Chapter 12 - Trifon
The way she looks at me right now makes the room disappear.
Her eyes catch the light like emeralds—the most precious eyes in this room.
She doesn’t belong here, she’s right about that—but not for the reasons she thinks.
She’s too honest for this crowd, too real.
The rest of us? We’re all wearing masks, playing parts.
But Yulia? Even forced into this life, she refuses to pretend.
And fuck me if that doesn’t make me want her more than I should.
“I should check on Nadya,” she says, breaking our stare first. “Make sure she’s not overdoing it with that leg.”
I glance over. Nadya’s holding court by the bar, soaking up attention despite the bandage on her leg. “She’s fine. Already flirting with someone twice her size.”
Yulia smiles—really smiles. “She reminds me of me at that age. Always had something to prove.”
“And now?”
She sips her champagne, thoughtful. “Still do. Just to myself.”
The noise around us surges, but we’re in our own quiet corner. I study her profile, the elegant curve of her neck, the soft smile on her face.
“You want to get out of here?” I ask.
Her eyes widen. “We can do that? I thought this was some big family thing.”
“I’m the head of the family,” I say, smirking. “We leave when I say.”
She tilts her head, skeptical. “You’re sure your brothers won’t mind?”
“They’re halfway to blackout,” I say, nodding at Leonid’s fourth vodka. “We’ve done our part.”
Relief flickers across her face before she tampers it down. “Alright. If you’re sure.”
I place a hand at the small of her back. “I’m sure.”
We move through the crowd. Nadya pouts dramatically when Yulia hugs her, making her promise to visit soon. Darya gives me a knowing look I choose to ignore. My brothers raise their glasses in salute, already deep in their cups.
Yulia’s still flushed when we leave the gala.
I can’t stop looking at her. That dress clings like it was sewn for my hands to remove, and her mouth—God, that mouth—has been driving me insane all night.
She thinks she’s hiding her nerves better now after our little chat. But I noticed the way her pulse fluttered when I stood too close, the way her lips parted when I caught her staring at me.
We step into the car. I let the driver shut the door and slide in beside her. She tugs at the edge of her slit, pulling it modestly over her thigh.
I smirk, but don’t say a word.
“What?” she says, catching me watching.
“You really don’t like parties, do you?” I come up with the first excuse I can find that won’t have me admit how sexy I find her.
“I like parties fine,” she says, eyes forward. “Just not this kind.”
“This kind?” I ask curiously.
“Does a bottle of wine in bed with some take-out pizza count for a party?” she offers up.
I chuckle. “Only if there’s bad reality TV involved.”
She turns to me, one brow arched. “You watch reality TV?”
“I watch whatever puts that look on your face.”
She scoffs, but her lips twitch, trying not to smile. “What look?”
“That look,” I say, leaning a little closer. “The one where you’re trying not to laugh. You get this tiny dimple right here—” I brush my thumb gently against her cheek, “—and your eyes go soft, like you’re almost starting to like me.”
Her smile falters the second my thumb touches her cheek.
I pull back a fraction, the shift in her energy sharp enough to make me second-guess the moment.
Too much. Too fast.
Fucking idiot.
“Well, maybe I don’t hate you,” she whispers, as she looks ahead.
Relief loosens something in my chest I didn’t realize was clenched.
“Well,” I say, my voice low, a little hoarse. “That’s progress.”
She doesn’t answer, but she’s not pulling away either.
“Maybe,” I say, after a beat, “we could be friends.”
That earns a laugh. A short, surprised one. She turns her head, eyebrows raised. “Friends?”
“Why not?”
She gives me a flat look, amused but unconvinced. “Yeah, right.”
“What?” I ask, feigning offense. “You’ve got too many already to count me as one?”
Her grin widens. The first real one since we got in the car.
“Well, I just don’t have time for friends.”
“You never had friends?” My eyebrows shoot right up.
She side-eyes me. “I had friends.”
“Had?”
She huffs. “I went from being my father’s daughter to med school to Mass Gen. Not a lot of spare hours for brunch and mani-pedis.”
“And now you’re married to a Bratva boss. Really upping the fun factor.”
“Don’t mock me. I wasn’t exactly invited into this mess.”
“True,” I admit, turning slightly toward her. “But you’re not doing so bad for someone who apparently missed the last decade of socializing.”
She gives me a look. “Is this your way of saying I’m awkward?”
“No,” I murmur, letting my gaze drag slowly over her legs, “this is my way of saying I’m impressed. That you could walk into a room like that, in a dress like this, and make half the men stare and the other half reconsider their bank accounts.”
