Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
I RINA
The suite is too large, too quiet, and smells far too much like a man who intends to break me.
Mikhail had practically tossed me into this mahogany-paneled prison before disappearing into what I assume is his office, leaving me with nothing but my racing thoughts and the weight of the wool coat still draped over my shoulders.
I shed it now, the heavy fabric hitting the floor with a dull thud.
I need to breathe. I need a wall between me and that dark blue gaze before I actually lose my mind.
I retreat into the bathroom, clicking the lock into place. It’s a pathetic little sound, a tiny metal bolt against a man who kicks down doors for fun, but it’s the only sanctuary I have. I lean against the cold marble of the vanity, staring at the woman in the mirror.
My hair is a mess, my skin is pale... I look like a ghost haunting my own life. I reach into the hidden pocket I stitched into my leggings back in Cancun—a little trick I learned from a girl who used to smuggle cigarettes into our boarding school.
My fingers close around the cold, plastic casing of the burner phone.
It’s small, cheap, and currently the only thing keeping me tethered to the truth. I shouldn't use it. Not here. But the thought of my leads in Mexico going cold, of the "ghost" disappearing back into the fog because I didn't check in, is worse than the fear of Mikhail.
I turn on the faucet, letting the water roar into the basin to drown out the sound of my voice. It’s an amateur move, the kind of thing they do in movies, but I’m desperate.
I dial the number from memory. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs, each ring tone feeling like a countdown to my own execution.
"Yes?" The voice on the other end is guarded, hushed.
"It's me," I whisper, my eyes fixed on the locked door. "I’m in New York. The situation has... shifted."
"Shifted? Elena, I heard there was trouble at the spa. Men in suits."
"It doesn't matter," I snap. "Listen to me. I’m at the Morozov estate. The number I gave you before is dead. This is the only way to reach me, and I can’t keep it on. Did you find anything in the Jersey files? Any sign of the transfer?"
"It’s difficult. The names are scrubbed. But there was a payment, Elena. A recurring one, masked through a shell company in the Caymans. It’s tied to a private residence in upstate New York. I’m trying to get an address, but it’s risky."
A surge of hope, sharp and painful, pierces through me.
Upstate. They're close. I’m so close I can almost taste the air they breathe.
"Find the address," I command, my voice low and fierce. "I don't care what it costs. I’ll find a way to get you the money. Just don't lose the trail, please.”
"I’ll do my best. And I’ll pass the info to our man in New York.nBut be careful. If they find out what you’re looking for?—"
"They won't," I cut him off.
I end the call, my fingers trembling as I pop the battery out and shove the pieces back into my hidden pocket. I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away the scent of conspiracy. I need to look like the "perfect doll" again. I need to look like a woman who has accepted her fate.
I can do this. I can play the part. I’ve been acting since I was six years old. Mikhail is just another person in the audience.
I take a deep breath, unlock the door, and step out into the bedroom.
The room is dim, lit only by the city lights filtering through the massive windows. And there, leaning against the doorframe of the dressing room, is Mikhail.
He’s discarded his jacket and tie. His white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal the dark ink of the serpents on his forearms. He’s holding a glass of whiskey, the ice clinking softly as he watches me.
My heart stops. I don't know how long he’s been there. I don't know how much he heard over the roar of the water.
"Long shower?" he asks. His voice is a low, dangerous rumble that makes the fine hairs on my neck stand up.
Shit.
"I needed to wash the scent of you car off my skin," I say, my chin lifting. I walk toward the bed, trying to appear nonchalant, but my legs feel like they’re made of lead. "Checking your property for defects, Mikhail? Or did you just come in to watch me sleep?"
"I was wondering who you were talking to," he says.
He doesn't move, but the atmosphere in the room shifts instantly. The air becomes heavy, charged with a predatory intent that makes my skin tingle.
"I wasn't talking to anyone," I lie. "I was talking to myself. It’s a habit you develop when you're surrounded by people who treat you like furniture."
Mikhail sets his glass down on the dresser with a deliberate, slow motion. He starts toward me, his gait steady and confident. He doesn't look like a man who’s guessing. He looks like a man who’s already found the leak and is coming to plug it.
"The water was running, Irina. But not high enough to drown out the conversation." He stops a foot away, his presence overwhelming. "Who was on the phone?"
"You're hearing things," I snap. "Maybe the whiskey is finally getting to your brain. Or maybe you're just so paranoid you think every breath I take is a conspiracy."
"I’m rumoured to be a mad man, Irina, not a fool.
" He reaches out, his hand closing around my upper arm.
His grip is firm, possessive, and radiating that staggered heat that always makes my body betray me.
"I found you in Cancun because I know how you move.
I know how you think. And right now, you're thinking about a secret you’re desperate to keep. "
"Everyone has secrets, Mikhail. Even the perfect little Morozovs.
