Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Milana
If he feels it, he doesn’t show it.
“Clean it first,” he says, voice a low rumble. “Then dry it. Then bandage.”
“Okay,” I whisper, trying to focus. My hands tremble slightly as I press the antiseptic wipe to the wound. He doesn’t even flinch.
I work carefully, hyper-aware of every inch of him, the way his muscles shift under my touch, the steady beat of his heart under that cross tattoo.
I can’t help myself. “I never pictured you as the religious type,” I say softly, eyes flicking to the ink on his chest.
He watches me for a moment. “Why?”
I shrug, focusing on cleaning the wound. I swipe another antiseptic wipe over the blood smeared across his skin.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “You just don’t strike me as the church-going type.”
A corner of his mouth twitches.
“And what exactly is the church-going type?”
His gaze lifts to mine.
“Are you judging me, Milana?”
“Of course not.” The denial comes a little too fast. “I’m just saying… you seem more likely to make people confess their sins than sit through a sermon.”
For a second, there’s complete silence. Then one dark eyebrow lifts. Slowly, the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Is that so?”
I realize too late that I’ve amused him. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”
A faint, almost sad smile touches his lips. “My mother was very religious. Catholic. When I was little, she took me to church whenever she could.”
I glance up at the large cross tattoo over his heart. “Is she dead?”
He gives a single, slow nod.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
I can see it in his eyes, grief. The kind that settles into a person and never really leaves. My chest tightens.
I understand that look. My mom died when I was very little. I don't even remember her much.
I want to ask him more, about her, about his childhood. But I can already feel him pulling back, the walls sliding into place again. This is the most he’s ever shared with me. I don’t want to push and lose even this small piece of him.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say softly.
His jaw shifts.
“Don’t be.”
I frown.
“Why?”
“Because it happened.”
The bluntness of the answer shouldn’t surprise me, but it does.
“That’s a depressing way to look at it.”
His gaze meets mine.
“I would call it realistic.”
Something flickers across his face, but it's gone almost immediately.
I return my attention to the bandage, smoothing it carefully over his skin.
Silence stretches between us, broken only by the soft sound of my breathing and the rustle of gauze.
While I work, the memory slips out before I can stop it.
“When I was little, if I got hurt… scraped my knee or cut my finger… my sister Calina would always kiss it better. She said it helped. Made the pain go away faster.” I let out a nervous little laugh. “I know it sounds childish now, but back then I really believed it worked.”
I finish securing the bandage over the cleaned graze and sit back slightly. “All done.”
A small wave of satisfaction washes through me as I look over my work. For someone who hates blood as much as I do, I managed not to faint, throw up, or embarrass myself.
Honestly, the bandage looks pretty good.
Maybe not doctor-level good, but definitely better than the disaster I’d expected.
Before I can pull my hand away from his chest, his hand moves.
His fingers close around my wrist, stopping me.
My breath catches.
The warmth of his skin seeps into my palm where it’s still resting over his heart. I can feel the steady beat beneath it.
One.
Two.
Three.
His gaze drops briefly to my hand before returning to my face.
“Do you want to?” His voice is low, rough.
I blink, suddenly unable to think properly. “Want to… what?”
His steel-gray eyes darken as they lock onto mine. “Kiss it better.”
The words hit me like a spark to dry kindling. Heat floods my entire body at the thought of pressing my lips to his bare skin.
Right there, over his heart, or lower, or anywhere he wants sends a rush of need through me so strong my thighs press together instinctively.
I’ve imagined his mouth on me countless times. But my mouth on him? The idea makes my lips tingle and my stomach flutter wildly.
For one dizzying second, I almost lean in. Almost give in to the overwhelming urge to taste his skin, to feel the heat of him against my mouth.
Then I quickly come back to my senses.
I yank my hand away like I’ve been burned, cheeks flaming. “That was… just something childish I did with my sister. It doesn’t actually help or anything. I was just rambling.”
I stumble over my words, heart pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it. “It’s all set. You’re good.”
I don’t wait for him to respond. I push to my feet and practically flee to my bedroom, closing the door behind me a little too quickly.
Leaning against it, I press a hand to my racing heart, trying to catch my breath.
What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t believe I almost did it.
I press both hands to my burning cheeks. I almost leaned in and pressed my lips to his bare chest.
My body feels like it’s on fire. My mind won’t stop spinning with vivid images. What if I had actually done it? Would he have pulled me closer? Would he have kissed me? Would he have pushed me down on the couch and fucked me right there?
Would his mouth have moved lower, licking and sucking between my thighs like I’ve secretly fantasized about every night since that night?
God, I need to get a grip.
Even with the air conditioning on, I feel overheated. Restless. Aching. I quickly strip out of the leggings and Ilya’s oversized hoodie, the fabric still carrying his scent.
I change into a black bikini and throw on a silky robe, wrapping it tightly around myself before stepping back out.
