Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Milana
The dryer dings, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I open the door and start pulling out the warm laundry, folding it piece by piece into the basket.
My hand pauses when I grab the oversized black hoodie. The one Ilya gave me the night we went to dinner with my family. The night everything between us changed.
I bring it to my nose without thinking and inhale deeply. Even after being washed, there’s still a faint trace of him, that masculine, woodsy, slightly smoky scent that always seems to cling to him.
Things have been… different between us since that night. There’s a strange, careful warmth between us now. Not quite comfortable.
We haven't had sex again. I don’t see much of him during the day. He’s been incredibly busy, leaving early, coming back late, always locked away in his study or gone for hours.
The only time we really spend together is just before bed.
He comes to my bedroom every night, and we make out for a while before, like clockwork, he slips away to his own room.
He still hasn’t kissed me. Not once. He kisses nearly every inch of my body every night, but never my lips. I keep wondering why.
Does he simply not want to? Is kissing too intimate for him? Or is there another reason?
The question circles in my head constantly, but I’m too proud to ask. I don’t want to sound desperate or needy.
I hold the hoodie for a moment longer. I should give it back. He’s in his study right now, working. I will just leave it in his bedroom.
Returning the hoodie gives me a reason to go into his bedroom. A room I’ve never been inside. The thought makes my stomach flutter with nerves and something warmer.
I fold the hoodie neatly, place it in the basket with the rest of the laundry, and head down the hallway toward his room.
Getting to his bedroom door, I hesitate for a second before pushing it open.
It’s noticeably larger than mine. The moment I step inside, the difference in atmosphere hits me. His room is darker, more masculine.
Deep charcoal walls, rich wooden tones, and black furniture that gives the room a luxurious feel.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a stunning view of the Manhattan skyline, but the overall feeling is shadowed, almost brooding. It suits him perfectly.
This room feels like an extension of Ilya himself, restrained, and a little dangerous.
In the center sits a massive bed, with dark sheets and a heavy, minimalist headboard. Everything is neat, precise, almost military in its order.
I walk over and carefully place his hoodie on the bed, setting the laundry basket beside it.
For a moment, I simply stand there, taking it all in, trying to picture Ilya in this room.
Does he sprawl across the bed, or sleep on one side? Does he toss and turn? Does he sleep naked?
My fingertips drift over the smooth surface of his nightstand, gliding along the edge of the heavy wooden dresser.
I notice a worn, leather-bound copy of Faith resting on the nightstand. It looks old, the edges softened and frayed from years of being opened and read.
For some reason, I never pictured Ilya as the type to keep a book like this on his nightstand.
I know he’s religious. He told me as much. But I never imagined his faith ran this deep.
Curiosity gets the better of me. I pick it up and open the cover. On the first page, in elegant handwriting, is a dedication:
To my beloved son, Kirill. May this book remind you that even in darkness, faith can be your light. With all my love, always — Mama
Why does he have a book dedicated to someone named Kirill? A mother’s dedication to her son…
Could Kirill be his brother? Does Ilya have a brother? Or is this a friend?
I quickly close the book and set it back exactly where I found it, my pulse racing. I shouldn’t have touched it. I shouldn’t even be in here.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of online classes and pro bono work. I throw myself into it, attending lectures, taking notes, then diving into my latest case notes for the advocacy center.
Maria misses our meeting. I try calling her, but she doesn't answer, so I send her a text asking if she's okay and to let me know when she'd like to reschedule. Recovery isn't a straight line, and every now and then she misses a session.
By evening, I’m mentally exhausted but my body feels restless, trapped inside these walls for too long.
I change into workout clothes and head down to the gym. I step onto the treadmill, plug in my earbuds with some low background music because my head hurts a bit, and start with a steady warm-up jog.
The rhythm of my feet hitting the belt helps clear my head a little. I’m a few minutes in when I hear a low, pained groan.
I frown, instinctively slowing my pace. I don’t hear it again. Maybe it was the music playing through my earbuds.
I shake it off, turn the volume a bit up now, and keep running. A few seconds later, I hear it again. A low, muffled groan. The unmistakable sound of someone in pain.
I yank one earbud out. The gym is silent except for the hum of the air conditioner. I wait, breathing hard.
