Chapter 11
KAZIMIR
Iwatch her walk away after she tells me to have a nice life.
She doesn't look back again. She just strides across the tarmac as if there’s a car waiting for her, that envelope shoved in her pocket now, her shoulders squared. I can see the limp in her step, and I know she’ll either have to walk to the city or catch a ride.
But it’s clear that she’d rather be mauled by a bear than let me take her anywhere.
The anger is still there, hot and sharp in my chest. Grateful. What the fuck was I thinking, saying that? Like she owed me something for cleaning up a mess I helped create in the first place.
But underneath the anger is something worse. There’s still that lingering desire as I watch her walk away, the kind that makes a man do stupid things.
I need to let her go, walk away, and forget this ever happened. She made it clear what she thinks of me, and she's not wrong. I abandoned her once. Saved her too late. Fucked her when she was vulnerable and traumatized.
I'm not the hero in this story.
But I can't stop watching her until she disappears, swallowed up by the curve of the hill leading to the road on the other side. Even then, I stand there for another minute, staring at the space where she was. I hate the thought of her there alone, asking some stranger who might take advantage of her for a ride. Going… somewhere that I can’t follow.
Whether she’s a princess in red silk or a damsel in distress, I want her just as badly. But she’s not mine, and she never will be.
I should count my blessings that, as of right now, it appears I fucked her and I’ll still get to keep breathing.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ilya: Call me when you land. I let out a sharp breath.
It jolts me back to reality. I head to the waiting car, giving Ilya a call as the driver takes me back to my apartment. I fill him in on the pieces I can. My story is carefully crafted to ensure that, if I play my cards right, he’ll never know how everything really went down.
I tell him that I discovered that Iosef is trafficking women, keeping them as sex slaves, and selling the ones he doesn’t want, torturing and imprisoning them when they misbehave.
I tell him our visit was cut short when one of the women escaped.
He wanted me to help track her down, and I declined, which led to a dissolving of good relations between us.
He mistrusted my motives, tried to keep me locked in the house until he returned, and things got violent.
I shot one of his men, called for an extraction, and returned.
It’s partially true and partially a lie, which is where I’ve found the best lies reside. Keep as close to the truth as you can, and only make up what you absolutely have to. The untruths are easier to keep track of that way.
If Iosef tries to tell Ilya now that I released his prisoner and ran with her, Ilya will be more likely to believe my tale, and all I’ll have to say is that Iosef is smearing me. Who does Ilya want to believe—me, or a man who traffics in flesh?
The answer is easy.
I can tell he’s not pleased, but he doesn’t sound as angry as I’d feared. His wife, Mara, has been a softening influence on him since they’ve been together, and he’s easier to handle than he used to be.
I still fear him, though, as every man in his orbit should. And I have a healthy respect for how violent he can be.
The driver drops me off at my apartment, and I head inside, rubbing my temples as I grab a water from the fridge. I’ll need to replace some of the things that got left behind in Russia, but the first thing I want is a shower.
I’m no sooner under the hot spray than thoughts of Svetlana in the safe house bathroom last night come rushing in, hardening my cock instantly as I run shampoo through my hair.
I try to ignore it, but it feels impossible.
I know that the only way to get over her, to get over this lust that I’ve been harboring for her for years now, is to shut this kind of shit down.
To not let her affect me physically. To not think of her when I wrap my hand around myself.
Not her slim body or her perfect small breasts, the delicious curve of her ass or the way it pinkened under my hand, the way she squealed when I brought it down…
My hand is around my length before I realize what I’m doing, stroking fiercely as I close my eyes.
I can practically smell her arousal again, almost taste her on my tongue.
I can remember viscerally how it felt to have her clenched around me, the wet velvet of her pussy sliding along my length, the first woman I’ve ever fucked bare…
“Fuck—” I hiss the curse as I run my hand over my length, my thumb circling the head of my cock as I brace myself against the wall and give myself over to it.
I can’t stop thinking about her. The way she whimpered when I rubbed her clit for the first time.
The way she clenched my fingers and pulled them deeper like she wanted me to fuck her.
The way I could have come just rubbing myself against her pussy…
how wet she was, dripping all over my cock.
