Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Milana
Ilya holds the door open, one dark eyebrow lifting. “Chop chop, princess, get into the car. We don’t have all night.”
I pause at his tone. “Shouldn’t you talk to me with more respect?” I don’t know who this man thinks he is. Good looking or not, his attitude is beginning to piss me off. “I don’t like your tone.”
“Well, too bad I don’t give two fucks about your feelings. Get your ass into the car, we need to get moving.”
I consider telling him to go fuck himself, but it’s late, and I need a ride back to my dorm. Besides, Mikhail will lose his mind if he finds out I ditched the man he sent to get me. I’ve already given him and Artyom enough reasons to be pissed off tonight.
I let out a huff and make my way toward the door he’s holding open. The scent hits me the second I walk past him, leather and something woodsy, dark and masculine, like smoke and cedar wrapped around pure danger.
I catch myself inhaling deeper before I can stop it, my body reacting on instinct.
Heat flares low in my belly. What the hell am I doing?
I’ve never responded to a man like this.
Not once. Not ever. To make things worse, he’s a stranger my brother sent, and I’m already acting like some breathless schoolgirl.
I mentally slap myself and slide into the passenger seat, the cool leather kissing the backs of my thighs. Just before I’m fully settled, he leans down slightly, one hand still on the door.
“You’re welcome, by the way.”
I pause, looking up at him. “Welcome for what?”
He closes the door with a solid click and rounds the car, folding his massive frame into the driver’s seat. The interior suddenly feels even smaller, his presence filling every inch of space.
“For getting you out of jail,” he says, voice low and edged. “Most people have the manners to say something when someone keeps them from spending the night in a cell.”
I buckle my seatbelt, smoothing my dress down as far as it will go, which isn’t far. “I guess I don’t have manners then.”
“No doubt about that.”
Okay, this guy is beginning to really get on my nerves.
“First of all, I wouldn’t have spent the night there.
Sarah, my roommate, would’ve come through eventually.
Second, I don’t need to thank you. My brother sent you.
He’s the one who arranged this, right? You’re getting paid to do it.
So why are you acting like you swooped in out of the goodness of your heart? ”
Something flashes in his eyes, anger, for a split second, before he masks it behind that cold, controlled expression. He starts the engine, the powerful rumble vibrating through the seats.
“And where is this roommate of yours? Because I don’t see her anywhere.” He makes a show of looking out the window.
Asshole.
“You know, for someone whose job is driving people around, you sure talk a lot.”
He seems amused. “That’s interesting,” he mutters, giving me a slow, deliberate once-over that makes my skin prickle. “You’re not as quiet as I was sold.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means, princess, from what I heard, you were supposed to be the calm, obedient sibling. The quiet one who doesn’t cause trouble. But it seems you’ve grown a spine in England.”
His words light a spark of irritation in my chest.
I hate this. I hate when people assume that because I’m calm and quiet, I have no spine.
That I’m soft. Breakable. There are things I’ve done, things I can do, that would make loud-mouthed people with “more spine” piss themselves.
Just because I don’t scream and throw tantrums doesn’t mean I’m weak.
“Calm and quiet doesn’t mean spineless,” I snap, turning in my seat to face him fully.
“It doesn’t mean I’m weak, and it sure as hell doesn’t give you permission to talk down to me.
So, how about you do the job my brother is paying you for and drive?
” I lift a brow, letting my voice drop into something deceptively sweet.
“You were the one complaining about how long I was taking. Yet here you are, more interested in running your mouth than actually getting us out of here.”
Ilya’s jaw tightens. He looks like he wants to say something cutting, something that would probably hurt me, but he changes his mind at the last second. Instead, his voice drops lower. “Watch your tone, Milana.”
The way he says my name, deep, rough, like it rolls off his tongue with too much familiarity, sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine. I want to hear it again.
Immediately. I shove the thought away, reminding myself I’m supposed to be annoyed with this arrogant stranger who’s already decided exactly who I am.
