Chapter Twenty
Mirabel
“I’m sorry.”
The words stop me mid-stride. I’m already turning to leave, already walking away from another argument that went nowhere. But those two words—impossible words from his mouth—root me to the marble floor.
I turn back. “What did you just say?”
Arkady stands three feet away in the corridor outside his study.
I can see the tension in his jaw, the shadows under his eyes.
His shirt is half-unbuttoned, revealing the dense blackwork that crawls up his throat.
He looks like he hasn’t slept. Like whatever weight he’s carrying finally cracked something inside him.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.
I don’t have a response to that. When it comes to Arkady Laurov, I understand instructions, barked orders, and unreasonable demands. But apologies? This is new. I’m speechless.
Then he closes the distance between us, and his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is desperate, almost violent. His hand cups the back of my skull, fingers tangling in my hair hard enough to sting. His other arm bands around my waist, crushing me against him. I taste coffee and feel the tremor in his hands that he’s trying to hide.
For three seconds, I let myself respond. Let my lips part under his, let my body melt into the heat of him. Let myself pretend this means something.
Then fury ignites in my chest.
I shove both hands against his shoulders. Hard. “No!”
He releases me immediately, stumbling back a step. Shock flickers across his face—genuine surprise that I’d refuse him.
Good. Let him be surprised. Asshole!
“I told you I’m done with this bullshit,” I snap. My voice shakes, but I don’t care. “You don’t get to apologize without telling me what for. You don’t get to kiss me and expect—”
“Mirabel—”
“What are you keeping from me, Arkady?” The question rips out of me, raw and desperate.
“What are we to each other? Because I can’t— I can’t keep doing this.
The disappearing acts. The locked doors.
The doctors and nurses I keep seeing come and go.
You won’t tell me anything, but you expect me to just—”
“I have a lot going on.” His voice flattens. The mask sliding back into place.
“That’s not an answer!” My hands curl into fists. “You can’t continue feeding me that bullshit. Especially not when I’m—”
Pregnant. When I’m pregnant with your child.
The words lodge in my throat. I swallow them down, tasting copper.
“When you’re what?” His eyes narrow.
“When I’m trying to understand what the hell this is!” I gesture between us. “You kiss me like I matter. You look at me like… like I mean something to you. But you won’t let me in. You won’t tell me anything. So what am I, Arkady? Your housekeeper? Your fuck? Your—”
“Don’t!” He moves toward me again, and I should back away. Should maintain distance. But my feet stay planted as he crowds into my space. “Don’t reduce this to something cheap.”
“Then tell me what it is!”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
His jaw tightens. His eyes search my face, and I see it: the same guilt that’s been eating at him for weeks. The same pain he won’t explain.
“Both,” he admits quietly.
The honesty stuns me. I open my mouth to respond, but he’s already moving—fingers sliding into my hair again, tilting my face up.
“I’m sorry I can’t give you answers,” he murmurs against my lips. “I’m sorry I’m selfish enough to keep you anyway.”
Then he kisses me again.
This time, when my hands come up, they don’t push. They grip. Fisting in the open sides of his shirt, yanking him closer instead of shoving him away. My mouth opens under his, and I kiss him back with all the fury and confusion and desperate need burning in my chest.
He makes a rough sound—surprise or relief, I can’t tell—and his hands are everywhere. Sliding down my sides, gripping my hips, pulling me flush against him. I can feel him already hard against my stomach, and the evidence of his want sends heat flooding through me.
But when he starts walking me backward toward his bedroom, something shifts in me.
No. Not like this. Not with him in control again, making all the decisions, leading while I follow.
I break the kiss and plant my feet. “Wait.”
He freezes immediately. “What’s wrong?”
“You know what’s wrong.” I meet his eyes. “I’m not… I need—”
The words tangle in my throat. What do I need? To not feel helpless? To have some power in this twisted thing between us? To prove I’m not just some passive body he can move around at will?
I grab his face with both hands and kiss him hard enough to bruise. Pour all my frustration into it, all my anger at his secrets, all my fear about the pregnancy, all my fury at myself for wanting him anyway.
