood money is paying for. The treatments keeping my father alive.
“You’re sure?” I manage, voice breaking.
“I’m sure. The color’s back in his face. He’s putting on weight again. The doctors are calling it remarkable progress.”
Tears spill over despite my best efforts to contain them. For this—for my father’s life—I would work for the Devil. And some days, that’s exactly what Arkady Laurov seems to be.
“So stick with it,” Diane urges. “Make your terrifying Russian boss happy and keep that money flowing.”
I straighten my shoulders and wipe my face, nodding even though she can’t see me. “You’re right. Thanks, Di.”
“And afterward, we need to figure out your endgame with this pregnancy. You can’t hide it forever in that house.”
A glance at the clock sends a jolt of anxiety through me. “One catastrophe at a time. I’ll call later.”
After ending the call, I stare at Arkady’s list once more. My father is healing. Nothing else matters—not Arkady’s impossible demands, not the pregnancy, not the danger of living under a crime lord’s roof.
I return to my tasks with renewed focus, methodically working through the recipe despite the fatigue dragging at my limbs.
The kitchen fills with aromas that would be comforting anywhere else.
Here, they just remind me of the men who will soon gather around Arkady’s table—men with blood-crusted money and eyes that evaluate women as property.
The soup simmers as I start on the second dish.
Outside the kitchen windows, I notice two of Arkady’s security men making a perimeter check, their suit jackets failing to conceal shoulder holsters.
One of them—Mikhail, I think—touches his earpiece and nods, eyes scanning the tree line bordering the property.
Always watching, always expecting something bad to happen.
I’ve almost finished the main course when I sense it—a shift in the air, a pressure change that makes the hair on my arms rise. Before I hear anything, my body reacts, tensing in recognition. My nervous system knows him before my ears register the sound of his approach.
Footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Deliberate. The measured tread of the man I work for.
I continue chopping, though my movements become jerky, uneven. The footsteps stop. I don’t need to look up to know he’s watching me from the doorway, assessing, judging.
“This is all you’ve managed?” Arkady’s voice slices through the kitchen, his accent thickening with displeasure.
I force myself to look at him. Today, he wears a tailored charcoal suit that emphasizes the coiled strength of his frame. His dark hair is swept back from his forehead, revealing eyes colder than a Siberian winter.
“I’m making progress,” I say, aiming for a neutral tone and missing by miles.
Arkady enters the kitchen, moving with the casual grace of someone who knows how to use his body as a weapon.
His eyes take in everything—the prepared dishes, the untouched ingredients, me—with the same clinical assessment I’ve seen him use when examining shipment manifests.
People and products, all the same to him.
“Not enough progress.” He steps closer. “Everything must be perfect by four.”
Something in me fractures. “Yes, because heaven forbid the murderers and traffickers eat soup that hasn’t simmered for the full four hours,” I snap, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “I’m one person trying to do the work of three, Arkady.”
His expression shifts from irritation to something more dangerous. “Watch your tongue,” he says softly. “You forget yourself and your place in this house.”
“My place?” I laugh, the sound brittle and reckless. “Right now, my place is apparently chef, maid, and event coordinator all at once. For—”
I stop abruptly as Arkady moves forward, eliminating the space between us in two long strides. His hand closes around my wrist, not painfully tight but with enough pressure to remind me of his strength.
“Your place,” he says, voice dropping lower, “is wherever I decide it is. You work for me. You live under my protection. You accepted both when you took this position.”
His thumb rests directly over my pulse point, and I know he can feel my heartbeat racing beneath his touch.
My body betrays me, responding to his proximity with a rush of heat that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with memory—his mouth on my skin, his hands everywhere, the weight of him pressing me into silk sheets.
“You’re hurting me,” I lie, needing him to let go before I do something stupid like lean into his touch and jump his bones in the middle of the kitchen.
He doesn’t release me. Instead, his free hand rises to my face, fingers brushing my cheek in a touch so unexpectedly gentle it steals my breath. The contradiction between his words and his caress makes my head spin.
“Am I?” he murmurs, searching my face. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there. “I don’t think I am, Mirabel. I think you’re lying.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Without breaking eye contact, Arkady reaches into my pocket and extracts it. He glances at the screen, then silences the call and slips the phone into his suit jacket.
“Hey!” I protest, reaching for it instinctively.
He catches my hand mid-air. “Who is Diane?”
The question contains a threat. I’ve seen what happens to people Arkady perceives as threats to his business, his family, or his property. And right now, I don’t know which category I fall into.
“A friend,” I say carefully. “Nothing to do with you or… this place.”
“Everything connected to you is connected to me.” He steps closer, backing me against the counter.
His body cages mine without touching, the heat of him radiating between us like a physical force.
My skin flushes with memories of his hands on my body, his mouth against my ear whispering filthy promises in Russian.
“Your phone, you’ll get back when your work is completed. Consider it… motivation.”
“I need to finish cooking,” I say, desperate to break the tension between us. “And there are rooms to clean.”
“Da.” He steps back slightly, though his eyes never leave mine. “I’ve arranged help for you. Two women from the Petrovich household will arrive within the hour to handle the guest rooms and conference space.”
The unexpected concession startles me. “Thank you,” I say cautiously.
“Don’t thank me yet.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “They’re here because I need you focused on more important matters.”
“The dinner.”
“Among other things.” His gaze travels over me with deliberate slowness.
“I should get back to work,” I say, voice uneven.
He nods once, then reaches past me, his chest brushing against mine as he picks up a spoon and tastes the soup. The casual intimacy of the gesture makes my breath catch. For one disorienting moment, we could be any couple in any kitchen—if I ignore the gun I know is holstered beneath his jacket.
“More dill,” he says. “And vodka. A quarter cup in the stock.”
“Vodka wasn’t in the recipe.”
His lips curve slightly. “It’s a Russian dinner, lastochka. Everything is better with vodka.” He moves toward the door, then leaves me standing in a room still echoing with his presence.
I turn back to my work, mind racing as I try to get to grips with this impossible jerk. One minute hot, the next, cold. A dangerous man in a world that scares me.
And on top of it all, the tiny life taking hold in my belly.