There it is again. A groan. Definitely coming from somewhere nearby.
I turn off the treadmill completely and step off, heart picking up speed. I remove both earbuds and listen. There it is again, a low, muffled groan.
What the hell?
I walk out of the gym area and pause in the hallway. The groaning is clearer now, coming from the direction of a heavy door I’ve never paid much attention to before. The one leading to the basement.
Ilya had told me early on that I didn’t need to concern myself with that part of the building, and I hadn’t. Until now.
I move closer, curiosity and concern mixing together. Is someone hurt down there? Trapped?
A digital lock is mounted beside the door, its small screen dark. I stare at it for a second before my gaze drops to the handle.
Maybe it isn’t locked. My hand reaches for the handle to check. My fingers close around the cool metal.
Just as I start to turn it, a large hand lands firmly on my shoulder.
I shriek, jumping violently and spinning around, heart leaping into my throat.
Ilya is standing right behind me, his expression dark and tense.
“Where are you going?” he demands, voice low and edged with anger.
“I—I heard something,” I stammer, trying to catch my breath. “A groaning sound, like someone in pain. It was coming from down there. I was just going to check—”
“Really?” His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing. He looks genuinely pissed. “You were just going to walk down there?”
“Yeah… maybe someone’s hurt or in danger—”
“So, what was your plan exactly?” he cuts in, stepping closer, towering over me. “If there really was someone being attacked or held down there, what were you going to do? Run in and save them? Put yourself right in the middle of danger?”
I open my mouth, then close it again. Heat rises to my cheeks. “I… I didn’t really think it through,” I admit quietly.
“Exactly.” He exhales sharply, clearly frustrated. “There’s no one in danger down there. It was probably just noise from outside or the building settling. Nothing you need to worry about.”
“But how do you know for sure?” I press, glancing back at the basement door.
He gives me a hard look. “Because I know this building. No one is down there. Now listen.”
We both go quiet. The hallway is completely silent. No groaning. No sounds at all.
“See?” he says. “Nothing. And even if there was, you are not going down there. You are not putting yourself in danger like that. You come call me if you suspect anything. Do you understand me?”
I swallow and nod. “Of course. I’m sorry. I’ll… just go back to my workout.”
I turn and head back toward the gym. I notice he’s dressed in workout clothes too. Black compression shirt and shorts that show off his powerful legs. He follows me inside without a word.
I climb back onto the treadmill, slip my earbuds into place, and start running again, trying to put the whole thing out of my mind.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe the sound came from somewhere outside.
I finish my run on the treadmill, breathing hard, and step off. My eyes drift across the gym and land on Ilya. It's just the two of us here.
He’s doing pull-ups on the bar in the corner, smooth and controlled, his powerful back and arm muscles flexing with every rep.
The black compression shirt he’s wearing clings to his body, damp with sweat, highlighting every ridge and line of his physique.
I don’t realize I’m staring until my mouth goes dry and heat crawls up my neck. I quickly look away, grabbing my water bottle and taking a long sip.
He drops down from the bar and wipes his face with a towel, glancing over at me. The silence between us feels charged.
I decide to break it. “So… do you always train this hard?”
“Keeps me in shape,” he replies, voice low, not offering anything more.
No doubt about that.
I nod, wiping sweat from my forehead. “What about music? Do you listen to anything while working out, or is it all silent and intense?”
A faint smirk tugs at his lips. “Depends on the day. Most of the time, I like to work out with nothing but my own thoughts for company.”
“That sounds boring.”
“It isn’t.”
“It would be for me.” I take a sip from my water bottle. “If I’m left alone with my thoughts for too long, I start remembering embarrassing things I did five years ago.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Only five?”
I let out a laugh. “Maybe more. So…” I lean back against the bench, taking a sip of water. “Random question.”
He glances at me. “That usually means trouble.”
I smile. “Favorite food?”
He thinks for a second. “Pelmeni.”
“Really?” I wrinkle my nose. “I was expecting something more exciting.”
“It’s food. It doesn’t need to be exciting.”
“You are painfully practical.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“What about movies?”
“I don’t watch many.”
“Books?”
“Sometimes.”