" I step into his space, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I can see the pulse jumping in his neck, the dark blue of his eyes turning into a midnight storm.
"What bothers you more? That I still have things you can't own, or that the call might have been to someone who actually knows how to treat a woman? "
Mikhail’s eyes darken. The air between us vanishes.
"A lover?" he asks, his voice dropping to a growl that settles deep in my belly. "Is that what you're suggesting? That you spent your six months of 'freedom' in the arms of some beach-bum in Mexico?"
"Maybe," I provoke him, a reckless, sassy spark lighting up my eyes.
I refuse to let him see the fear. I want him angry.
I want him distracted from the truth of the call.
"He was gentle, Mikhail. He didn't speak in threats.
He didn't look at me like a business contract.
He looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. "
I’m lying through my teeth, of course. The only man I spoke to in Cancun was Mateo, and he looked at me like I was a ticking time bomb but seeing the muscle jump in Mikhail’s jaw is worth the lie.
"Gentle," Mikhail repeats the word like it’s an insult.
Before I can even draw my next breath, he moves. He’s faster than any man his size has a right to be. His hand shifts from my arm to my waist, and with a single, brutal tug, he pins me down against the mattress.
I let out a sharp gasp as the world tilts.
He’s on top of me, his weight a crushing, intoxicating pressure that pins my hips to the bed.
His hands are on either side of my head, his face inches from mine.
The sexual tension is a physical weight, a high-voltage current that hums between our bodies, making my skin feel like it’s on fire.
"You think you’re being clever," he hisses, his eyes boring into mine. "You think you can use another man to keep me at bay? You think I’ll let another man touch what belongs to me and walk away?"
"I don't belong to you!" I shout, my hands coming up to push against his shoulders.
My fingers sink into the expensive silk of his shirt, feeling the rock-hard muscle beneath.
My body is screaming at me to fight him and screaming at me to pull him closer.
The conflict is making me dizzy. "I’m not a territory you can mark, Mikhail! "
"You are exactly that," he rumbles. He shifts, his knee sliding between my thighs, forcing them apart.
The intimacy of the gesture makes my breath hitch, a heavy, wet heat pooling between my legs.
"If there is another man, Irina—if he even so much as looked at you the way I’m looking at you now—he is a dead man walking.
I will hunt him down. I will take his life with my own hands, and I will make sure you watch while I do it. "
"You're a psycho," I whisper, my eyes fixed on his mouth.
He’s so close. If he leans down just an inch, he’ll be tasting the lie on my lips.
"I’m a man who protects his own," he corrects.
His hand leaves the bed to cup my jaw, his thumb dragging across my lower lip, forcing it down.
The touch is electric, a promise of violence and pleasure that makes my head swim.
"You want to talk about secrets? You want to talk about 'gentle' men? You haven't seen a second of what I’m capable of when someone tries to steal what’s mine. "
"You don't even like me," I provoke him, my voice trembling with a mixture of rage and a hunger I can't suppress. "You just hate that I won. You hate that I’m the only thing in this world you couldn't control."
"I don’t hate you, Irina." Mikhail leans in, his voice dropping to a rough, quiet level that makes the air in the room feel suddenly too thin.
He stays close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him.
"But don't confuse that for being done with you.
That guy you're holding onto? He isn't coming to save you. He can’t. You're here now. With me"
He pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes. The possessiveness in his gaze is terrifying. It’s total. It’s absolute. He looks at me like he wants to devour my soul and lock the pieces in a safe.
"Who was on the phone?" he asks again, the threat in his voice sharpened to a razor's edge.
"I told you. It was a lover," I lie, my chin lifting stubbornly. "He’s waiting for me, Mikhail. He’s coming for me."
Mikhail’s eyes flash. For a second, I think he might actually snap. The silence in the room is deafening, filled only with the sound of our synchronized, ragged breathing.
"Then he’ll die," Mikhail says simply.
He walks out of the bedroom, the door clicking shut behind him. I sink back against the pillows, my lungs finally drawing a full breath.
I’m shaking. My skin is still burning from where he touched me, and the heavy, wet heat between my thighs is a humiliating reminder of how much power he has over my body.
I hate him.
But as I reach into my pocket to make sure the burner phone is still there, I realize something.
He’s suspicious. He knows I’m hiding something. The "lover" lie worked for now, but Mikhail isn't a man who stops until he’s found the truth. I need to be faster. I need that address.
I look at the door.
He thinks he’s the one in control. He thinks he’s the one who’s winning.
I close my eyes, the scent of him still clinging to the sheets, still invading my senses. I think about the "ghost."
I’m coming for you, I think, my fingers curling into the silk pillowcase.
The night is long, and the city lights outside the window are a mocking reminder of the freedom I lost. But as I lie there in the dark, the heat of Mikhail’s presence still vibrating in the air, I realize one thing.
The cage isn't as small as I thought.