She shifts in her seat. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not.”
There’s a long pause. Her voice is quieter when she says, “I’m not used to people watching me.”
“Maybe they should’ve been.”
She falls silent again. The air turns dense. I can hear her breathing shift. She smooths her skirt, looks out the window.
Then, with zero warning, she blurts, “I don’t date, so I don’t really notice men watching.”
That gets my full attention. “You don’t...?”
“Date. Men. Or anyone, really. I mean—” she fumbles, then groans. “You know what I mean.”
I arch a brow. “You sure? Because that was incredibly vague and incredibly intriguing.”
She glares at me. “You’re enjoying this.”
I grin. “Very much.”
She mutters something under her breath, then says, “I just mean—I’ve been too busy. First, my family, then med school, now residency. I didn’t exactly have time to explore... anything.”
“Anything?” I echo.
She narrows her eyes. “You’re trying to make me say it.”
“You’ve already said it,” I murmur, inching closer. “I’m just helping you unpack.”
She shakes her head, but her cheeks flush again. That perfect blend of sass and innocence. Fuck, I want to ruin it.
“I’ve had sex before,” she says quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “It just... wasn’t very good.”
I go still.
Not because she said it—
Because I felt it.
The way her voice dipped on wasn’t very good, like she’s said too much by talking about sex. Perhaps I should laugh it off and shift the mood.
But the obsessed part of me—the one that’s been quietly simmering since the second I saw her in that damn emerald dress—wants to hear more.
“Not good, how?”
She groans. “Why are we talking about this?”
“You brought it up.”
“I was nervous! And babbling. Forget it.”
“No chance,” I say, voice low. “What do you mean, not good?”
She hesitates. Her voice dips. “I’ve never... You know.”
I blink. “You’ve never had sex?”
“What? I’m not a virgin. Of course I’ve had sex!” she protests. “What I haven’t had is an…Orgasm with a partner,” her voice dips. “Just my vibrator. “
I stare at her.
A sharp mix of heat and frustration coils low in my spine. Not at her. At the ghost of every man who ever touched her and didn’t think to finish the job.
“Jesus, Yulia.”
She flinches. “Forget I said anything—”
The image that flashes through my mind—her sprawled across her bed, legs spread, toy between her thighs—sends heat straight to my groin.
“No,” I cut in without thinking, voice rough. “You said it. And now I can’t stop picturing that perfect little body spread out with nothing but your vibrator for company.”
She swallows. Her legs press together. My gaze drops. So does hers.
The air thickens again. She’s looking at me differently now—like she’s not quite sure if she wants to slap me or kiss me.
A charged silence falls between us. The air in the car feels suddenly thick, electric.
I’m too aware of her—the scent of her perfume, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip.
“Trifon—” she whispers, inching closer.
“We’re home,” the driver says, just as the car rolls to a smooth stop.
Fuck. He couldn’t take one detour. A look of disappointment flashes across Yulia’s face, and in that moment, I know. I know she wanted to kiss me.
Neither of us moves immediately. The engine idles. The driver waits.
“We should go in,” she says finally, her voice soft.
I nod, but still don’t move. Can’t seem to tear my eyes away from her face.
We enter the house in silence, the tension from the car following us inside. The foyer is dimly lit, the rest of the house quiet—the staff gone for the night.
She pauses at the foot of the stairs, hesitating.
“I should...” she gestures vaguely upstairs. “It’s late.”
“Yulia,” I say, my voice low. I don’t know what I’m about to say, just that I need to say something.
She turns back to me, a question in her eyes. “Yes?”
“You deserve better,” I tell her. “Than what you’ve had.”
Her breath catches. “What do you mean?”
I step closer, closing the distance between us. “I mean, you deserve to feel good. To be satisfied. To not settle for... vibrators.”
A flush spreads across her cheeks, but she doesn’t back away. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” I say simply.
We’re standing too close now. I can see the flecks of gold in her green eyes and count each of her eyelashes.
Her breath hitches.
She doesn’t move away. Doesn’t speak. Just looks up at me—eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling like she’s trying to catch up with what her body already knows.
“Yulia,” I say again, lower this time. Rougher. Like her name’s been burning in my throat all night.
She takes a step closer. Barely a shift, but I feel it. The air changes. Tightens. Her perfume hits me again—jasmine and something warmer, darker. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then flicks back up. Her lips part like she might say something, but instead she just breathes—
“Trifon,” she whispers.
That’s all it takes.