Chapter Fourteen
Mirabel
I wake to cold sheets.
My hand reaches across the mattress before I’m fully conscious, fingers searching for warmth that isn’t there. The space beside me is empty. Wrinkled where his body pressed through the night, but long abandoned.
He’s gone.
I stare at the ceiling, counting the seconds it takes for disappointment to calcify into something harder. Resignation, maybe. Or the dull ache of knowing exactly who Arkady Laurov is and wanting him anyway.
My stomach churns—morning sickness or emotional nausea, I can’t tell anymore. I roll out of bed and pad barefoot to his bathroom, the marble cold enough to make me flinch.
That’s when I see it.
His phone. Black glass and sharp edges, sitting on the windowsill above the sink.
I freeze, toothbrush halfway to my mouth. He never forgets his phone. Never. It’s practically grafted to his palm, buzzing with messages from men whose names I don’t ask about and calls he takes in Russian behind closed doors.
Did he leave it on purpose?
My eyes dart to the corners of the bathroom, searching for the telltale glint of camera lenses.
He has them everywhere else in this house—watching, recording, cataloging.
Does he have them here, too? Is he testing me right now, waiting to see if I’ll prove myself trustworthy or just another person who betrays him?
I turn my back on the phone and brush my teeth. Foam fills my mouth, drips down my chin. I spit, rinse, grip the sink as I fight the impulse to pick it up.
Don’t touch it.
Whatever secrets that phone holds aren’t worth destroying the fragile thing building between us.
The phone rings.
The sound is sharp and insistent. I whip around, toothpaste foam still on my lips, and watch the screen light up.
Dr. Harrison
My pulse kicks up a beat. A doctor. Calling Arkady this early.
The ringing drills into my skull. Five rings. Six. Then it stops.
Dammit, walk away, Mirabel!
I know I should respect his privacy. Be the person I want to believe I am.
A notification chimes. Soft. Almost apologetic.
Text message.
My hand moves before my brain catches up. I reach for the shower knob, twist it. Water cascades into the tub—white noise, cover, plausible deniability.
Then I’m crossing to the phone, thumb hovering over the screen that will certainly demand an access code or biometric. The text preview glows there for seconds before the screen goes dark:
“Just an update on my patient, Mr. Laurov. Her condition is improving. I’ve reduced the dosage of anxiety pills, as the worst of the trauma appears to be over. Looks like the baby is having a positive effect on her. She needs a follow-up in about a month—“
The words stop there. Screen black.
I set the phone down exactly where I found it. Exactly the same angle. My hands are shaking.
Her.
The baby.
Anxiety pills.
I strip off my clothes with numb fingers and step under the spray. Hot water beats against my skull, but it doesn’t wash away the words repeating in my head.
Her condition is improving. The presence of the baby. Trauma appears to be over.
Is he talking about me? Has Arkady been discussing my pregnancy with doctors without telling me?
No. I’m not taking anxiety pills. Arkady doesn’t know about the baby.
The message said “patient.” Someone he’s responsible for. Someone whose mental health he’s monitoring closely enough to warrant medication adjustments.
Another woman.
The thought takes hold again. If there’s another woman, why would he sleep in his own bed? Why would he hold me last night, whisper confessions in the dark, make me believe we were building something real?
Because men like Arkady Laurov don’t follow rules. He could have a dozen women scattered across this estate, each one kept separate, none of us knowing about the others.
I tilt my face up to the water, eyes closed, trying to drown the voice in my head that keeps asking questions I don’t want answered.
The bathroom door swings inward.
My eyes snap open. Through the glass shower door, I watch Arkady fill the doorway.
He’s dressed for the gym—black shorts, fitted vest clinging to every ridge of muscle across his chest and abs. The fabric is dark with sweat. His hair curls damp at his temples. And his eyes lock onto me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
“You don’t believe in knocking, do you?” Guilt and suspicion make the words come out sharp.
His mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. “It’s my bathroom, zaychik.”
He crosses to the windowsill in three strides, picks up the phone, checks the screen. His thumb swipes once. Twice. Reading messages. Then he slides it into his pocket, no hesitation, no suspicion.
Thank God I put it back exactly right.
But he doesn’t leave.
