3. Emilia
EMILIA
The living room smells of leather and old money, the kind that clings to the walls like smoke. Egor sits on the couch, his pewter eyes tracking me as I step inside, my fingers twisting the hem of my apron.
"Pakhan." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I need to restock the pantry. And there are no more eggs."
He doesn't move. Just watches me, his gaze heavy, unreadable. "Tell my men what you need."
"I have to see the ingredients myself." I lift my chin. "I need to go to the store."
A muscle ticks in his jaw. "No."
I exhale through my nose, forcing my voice steady. "I'll be quick."
His gaze rakes over me, slow and deliberate. "Fine."
The door clicks shut behind me, and for the first time in days, I finally get some fresh air. My lungs expand, greedy, as I step onto the sidewalk, the late afternoon sun warm on my skin.
A black SUV idles at the curb. I don't look back, but I feel them. The weight of eyes on my back, the hum of an engine following at a distance.
Of course he sent his men to watch me, like I'm some kind of threat. Like I didn't spend the last three days chopping, stirring, sweating over his stove while he watched me with that same cold stare, waiting for me to slip.
The market on the corner is a riot of color and noise… bright awnings, the sharp tang of fish, the rhythmic thud of cleavers on butcher blocks. My fingers tighten around the woven basket, knuckles aching.
I move quickly, grabbing a bundle of fresh dill, a handful of ripe tomatoes, the firmest eggplants I can find.
The vendor from before spots me. "So you're still here."
"Yes… unfortunately."
An old woman behind the cheese stall leans over. "Who is she?"
"She's the one cooking for Pakhan now."
She smiles and approaches me at the cheese stall, pressing an extra wedge of brined feta into my palm, her gnarled fingers brushing mine. "For the Pakhan's chef," she murmurs.
I then duck into the butcher's stall, the metallic tang of blood and sawdust thick in the air. The man behind the counter, thick arms corded with muscle, a cigarette dangling from his lip, nods at me. "What'll it be?"
"Chicken," I say, keeping my voice steady. "Breasts. Skin-on."
He reaches for a knife, the blade glinting under the flickering fluorescent lights. "Heard you're Pakhan's new chef, yeah?" His tone isn't unkind, just curious. "He's a hard man, but fair. You do right by him, he'll do right by you."
Fair.
I think of the way his fingers had dug into my wrist the other morning, the way his voice had dropped to a growl when I'd dared to argue. The way he'd watched me with those pewter eyes, cold and calculating, like I was a puzzle he was determined to solve.
The butcher wraps the meat in brown paper, the crinkle of it loud in the sudden silence. "Is that all?"
I nod. He slides the package across the counter, his calloused hand lingering just a second too long. "Added extra for the Pakhan," he says, voice low.
Again?
Do the people here like him?
"Is he some kind of savior or what?" I finally ask.
"Well, he keeps his own safe. Things around here are better now because of him."
I want to ask if he's so protective of his own, why does he treat me like I'm the enemy?
But the words die on my tongue as a shadow falls over the stall.
I don't turn around. I don't have to.
His presence is a weight, pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe. The air between us crackles, charged with something I can't name.
The butcher's expression shifts, his jaw tightening. "Pakhan," he murmurs, straightening.
"You done?" His voice is a low rumble, closer than I expected.
I swallow, my fingers tightening around the paper-wrapped chicken. "Yes."
A beat of silence. "Then let's go."
The plate clatters against the table as I set it down in front of him, my fingers trembling just enough to betray me.
His fork hovers over the seared chicken, the tines glinting under the kitchen lights. A slow exhale escapes him, like he's already disappointed.
"What is it?"
"Sit."
"Why? Just tell me?—"
His hand shoots out, gripping my wrist—not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough to make my pulse spike. He tugs, and I stumble forward, my hip knocking against the edge of the table. The scent of rosemary and garlic clings to the air, thick and suffocating.
"Taste it."
My stomach twists. "I already?—"
"Taste. It."
I swallow, my throat dry. The fork is cold against my lips as I take a bite, the flavors bursting, juicy, tender, perfectly seasoned. I force myself to meet his gaze. "It's good."
His eyes narrow. "You sure?"
I nod, but he's already shaking his head, pushing the plate toward me. "Make another batch."
The chicken turns to ash in my mouth.
Without a word, I head back to the cooking area. The knife hits the cutting board with more force than necessary, the blade biting into the wood. My jaw aches from clenching it so tight.
The chicken sizzles as it hits the pan, the sound sharp, angry. My fingers tighten around the spatula, knuckles whitening. The scent of garlic and thyme fills the air, but it does nothing to soothe the burn in my chest.
I bet he's doing this on purpose.
I flip the chicken, the skin crisping under the heat. The kitchen is too quiet, save for the hiss of the stove.
I exhale through my nose, forcing my grip to loosen. The job pays too well to walk away.
So I suck it up.
The chicken goes onto the plate, golden and glistening. I set it in front of him, my voice steady despite the storm inside me.