He responds instantly, hands tightening on my hips. But when he tries to deepen the kiss, to take control again, I bite his lower lip. Hard enough to warn.
He pulls back slightly, eyes dark and pupils blown. “Mirabel—”
“Shut up.” My voice comes out rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “For once, I need you to shut up.”
I kiss him again, walking him backward this time. He goes, stumbling slightly as his shoulders hit the wall. I press against him, feeling his heart hammering under my palms.
“Here?” he asks roughly, glancing around. We’re standing in the hallway that leads to his suite.
“Here.” I yank his shirt open the rest of the way. Buttons ping against marble, scattering. “Now.”
His breath catches. “Zaychik…”
“I want you right now.” I know we’re exposed here, but I don’t care who sees. Don’t care about propriety or professional boundaries or any of the careful lines I’ve been trying to maintain. I’m so tired of caring.
His hands find the hem of my dress, shoving it up around my waist. Cool air hits my thighs. His palm slides up my leg, fingers hooking into my underwear.
But I catch his wrist. “No. Not yet.”
Confusion flickers across his face. “Mirabel—”
I drop to my knees.
His whole body goes rigid. “What are you—?”
“I said shut up.” I work at his belt buckle with shaking hands. “Unless you want me to stop?”
“No.” The word comes out strangled. “Don’t stop.”
I get his belt open, his zipper down. Free him from his briefs. He’s fully hard already, and the sight makes my mouth water. I just want to make him lose control for once. Want to see him come apart the way he makes me come apart.
I wrap my hand around him and take him into my mouth.
“Fuck.” His hips jerk forward involuntarily. One hand flies to the wall, bracing himself. The other hovers near my hair but doesn’t touch, like he’s afraid I’ll stop if he tries to guide me. “Blyad!” The word is ground out through gritted teeth.
I take him deeper.
His groan echoes off the marble walls. His head falls back against the stone, eyes squeezing shut. I work him with hand and mouth, learning what makes his breath catch, what makes his fingers curl against the wall.
“Stop,” he grits out suddenly. “Zaychik, stop, I’m going to—”
I don’t stop. Just look up at him and take him deeper, and the eye contact breaks him. He comes with a choked sound, hand finally fisting in my hair.
When I pull away, he stares down at me like he’s seeing someone new.
“Get up here,” he says roughly.
I rise slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Before I can process what’s happening, he’s spinning us around, pressing me against the wall where he just was. His mouth crashes into mine—hungry, consuming. Seeming to love that he can taste himself on my tongue.
His hands are rougher now, yanking my dress up and over my head, tossing it aside. My bra follows. He drops to his knees, pulling my underwear down my legs, and then his mouth is on me.
I cry out, hands flying to his hair. His tongue works against me with single-minded focus, like he’s trying to return the favor, trying to make me as desperate as I just made him. One hand grips my hip, holding me in place. The other slides up my thigh, fingers pressing inside me.
“Arkady—” His name breaks on my lips.
He adds a second finger, curling them perfectly while his tongue circles my clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming. My legs start to shake, and he has to wrap his free arm around my thigh to keep me upright.
The orgasm crashes through me without warning. I muffle my cry against my own hand, body convulsing. He works me through it, not stopping until I’m pushing at his shoulders, oversensitive.
He rises, and I stare at him, his face gleaming with my juices, his eyes still dark with lust.
Jesus, he’s so fucking hot.
“Bedroom,” I manage. “Actually bedroom this time.”
His mouth quirks—almost a smile—and he takes my hand. Leads me down the hall to his room. We leave a trail of his ruined shirt, my discarded clothes.
Inside, I push him onto the bed, staring down at his hard, muscular body.
His cock is already hardening again, the thick shaft bumping up against his belly.
He reaches for me, but I swat his hands away, then climb over him before he can flip our positions.
Straddle his hips with my hands planted on his chest.
“Mirabel—”
“No.” I press a finger to his lips. “My turn to decide how this goes.”
Something shifts in his expression. The control he always maintains dips, just slightly. His expression softens. Not much, but by Arkady standards, he’s practically gentle.