And how it felt to come inside of her.
That does it. I last only a few minutes, the ferocious blur of my hand over my cock stilling as I remember what it felt like to spurt into her hot pussy, sinking myself as deeply as I could.
I groan her name as jets of cum hit the shower tiles, painting the wall as I shudder and my knees nearly buckle with the force of the pleasure.
I keep stroking until I’ve squeezed out every drop, and even then, it doesn’t feel like enough.
I don’t know how I’m ever going to stop thinking about her.
I shut off the water, wrap a towel around my still-dripping body, and head straight for the kitchen. I yank a bottle off of a shelf, pour myself three fingers of vodka and down it in one swallow. Then I pour another.
The burn doesn't help.
Nothing helps.
I can still feel her. The ghost of her body against mine, the way she clenched around me when she came, the sounds she made. That breathy little gasp when I first pushed inside her. The way she looked at me with those dark eyes, challenging and vulnerable all at once.
I was hardly a virgin.
The words echo in my head, sharp and cutting. She'd wanted to hurt me with that—wanted me to know she'd been with other men, that I wasn't special. And it worked, but not the way she intended.
Because all I could think as I thrust into her was that I don't care. I don't care who else has had her. I don't care about her past or her body count or any of it. I don’t give a fuck about not being the first, but all I can think is that right now it feels worth dying for if I could be the last.
I just want her again.
I finish the second drink and set the glass down harder than necessary. The sound echoes in the empty apartment.
This is insane. I'm insane.
She's Ilya's ex-fiancée. She's traumatized. She's vulnerable. She told me to fuck off, and I know she meant it.
And I'm standing here in my kitchen, hard as a rock, thinking about all the ways I want to have her again.
I need to sleep and clear my head. Need to stop thinking about her for five fucking minutes.
But when I close my eyes, all I see is her.
—
Ilya wasted no time texting me after our call, letting me know that he wanted me to meet him later in the afternoon.
I manage to push Svetlana out of my head long enough to get dressed and eat something resembling a real meal, and then I drive myself to Ilya’s office in the financial district, where he does business some of the time to keep up the appearance of legitimacy.
I’ve been here a thousand times, but this is the first time I’m walking in with a secret that could get me killed.
Security barely looks at me as I walk in—they all know me, respect me, and a fair few of them fear me. As Ilya’s right hand, I’ve earned that over the years.
My heart is beating faster than it should be. Not enough that anyone would notice, but I feel it, that acceleration. The awareness of my own pulse.
I'm good at this. I've lied to dangerous men before. But this is different.
This is Ilya.
The elevator ride to the forty-second floor feels longer than usual. I watch the numbers climb, forcing my breathing to stay even and my expression to remain neutral. I can't afford to slip. Not even for a second.
When the doors open, Ilya's assistant looks up from her desk. "He's expecting you. Go right in."
I nod my thanks and move toward the heavy wooden door.
When I step in, Ilya is standing by the window, looking out over Boston, a phone pressed to his ear.
He's dressed impeccably as always in a tailored suit with a crisp white shirt and no tie.
He gestures for me to sit without turning around.
He's speaking Russian, his tone clipped and businesslike.
Something about a shipment and a delay, and someone who needs to be reminded of their obligations.
It could mean anything from a legitimate business deal to someone ending up in the harbor.
I take the chair across from his desk and wait, my posture relaxed—or at least, I try to appear relaxed. Inside, every nerve is on high alert. I let my gaze drift around the office, careful not to look too interested or too bored. Just a man waiting for his friend to finish a call.
Finally, Ilya ends the call and turns to face me.
"Kazimir." He smiles, and it looks genuine enough. "Good to see you back in one piece."
"Good to be back." My voice is steady. Easy.
He moves to his desk, settling into his chair with the easy confidence of a man who owns everything he touches. For a moment, he just looks at me, assessing.
I meet his gaze without flinching or giving anything away.
"Tell me about Iosef," he says finally.
I keep my expression neutral. "He's unhappy. One of his men—Pyotr—is dead. And about a dozen of their other men, probably."
Ilya's eyebrows rise slightly. "I heard. Quite the mess you left behind."