"Here."
"Still not right."
My jaw tightens. "What's not right?"
"There's just something off."
The words slither under my skin, hot and prickling. I want to snap back, to tell him where he can shove his perfection, but my bank account is a graveyard of unpaid bills. So I bite down on the inside of my cheek.
He stands up, and his shoes scuff against the tile as he steps closer, the heat of him pressing against my back like a brand. ."
"Fine." I swallow. "I'll do it again."
I can feel his gaze like a physical weight, burning into my back as I grab another breast from the fridge. The plastic wrap crinkles in my grip, the sound too loud in the silence. My hands are steady now, but my mind is a storm, rage, humiliation.
The knife glides through the meat, precise and controlled. I refuse to let him see me shake. The oil hisses as it hits the pan, the scent of garlic and thyme rising in a fragrant cloud.
"Stupid chicken," I mumble.
"You said something?"
I don't turn. "Just focusing."
His chuckle is dark, amused. "Good. Because if this isn't perfect, I'll have you start over. And over. Until it is."
The threat hangs in the air, thick and suffocating. I want to throw the knife at him. I want to scream. But I don't.
Because I need this job.
So I cook.
Again.
And again.
The plate clinks against the table, the last of the chicken finally deemed acceptable. My fingers curl around the edge of the sink, knuckles bone-white.
"Satisfied?"
His silence stretches, thick and suffocating. Then his fork scrapes against the plate, slow, deliberate. A low hum vibrates in his throat, the sound sending a shiver down my spine.
"No. I'm thirsty."
I exhale through my nose, forcing my voice steady. "What would you like?"
"Milk."
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. My nipples tighten painfully beneath my shirt, the fabric suddenly too thin, too there.
The ache in my chest has been there for days, dull, insistent, like a bruise I can't stop pressing. But between the endless chopping, the searing heat of the stove, and his relentless demands, I'd almost forgotten.
Now, the weight of his gaze drags my attention back to the tightness, the way my breasts swell against the confines of my bra. A single bead of milk escapes, tracing a slow path down my skin. My breath hitches.
Not now.
But my body doesn't listen.
His eyes darken. "You're probably full again. Want some help with that?"
I shake my head, but the denial is weak, pathetic. "No."
His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands, the sound like nails on glass. He rounds the table in two strides, his shadow swallowing me whole. His fingers brush my collarbone, tracing the damp trail left by my milk, and I flinch.
"You're hurting," he murmurs, voice rough. "Let me take the pain away."
I should say no. I should.
But the ache is a living thing, coiling tight in my chest.
I nod, and immediately, his hands are on the hem of my shirt lifting it over my head in one swift motion. The cool air hits my skin, and I gasp as another bead of milk escapes, rolling down my stomach. His gaze flicks to the wet trail, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.
"Fuck," he growls.
The bra is next. The clasp gives way with a snap, and then I'm bare, my breasts heavy and full, the nipples tight and aching.
He doesn't hesitate. His mouth latches onto one, sucking deep, and I cry out, my back arching off the table.
The pull is electric, shooting straight to my core, and I whimper as his tongue swirls around my areola, lapping up every drop.
"Pakhan."
"Call me Egor." His free hand slides between my thighs, fingers pressing against the damp fabric of my shorts. "You're soaked down here as well, karamelka," he murmurs against my skin.
I should stop him. I should.
But then his thumb finds my clit, circling slow and deliberate, and my hips jerk, a broken sound tearing from my throat. His fingers slide lower, teasing my entrance through the fabric, and I whine, my nails digging into the table.
"Please…"
"Please what?" His teeth graze my nipple, and I gasp. "You want me to stop?"
No.
The word is a scream in my head, but my lips won't form it. Instead, I shake my head, my breath coming in short, sharp pants.
His chuckle is dark, satisfied. "That's what I thought."
The shorts and underwear are gone in a flash, torn away with a roughness that makes me whimper.
He lifts me, setting me down on the table as he sits down.
The table is cold beneath my bare ass, but his mouth is hot as it descends between my thighs, his tongue dragging through my folds with a slow, torturous precision.
"Oh god."
His fingers thrust inside me, curling just right, and I see stars. My back arches off the table, my thighs trembling as he works me over, his mouth and fingers in perfect, merciless sync. The pleasure is too much, too intense, and I can feel it building, coiling tight in my belly.
"Come for me," he growls against my clit, his voice rough. "Now."
And I do.
The orgasm hits like a freight train, my vision whiting out as I scream, my body shuddering beneath him. He doesn't stop, doesn't let up, his tongue and fingers drawing out every last wave of pleasure until I'm a trembling, boneless mess.
Wait?
Did he just…?
No.
This can't be happening.
My feet slap against the hardwood as I bolt from the kitchen, my breath ragged, my body still humming from his touch. The hallway stretches endlessly, but I don't stop, don't look back.
I don't want to look back.
Because if I do, I might let him do it all over again.