I position myself over him, guide his cock head to my entrance, and sink down slowly, taking him in. The stretch is intense, familiar. Perfect.
His hands come to my hips, but don’t guide. Don’t control. Just hold.
I start to move.
Not gentle. Not slow. I ride him hard, chasing the friction, the fullness, the way he hits something deep inside me that makes my brain misfire. His hips lift to meet my movements, but he lets me set the pace. Lets me take what I need.
“Touch me,” I demand breathlessly.
His thumb finds my clit, circling with devastating precision. The added sensation makes me cry out, makes my rhythm falter.
“That’s it,” he encourages roughly. “Take what you need from me, zaychik. Use me.”
The permission does something to me. I lean forward, bracing my hands on either side of his head, and drive myself down onto him harder. Faster. His other hand slides up to cup my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful like this,” he breathes. “So fucking perfect.”
I don’t respond. Can’t. Just chase the building pressure inside me, grinding down on him, on his clever fingers. The pleasure builds and builds until I’m right on the edge, trembling.
“Come for me, zaychik,” he commands. “Let me feel it.”
The orgasm rips through me, intense and almost painful. I clench around him, crying out, and he follows immediately—hands tightening on my hips as he pulses inside me.
“Oh! Fuck…fuck!” I half yell, shuddering as the waves ripple through me. He’s holding me down now, forcing me to take every drop of his cum. I writhe against him as the shockwaves continue to ripple through me, my inner walls milking him, until his grip finally eases.
I collapse forward onto his chest, both of us breathing hard. His arms come around me automatically, holding me against him while aftershocks ripple through me.
I’ve learned something, I realize. Something about myself that I didn’t know before.
I can meet his intensity. Can match the rawness, the violence, the consuming need. I don’t have to be overwhelmed by him. Don’t have to let him swallow me whole.
I can push back. Can demand. Can take.
The knowledge settles in my bones like truth.
We lie there for long minutes, hearts gradually slowing. His fingers trace patterns on my back that might be letters, might be nothing. I press my ear to his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
Then he speaks.
“I’m sorry.”
He says it again, and the words make me stiffen. I lift my head to look at him.
That expression is back on his face—guilt mixed with pain, like whatever he’s hiding is physically hurting him.
“What are you sorry for?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with those haunted eyes.
And suddenly, watching him, it clicks. The doctors. The nurses coming and going at odd hours. The way he disappears without explanation. The guilt.
“Arkady.” I push myself up slightly, searching his face. “Is everything okay? I’ve been seeing doctors and nurses coming in and out of the building. Is there something wrong? Are you—”
His expression shutters immediately. The vulnerability vanishes, replaced by cold fury.
“It’s none of your business.” The words are sharp enough to cut.
I flinch like he’s slapped me. Roll off him, reaching for my dress. My hands shake as I pull it on.
“Right,” I say, voice brittle. “Of course. None of my business. Just like everything else.”
He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His clothes are still in the hallway, so he’s naked as he stalks toward the door.
“Arkady—”
He doesn’t look back. Just walks out, leaving me sitting on his bed, feeling like the stupidest person to ever walk this earth.
The door doesn’t slam. That would be too much emotion. It just closes. Final.
I sit there silently, my body still humming from what we just did. What I just did. My heart throbbing with anger and hurt.
That’s it. I really am done here.
Yeah, right.
How many times have I told myself that? Made the decision to leave, only to let him pull me back in? Too many. Every time I think I can walk away, something happens—a look, a touch, a rare flash of vulnerability—and I’m right back here.
But I can’t do this anymore. Can’t keep spinning in this cycle.
I don’t have much time anyway. A few more weeks, maybe a month, before he sees and demands answers, and everything becomes even more impossible than it already is.
I’m so angry at myself. So furious that I can’t stay away from him. And deep down, beneath all the justifications, I know it’s not really about the money. Not about Dad’s treatment or financial security.
It’s this. This inexplicable, visceral pull to Arkady that defies every logical reason to run.
But tomorrow. Tomorrow I’m leaving.
Before he can pull me back again. Before I lose what little resolve I have left.
Before this thing between us destroys me completely.