I choose to ignore him instead, and busy myself digging through my purse, checking that everything’s there, when I realize my cardholder is missing.
“Stop,” I say quickly. “I need to go back inside. My cardholder wasn’t with the rest of my things.”
Ilya glances at me, one hand still on the wheel. “What?”
“My card holder, it’s still at the station, and I need to get it.” I reach for the door handle.
He lets out a frustrated groan. “Stay in the car,” he orders, voice brooking no argument. “I’ll get it. You’ve walked around enough in that ridiculous dress already.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “My wardrobe is none of your business.” What the hell is his problem?
He groans again, a deep, frustrated sound that does strange things to my insides, and gets out. But as he does, an idea hits me. I slip out after him before he can close the door.
“Wait,” I call.
He turns, scowling. “What now? What else did you forget?”
“I need you to give something to someone inside.” I don’t wait for his reaction. I shrug off my blazer, then reach behind me and unzip the dress in one smooth motion. The cool night air hits my skin as the silky fabric pools at my feet.
“What the hell are you doing?” Ilya hisses, eyes widening in genuine shock. “Have you lost your senses? Stop!”
I ignore him, step out of the dress and quickly pull my blazer back on, buttoning it enough to cover my breasts, backside, and the lace underneath. It barely does the job.
“Could you ask one of the officers to give this to the blonde woman who was in the cell with me? She liked it.”
He stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. For a split second, his gaze drops, dark, intense, before fury snaps back into place. His expression goes blank, then stormy. “Put your dress back on. Now.”
“No.”
“Milana. Put the damn dress back on,” he growls.
“No.” I hold it out to him.
He looks like he’s one second away from shoving me back into the dress himself. “Why the hell do you want to give your dress to a stranger you just met in a jail cell?”
I shrug one shoulder, completely unbothered. “She liked it. And I have plenty more. Now will you please take it to her?” I hold the silky fabric out to him. “The sooner you do it, the sooner we can leave. And don’t forget my card holder.”
He snatches the dress from my hand, muttering curses under his breath as he stalks toward the station doors. I catch a few colorful Russian words that make my lips twitch.
I lean against the car, arms crossed over my blazer, a small, satisfied smile curling my mouth.
A shiver races down my spine, a reminder that I’m practically naked under this blazer. I tug the hem down hard, trying to make it cover more, but it’s useless.
The tailored jacket is short on a good day; now, standing on a Manchester street in nothing but lace panties and heels, it barely skims the tops of my thighs. The night air bites at my exposed skin, raising goosebumps everywhere. Brilliant move, Milana.
I quickly slide back into the passenger seat and pull the door shut, seeking shelter from the cold.
A minute later, Ilya returns, his long strides eating up the pavement. He yanks the driver’s door open, tosses my card holder into my lap without ceremony, and growls, “Here.”
Before I can say anything, he drops into the seat, slams the door, and starts the engine. The car purrs to life with a low, aggressive rumble.
I clutch the card holder, irritation flaring again. “You need to be nicer to me.”
He kicks the car into gear and turns those intense eyes on me, the look so sharp it steals my breath for a second. “Why the hell would I be nice to you?”
“Who pays the piper dictates the tune,” I fire back, lifting my chin.
Something dangerous flickers across his face. He gives me a slow, deadly glare that makes the air in the car feel heavier. “First of all, I’m no one’s puppet. I work for no one. Don’t misjudge this situation, I’m helping you, not the other way around.
“I could leave you half-naked on this street right now, drive off, and there would be zero repercussions. You’re at my mercy, princess. So, if you want to get home in one piece, shut that smart mouth and keep it shut.”
I’m stunned. No one, I mean no one, talks to me like this. Not with my last name. My mouth falls open to snap something back, but he reaches over and cranks the music up so loud the bass vibrates through my bones. The sound drowns out everything I wanted to say.
