Chapter 8 Ilya
ILYA
Iknow what I'm doing is wrong.
I know it the way I know the weight of a gun in my hand, the way I know the exact pressure required to break a man's fingers one by one. This knowledge sits in my chest like a stone as I stand outside Mara's building watching the last of the lunch crowd thin out on the street.
She left for work three hours ago. I watched her go, watched the way she paused at the corner to adjust her bag, the way she tilted her face toward the sun for just a moment before crossing the street.
She looked paler than usual, and I can’t help but worry that’s my fault.
That my obsession is wearing her down even as it invigorates me, like a vampire draining her without ever taking a drop of blood.
I thought the gifts would thrill her, flatter her. But they seem to be making her nervous. She didn’t take the flowers home. She hasn’t worn the jewelry. I haven’t seen her reading the book.
I've been watching her for two weeks now, learning her patterns, the architecture of her days.
I know she takes her coffee black except for rare occasions.
I know she runs every morning at six, except on Sundays when she sleeps until eight.
I know the route she takes to work, the grocery store she prefers, the small bookshop she visits at least once a week.
I know she paints or draws almost every night.
I know everything about her except what I want most to know: what she thinks about when she's alone. What she dreams about. Whether she ever thinks of me.
And that drives me to my next step.
The building's security is laughable. There’s no doorman, and I'm inside within minutes, my lockpicks making quick work of the street-level door. Kazimir handled disabling the cameras from a distance, wordlessly following my orders without asking why the hell we’re invading an apartment building.
I wonder if there will be questions from him, at some point.
Surely this can’t go on much longer without him pressing the issue.
It’s patently obvious that I’m not doing business here—at least, none that isn’t personal.
Her apartment is on a high floor. I've memorized the number the way I've memorized everything else about her. I stand outside her door for a long moment, my hand on the knob, and I give myself one last chance to turn back. To walk away. This is a boundary, a line I can’t uncross. I could end this and go back to Boston, back to the life that I’ve killed and conquered and bled to achieve.
The locks yield to my picks easily. The door swings open, and I step inside, closing it softly behind me.
Her apartment smells like her. That's the first thing that hits me—the scent of her perfume, jasmine and amber, mixed with the smell of coffee and old books. I stand in the entryway and breathe it in, my heart hammering with that now-familiar sensation of anticipation, the thrill that’s quickly becoming addictive.
The space is small but decorated in a very personal way, entirely unlike my own penthouses.
The floors are gleaming hardwood, the walls painted a soft white and hung with art from various periods.
Her couch is a soft blue-grey with softer-looking throw blankets and pillows tossed over and on it, and I see a faux marble-and-glass coffee table stacked with books and art magazines.
Plants on the windowsill. Everything is neat but lived-in, comfortable in a way my own sterile penthouse has never been.
I move through the space slowly, touching nothing at first, just looking. There's a mug in the sink with a lipstick stain on the rim—the same shade she was wearing this morning. A sweater draped over the back of a chair. A pair of shoes kicked off by the door, one lying on its side.
Small details of her life.
I've killed men. I've broken bones and stripped pieces of flesh and done things that would make most people sick.
I've built an empire on violence and fear, and I've never felt guilty about any of it.
But standing here in Mara's apartment, surrounded by the intimate details of her life and intruding on her space, I feel something close to shame.
Close to it, but not quite there, because the shame isn't strong enough to make me leave.
Her easel has the painting she’s working on set on it: a gorgeous landscape of blurred pale greens and creams and pinks, delicate animals running through a fairytale field, gold leaf highlights woven through it.
Next to the easel, there’s a different painting: this one a storm at sea, the water and sky dark, the ship a black slash against the purple of the clouds, the smallest bit of light trying to break through the storm.
Her work is beautiful. I stare at it for longer than I should, wanting to touch the paintings and knowing I shouldn’t. It feels almost as if I’d be touching her, the way I want to so badly.