He’s still sitting exactly where I left him on the couch. The first aid kit open beside him. He hasn’t moved a muscle. His intense eyes lift to me the moment I appear, watching silently.
“I’m… going for a swim,” I say, my voice sounding too breathy.
He doesn’t respond. Just keeps looking at me with that unreadable expression.
I walk past him quickly, heart racing, and head up to the rooftop pool. The cool night air hits my skin as I reach the edge. I drop the robe onto a lounge chair, step out of my slippers, and dive straight into the water.
The shock of the cool pool hits me hard. I stay under for a few long seconds, letting the water rush over me, hoping it will extinguish the heat still burning under my skin.
When I break the surface, gasping for air, it doesn’t work.
I’m still hypersensitive. Every brush of water against my body feels electric. My nipples are tight against the thin bikini top.
My thighs press together under the water as I remember the way his hand held mine against his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat, the heat in his eyes when he asked if I wanted to kiss it better.
I swim a few frantic laps, trying to burn off the tension, but it’s useless.
Kirill
During dinner with her brothers tonight, something shifted.
As they talked about Michael’s growing instability, his reckless moves, the way he was burning bridges left and right, I realized they weren’t the monsters Michael had painted them to be.
They were ruthless, yes. Dangerous. But they were also loyal to each other in a way I rarely see. Protective. Strategic. They spoke about their people, their wives, their sisters with a fierce kind of devotion that went beyond power.
Every conversation I have with them chips away at the narrative Michael fed me. And every hour I spend around Milana chips away at me.
I’ve always been detached. In this line of work, attachment gets you killed. I take the job, I do it clean, I get paid, and I move on. No loyalty. No feelings. I’m nobody’s lapdog. That freedom is what I’ve always valued most.
But now? Now I’m questioning everything.
The thought of Michael succeeding, of him hurting this family, of him hurting her, sits like acid in my stomach.
During the attack at the restaurant, my first instinct was to get Milana out. To shield her with my body. Not because it's my job. But because the idea of anything happening to her, of her getting hurt, of losing her… it feels unbearable.
I’ve never felt this way about anyone. Not a single woman. Not once.
And tonight, I asked her to kiss my wound better.
I don’t do kisses. I don’t do tenderness. I don’t do any of this soft shit. But with her, every rule I’ve lived by feels like it’s crumbling.
The way she looked at me when she was cleaning my arm, the way her hand felt pressed against my chest, the way her breath hitched when I held her… it’s driving me insane.
I’m strongly considering doing something I swore I never would.
I’m thinking about switching sides. Betraying Michael. Turning on the man who hired me. Risking my reputation. Everything.
All because of one woman who’s turned my carefully controlled world upside down.
I sit on the couch, staring at the bandage she wrapped around my arm. The first aid kit is still open on the table. I haven’t moved since she ran off to the pool.
I sit on the couch for a few minutes, trying to talk myself out of going after her. Every instinct I have is screaming that if I go up there and see her in a bikini again, my self-control, which is already hanging by a thread, is going to snap.
But my body has other ideas.
I’m on my feet before I can stop myself, ignoring the sharp sting in my shoulder. The skin where she touched me is still tingling. I should be glad she ran off. Instead, I’m regretting that her hands aren’t still on me.
I head up to the rooftop.
The sight that greets me nearly knocks the air out of my lungs.
Milana is standing at the shallow end of the pool in a tiny red bikini that looks even more sinful wet. The fabric clings to her breasts, her nipples visibly hard from the cool water.
Water streams down her body, tracing every curve, every dip of her waist, down her toned legs. She looks like a fucking goddess sent to ruin me.
I sit down on one of the lounge chairs, elbows on my knees, watching her. She notices me immediately and freezes at the edge of the pool.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
“Did the pool help cool you down?” I ask, voice low and rough.
She bites her bottom lip, that small, nervous habit that drives me insane, and shakes her head. “No.”
“Huh. Strange. Isn’t cold water supposed to cool you down?”
“Yeah… it should.” Her voice is breathy. “Maybe I should go take a shower instead.”
“That won’t work either.” I lean back slightly, eyes locked on hers. “Come here.”
She hesitates only for a second before obeying, stepping out of the pool and walking over until she’s standing between my spread legs.
She’s so close I can feel the cool droplets falling from her skin onto my thighs. Goosebumps rise all over her arms and stomach.
I stand up and drag my knuckles slowly along the side of her neck, from just behind her ear down to her shoulder. Her skin is silky, and trembling under my touch. She shivers visibly.
Everything in me is screaming to stop. To walk away. But I’m already leaning in.
I press my lips to the side of her neck, right where her pulse is hammering. A soft, breathy moan escapes her. The sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.
That’s it. There’s no going back from this.
She’s shaking. I’m hard as steel. And for the first time in my life, I don’t give a fuck about control.
I just want her.