chapter 35
Iselyn
Mom somehow managed to make Papa agree to let Matleon eat dinner with us. Now Papa is glaring at him, and he is staring at me. The more he looks at me, the angrier Papa seems to get.
Mom is smiling from the other side of the table. I catch her giving Papa reassuring looks now and then. I honestly don’t know what kind of horrible murderer my father would have turned into without my mother balancing him out.
We eat the entire dinner in silence. I feel nervous, excited, happy, and confused—all at the same time.
This chaotic mix of emotions leaves me barely eating anything.
Matleon hasn’t eaten much either. He’s a big man with a huge appetite, someone who usually eats enough for four men, but tonight he’s eaten even less than I have.
Every time my eyes drift to his plate, I notice how little food is gone. And every time I lift my gaze to his face, I find him already watching me. It sends a flutter through my stomach.
“Since you’re done eating, you can go to sleep now. Traveling must have tired you,” Papa says, his tone unmistakably hostile.
Matleon nods. “Good night, Mr. and Mrs. Mikhailov.”
Mom offers him a warm smile. “Good night, son.”
Then he looks at me as he stands. “Good night, Angel.”
I nod, my voice barely steady. “Good night.”
I follow him with my eyes as he opens the door and steps out. Just before leaving, he stops and turns back. Smiling dark eyes meet mine. I’ve seen this smile before, but I can’t quite place it. My Matleon smiles mental folder clearly needs revision.
He closes the door, and suddenly I’m uncomfortably aware of my mother’s and father’s eyes on me.
I glance at them from the corner of my eye. Mom is grinning openly, while Papa watches me with pursed lips, unreadable and unimpressed.
I lower my head and stuff more food into my mouth, avoiding their eyes.
After dinner and wishing my parents good night, I come to my room and text Matleon.
“There are ingredients in the fridge of the guest house. You can cook using them.”
His reply comes instantly. “I don’t know how to make use of Russian ingredients.”
I lie back on my bed.
“There’s nothing Russian in the ingredients. They’re vegetables people use all around the world. And meat. And grains.”
“Okay. I’ll cook tomorrow morning. I’m too tired to cook now.”
I chew on my lower lip, staring at the screen. My fingers hover over the keyboard before I finally type.
“I could come there and cook for you.”
I stare at the message for a long moment before pressing send. My heart starts beating in unruly, uneven rhythms as I watch the typing dots appear.
“I don’t want to bother you. Also, I ate just now, so you don’t have to worry about me. You can go to sleep.”
My brows knit together.
“You didn’t eat anything. That much isn’t even close to the quantity you usually eat. I’m coming there. Unlock the door, I won’t ring the bell. Papa will catch me.”
A second later, his reply comes. “As you say, wifey.”
I slide off the bed, tuck my phone into the pocket of my shorts, and quietly open the window. Luckily, I live on the ground floor. I drop down and slip silently toward the guest house.
The small house we live in was originally Papa’s safe house. When he quit his position as the pakhan of the Mikhailov Bratva, he moved here. Mom loved the place, so they never rebuilt it. But since there are only two rooms, guests can’t stay there, which is why the guest house was built later.
I push the slightly ajar door open and step inside. I almost jump at the sight of Matleon leaning against the wall. The image pulls me straight into the memory of our first night at his mansion, when he grabbed me and kissed me the moment I stepped out of the bathroom.
I feel strangely at a loss when he doesn’t make any such move now and simply watches me standing there.
I close the door behind me and tug my hair back behind my ear, a useless gesture, because the strands slip free instantly, but I don’t know what else to do with my hands.
“Why don’t I go and prepare you some food?” I ask.
He nods.
I drag my suddenly heavy legs toward the kitchen. He follows me.
Another memory surfaces—him disturbing me while I cooked in his mansion. But now, again, he makes no move. With his arms crossed over his chest, he simply stands there. Unlike his birthday, he doesn’t stand close to me.
I take out the vegetables from the fridge.
“I’ll make noodles. They’re easy to make and—” I pause. He continues quietly, “I like them a lot.”
I nod and take out the chopping board and knife.
The whole time I cook, he just stands there, five feet away from me, watching. It feels strange, because I have no memory of Matleon ever being this close to me without touching me. And I don’t like this new development at all.
Matleon
She’s so close to me, but I can’t touch her. Because if I touch her, I’ll kiss her. And once I kiss her, my dick will start making decisions for me—decisions like keeping her in bed tonight.
We have a history of that. Of me keeping her with me without her full consent. And that is exactly why I’m here now. I’ll only do the right things from now on.
What’s happening right now is already more than I could have asked for. It’s true that I wanted her to come here and cook for me. That’s why I didn’t eat. Because she was watching me, and the less I ate, the more worried she became.
And when she texted me, the message almost made me start dancing, I replied deliberately that I couldn’t cook.
The ideal case would be me not using any manipulation at all, but I’m a little too starved for her care and attention.
And right now, I’m thriving in it. I can’t ruin what I’ve been given.
I keep my hands locked across my chest so they don’t mess things up.
She transfers the noodles into a big bowl and looks toward me. I move from the spot where I was standing, rooted, and step closer to her. Despite the strong scent of spices in the air, I can still smell the intoxicating vanilla of her body.
I lift the bowl from the counter. “Will you eat with me?”
She shakes her head. “I’m full.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
“It’s fine. It’s not like we’re strangers.”
My smirk tries to rise, but I kill it along with my default flirtatious response to her sentence and simply nod instead.
She narrows her eyes. “Are you acting like a gentleman again, like you did in New York?”
I shake my head. “I’ve changed, Angel. I’ve become a gentleman.”
“Why is it so difficult to believe?”
I smirk. “Or do you mean to ask why I haven’t kissed you breathless and spread you open on this counter to eat your sweet pussy?”
Shit.
Her lips part.
I trap my lower lip between my teeth, then clear my throat. “I’m a work in progress. It will take some time.”
She chuckles.
It’s the first time she’s done that. She always held back her smiles and laughter around me, as if she were punishing me by keeping me away from her sunshine smiles.
I grip the bowl tightly in my hands, because right now all I want is to lift her, take her to my room, kiss her senseless, and then fuck her with my tongue, which she loves. We both know she loves that.
I look down at the bowl, away from her smiling face. Is there a limit to a man’s wants? I don’t think so. The moment I receive her care, a new hunger awakens—the hunger for her love. The moment I see her smile, I start craving her moans.
“You should leave,” my voice comes out strained.
She nods. “Good night.”
But she doesn’t move. She just keeps watching me.
I chuckle. “Move your ass, Angel, and don’t look at me with those fuck me eyes unless you want me to do exactly that.”
Her pupils dilate further, a deep blush flooding her pale skin completely. This woman is tormenting me, and she does it in more ways than I ever imagined. When she’s away, it’s torture. When she’s close, it’s a different kind of torture.
I look away from her. “I told you, the gentleman isn’t refined yet.”
“You don’t have to act like something you’re not,” she says, forcing me to look at her again.
“You don’t like what I am, and I don’t like you not liking me. So this change is necessary for survival.”
“It’s not that…” She stops, then adds, “I think I should leave.” She turns away.
I call after her. “If you don’t finish that sentence, I’ll assume you meant it’s not that I don’t like you.”
She pauses for a second, then sprints away. I look down at the steaming bowl with a grin.
Now I’m feeling emotions like a teenager again—heart racing, butterflies and all.