Fine. He’s not worth my energy.
I turn my face to the window, watching the city lights blur past, jaw clenched. The AC is on, cold air pouring over my bare legs and making me shiver. I cross my arms tighter over my blazer, painfully aware of how little I’m wearing.
Why do I do this? Why do I make impulsive decisions without thinking them through? Giving away my dress to a stranger in a cell felt right in the moment. Generous, even. Now I’m sitting here freezing, half-naked, next to a man who clearly enjoys putting me in my place.
His jacket is huge. It would swallow me whole and carry that intoxicating leather-and-woodsy scent. For one weak second, I consider asking for it.
But no. I refuse to beg this arrogant, controlling stranger for anything.
I stay perfectly still, teeth gritted against the cold, staring out into the night.
The music is giving me a headache. After a few more minutes of the bass pounding through the car like it’s trying to burst my eardrums, I reach over and switch it off. I brace for some sharp comment or him turning it right back up, but he doesn’t react at all.
The car falls into heavy silence, broken only by the low rumble of the engine and the sound of tires on wet pavement.
I shift in my seat, tugging my blazer down again. “What’s going on?” I ask, keeping my voice steady. “Why did my brother send you all the way here to get me?”
I expect him to ignore me or snap something rude, but he surprises me by answering.
“There’s a war brewing back home,” he says, eyes fixed on the road. “Michael, Adrian Volkov’s son, is out for revenge. He blames your family for his father’s death, and he’s getting desperate. Your brothers don’t want to leave you exposed out here alone.”
I nod slowly. I know bits and pieces about the Volkov situation. Enough to understand it’s serious.
Adrian Volkov was the vice president of Patheon, an exclusive society reserved for the world's elite.
Two years ago, after Calina married Maxim, he was invited to join Patheon.
Adrian despised him from the start. He had been adopted as a teenager, not the real bloodline, and yet had become the new Pakhan.
So Adrian had tried everything to destroy Maxim and prevent him from joining the society, even orchestrating an attempt on my sister's life just to get to him.
It was with my help that Calina discovered Adrian had been working with one of Maxim's most trusted men to betray him. Maxim got Adrian kicked out of the society. Adrian declared war on him. And with my brothers’ help, Maxim had killed Adrian. Now his son wants revenge.
Ilya continues without looking at me. “I’m taking you to your dorm so you can pack a few things. Then we’re heading straight to the private jet and back to the States.”
“What about my classes?” The words are out before I can think better of them.
He glances at me like I’m a child throwing a tantrum over nothing. “Whatever classes you have, take them online. It’s no longer safe for you to be here alone in England. You need to be back where we can keep you protected.”
The fight drains out of me a little. I know better than to argue when my brothers have already made a decision like this.
I study his profile for a moment, the hard line of his jaw, the way his hands grip the wheel, and I find myself wanting to trace the veins on his hands. I quickly clear my throat. “So… do you do this often?”
“If you mean rescuing spoiled brats from their own bad decisions, no.”
I bristle instantly. “I’m not a spoiled brat.”
“Oh really?” His tone drips with skepticism.
“Yes, really. You know nothing about me.”
He turns his head slightly, and his gaze drops––slow, deliberate, heated, sliding over my bare legs, the hem of my blazer barely covering anything, the way I’m sitting in this ridiculous excuse for clothing.
The look is so intense it feels like a physical touch, dragging heat across my skin and making my breath catch. My thighs press together involuntarily.
“If you say so,” he drawls, voice lower now, rougher. “But I know everything I need to know.”
“Well, fuck you!”
The words fly out before I can stop them. I rarely curse. Almost never, but this man drags out the worst in me.
Ilya doesn’t even flinch. He glances back at the road, his voice low and laced with dark amusement. “I’ll have to take a rain check on that offer.”
Then his entire demeanor shifts. He checks the rearview mirror, and a sharp Russian curse slips from his lips.
“We’re being followed.”