He stands there, one hand braced on the doorframe, eyes tracking water down my body. His gaze feels physical, a touch I can feel in my nipples, between my legs, everywhere.
I should tell him to get out. Maintain some boundaries.
But the way he’s looking at me—like I’m something he needs like air—makes words impossible.
He kicks off his sneakers. Strips off his vest in one motion. His shorts hit the floor. Then he’s pulling open the shower door, stepping in, backing me against the tiles with his body.
He’s already hard. No pretense. No romance. Just need written in every taut line of muscle.
“Arkady—”
His mouth crashes over mine, swallowing whatever I might have said. The kiss is demanding, possessive, edged with something desperate. His hands frame my face, angling my head how he wants it, and I’m kissing him back before I can think better of it.
His tongue sweeps past my lips. I taste mint on his breath, feel the scratch of stubble against my chin. My hands slide up his chest—over scars I’ve traced in the dark, ink I’ve memorized—into his hair.
Water streams between us. He walks me backward until my spine hits cold tile, and then his hands are everywhere. Rough palms on my breasts—squeezing hard enough to hurt, thumbs circling nipples that are tender from pregnancy hormones I haven’t told him about.
“I need you,” he growls against my mouth. “Now.”
It’s not a request.
I nod anyway.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, my legs wrapping around his waist, and then he’s pushing inside me in one hard thrust that steals my breath.
I cry out—pleasure and pain tangling—and his hand clamps over my mouth.
“Quiet,” he murmurs against my ear. “Don’t want the whole house hearing what I do to you.”
That’s a first.
He sets a punishing rhythm, hips driving forward with enough force that my shoulders scrape tile with each thrust. It hurts.
The good kind of hurt that I’ll feel tomorrow, that will remind me I’m his, even when he’s gone.
His fingers dig into my ass—bruising grip, holding me in place, angling me exactly how he wants me.
My head bumps against the tile. Once. Twice. Stars burst behind my eyelids, but I don’t tell him to stop. Don’t want him to stop.
His other hand fists in my wet hair, yanking my head back, exposing my throat. He bites down—not gently—and I gasp, trying not to swallow the water streaming down my face.
“Blyad,” he hisses, his control fracturing. “Taking me so fucking well.”
I can’t form words. Can only hold on as he uses my body, each thrust pushing me higher, closer to that edge where thought dissolves. The spray beats down, steam thick enough to choke on.
Then his hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit with ruthless precision, and I’m gone. The orgasm rips through me, violent and sudden. I try to cry out, but his mouth muffles the sound, turning it into something desperate and broken.
He follows seconds later, body going rigid, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as he empties himself inside me. His grip tightens almost to the point of real pain, and I feel every pulse, every tremor running through him.
For one long moment, we stay locked together. Breathing hard. Hearts pounding. Water still streaming.
Then his phone buzzes.
The shift is immediate. He goes from pliant to alert in a heartbeat, every muscle tensing. He pulls out—too fast, leaving me empty and aching—and lowers me to my feet.
My legs shake. I grab the tile to steady myself while he steps out, grabs a towel, checks his phone.
Whatever he sees there makes his jaw tighten. He types something quickly, efficiently, then looks at me for the first time since he came inside.
“I have to go.”
Not an apology. A statement of fact.
“Of course you do.”
He pauses, hand on the door. For a second, I think he might explain. Might give me some reason to believe this means something beyond physical release between obligations.
But he doesn’t.
“Time to get to work,” he says. Then he’s gone.
I stand there, naked and dripping, water still running. My shoulders throb where they scraped tile. My scalp stings where he pulled my hair. Between my legs, I’m sore and swollen and leaking him.
I sink down onto the edge of the tub.
Outside, his footsteps fade away. Getting dressed. Grabbing whatever he needs. Rushing off to wherever—whoever—demands his attention more than I do.
The text messages flash in my mind again.
Her condition is improving.
The presence of the baby.
I press my palm flat against my stomach. Against the secret growing there. The one I’m too afraid to speak aloud.
My baby? Someone else’s baby?
I don’t know which answer terrifies me more.
The water keeps running. I watch it circle the drain, disappearing into darkness, and wonder how much longer I can keep pretending I’m not drowning too.