“What kind?”
“History. Philosophy.”
I nod slowly. “Do you have a favorite?”
“A few.”
“Hmm.” I tap my chin dramatically. “You’re making this very difficult.”
His eyebrow lifts.
“What exactly are you doing?”
“Getting to know you.”
“And?”
“And so far I’ve learned you’re boring.”
A quiet huff escapes him. It’s almost a laugh.
“You know how they say some people just… don’t look like their names?”
He gives me a puzzled look. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Sometimes you meet someone and think, Nope. You’re definitely not a Ben. You’re a Daniel.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “So you’ve been renaming strangers?”
“Only in my head.”
I study him for a moment, letting my gaze roam over his face as though I’m trying to solve a puzzle.
“You don’t really look like an Ilya.”
His shoulders tense ever so slightly, and his eyes lock onto mine. “No?”
“No.” I shake my head. “You look more like a Kirill.”
His hand tightens visibly on the towel for a split second. His posture shifts, just slightly.
His gaze doesn’t leave mine.
“That’s… oddly specific.”
I shrug, forcing myself to look casual.
“Is it?”
“Most people would’ve said Alex. Or Ivan. Something common.”
“Maybe.” I smile. “But you don’t strike me as common.”
If he had a relative named Kirill… or even a friend… this would have been the perfect opportunity to say so.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he simply watches me, his expression unreadable.
Maybe I’m overthinking it.
Then again, Ilya has never been the type to volunteer information about himself. Every little thing I know about him, I’ve had to drag out of him one question at a time.
I decide not to push my luck. If I keep digging, he’ll start wondering why I’m so interested in the name.
“So, you really know how to spar?” he asks, breaking the silence.
“I do.” I nod. “My sister and I used to train together before she got married.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Show me.”
“Fine.”
We move onto the mats, facing each other from opposite ends.
Ilya rolls his shoulders once before raising his hands. “Don’t hold back.”
I snort.
“I was about to say the same thing.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. He comes at me first. A jab. I slip outside it.
A cross. I catch it on my forearm and step back into position.
He’s watching more than he’s attacking, measuring my reactions, looking for hesitation.
He’s not going to find any. I spent years doing this with Calina.
Maybe not against someone as skilled as Ilya, but enough to know how to keep my feet under me.
He feints left. I don’t take the bait. Instead, I pivot, duck under his next strike, and drive the heel of my palm into his ribs.
He takes a step back, surprise flickering across his face before it’s replaced by something almost… impressed.
“Not bad,” he mutters.
“Told you.”
The next exchange is different. He’s no longer humoring me.
His movements are quicker. He forces me to work for every block, every dodge, every opening. Sweat beads along my forehead as I barely avoid a sweeping kick, stumbling before catching my balance again.
“You’re smiling,” I say between breaths.
“So are you.”
I hadn’t even realized it.
I grin wider.
“Maybe I’m enjoying proving you wrong.”
“I never said you couldn’t fight.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was.”
He lunges again.
This time I anticipate it, sidestepping at the last second before catching his wrist and using his momentum against him. He twists free before I can capitalize on it, but not before I hear a quiet huff of amusement escape him.
“Wow,” he mutters, stepping back.
I grin, wiping sweat from my brow. “So… are you ready to admit you were wrong? That you misjudged me?”
He stares at me for a beat, then nods. “Yeah. You can hold your own.”
I smile triumphantly. “See? You don’t need to worry about me so much. I can take care of myself.”
He moves before I can react, crowding me against the mirrored wall. His big body is suddenly very close, heat radiating off him, sweat and raw masculinity filling my senses.
His voice drops low, rough. “That’s where you’re wrong, solnyshko. It’s my job to worry about you. And I’d appreciate it if you stopped making it so damn difficult by ignoring every instruction I give you.”
I tilt my chin up, refusing to back down even though my heart is racing and my skin feels too hot. “You say that like I’m some kind of dog who should just obey every of your instructions.”
His lips curve into a slow, dangerous smirk. He leans in closer, one hand bracing on the mirror beside my head. “Trust me… you’re no dog. A dog actually listens.”
The air between us crackles. I can feel the heat of his body, the way his eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second. Is he going to kiss me?