I move to her bookshelf, running my fingers along the spines. Poetry, art history, novels. I pull out a worn copy of Frankenstein and open it, finding passages underlined in pencil, with notes in the margins in her handwriting.
I put the book back and move to her bedroom.
This is another line I can't uncross. I know it. But I open the door anyway.
Her bed is unmade, the sheets tangled from this morning. The sight of it makes me feel something primal and possessive. I can imagine that I see the impression of her body in the mattress, can picture her lying there, warm and still soft with sleep.
I can picture her the way I saw her the other night, back arched, hands working between her legs, pleasure coursing through her.
The door to the small bathroom is half-open. I push it wider and step inside.
It has an older, vintage look to it—green and white and black tile, a porcelain bowl sink that looks antique.
The counter is organized but not obsessively so—a toothbrush in a ceramic holder, a hairbrush with a few dark strands caught in the bristles.
I pick up the brush, running my thumb over those strands, and the intimacy of it sends a jolt through me.
Pieces of her, finally touching my skin.
Succumbing to my curiosity, I open the medicine cabinet.
There’s the usual things—ibuprofen, bandages, contact lens solution.
Nothing particularly interesting or shocking.
I close the cabinet and turn to the shower.
Her shampoo and conditioner are on the built-in shelf—expensive brands with the scent of herbs and citrus.
I open the shampoo and breathe it in, and suddenly I'm transported back to that moment in Boston when she stood close enough for me to smell her hair.
This is what I smelled then. This exact scent.
There's a body wash too, and a separate bottle of lotion. I open each one, cataloging the scents, building a complete picture what she chooses to put on her skin. The lotion is vanilla and a burnt sugar scent that’s rich and warm.
I imagine smoothing it over her skin, learning every inch of her body, making her smell like this and like me at the same time.
I leave the bathroom and move to her bedroom, but I don't go to the bed yet.
Her closet is small, the door also slightly ajar, as if every part of this room is welcoming me into it.
I open it fully and step inside the narrow space, surrounded by her clothes on all sides.
I run my hands along the hanging clothes, feeling the different textures.
She favors soft things—cotton, silk, cashmere.
There's a leather jacket that looks worn and loved, and I pull it out, bringing it to my face.
It smells like her perfume and the warmth of her skin, and I remember her wearing this at the museum. I imagine peeling it off her shoulders.
Most of her clothes are black. But there are splashes of color too—a red dress that would look stunning against her skin and raven-black hair, a blouse the color of a deep sapphire.
At the bottom of the closet, I find her workout clothes in a small basket.
Sports bras, leggings, tank tops. I pick up one of the tank tops and bring it to my face without thinking.
The scent of her—sweat and that vanilla lotion—makes me hard in an instant, my cock aching as I breathe her in deeply.
I want to see her flushed and breathing hard. I want to be the reason she's breathless.
I sit on the edge of the bed first, testing. Then I lie back, my head on her pillow, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. The sheets are cool against my skin, but I can feel the ghost of her warmth, can imagine her beside me.
This is insane. I know this is insane.
I close my eyes anyway and let myself imagine it: Mara curled against my side, her head on my chest, her breathing slow and even. My hand in her hair. Her leg thrown over mine. The weight of her, the warmth of her, finally, finally within reach.
I've had more women than I can remember, certainly more than I can count. But I've never wanted any of them the way I want her. I’ve never before felt this consuming need to possess a woman, to protect her, to own her completely.
Everything is different with her.
I open my eyes and stare at her ceiling, and I wonder what she thinks about when she lies here. Whether she's ever imagined someone beside her.
Whether she's ever imagined me.
After several minutes, I get up and cross the room to her dresser, that shame curling in my gut and mingling with a building arousal as I touch the cool wood.
I open her drawers, starting from the bottom and working my way up, drawing out the moment where I find what I truly want to see.
The first one contains t-shirts, neatly folded. I run my hands over them, feeling the soft cotton, imagining her wearing them. The second drawer holds sweaters. The third, at the very top—
The third holds her sleep clothes… and her underwear.