Chapter 14 Roman
Roman
The burn in my lungs is a welcome distraction from the ache in my cock that refuses to subside. I push harder, my feet pounding against the muddy grass. The cold air slices through my tee, but it does nothing to cool the fire Zoya ignited when she threw that water in my face.
The defiance in her eyes was intoxicating. The way her chest heaved with fury, the flush spreading down her throat—it took every ounce of control not to pin her against that wall and show her exactly what her rebellion does to me.
I round the corner near the west wing, my pace steady despite the uneven terrain, passing right by Zoya’s window. I wonder if she’s watching me. Probably not. But I’m not giving her the satisfaction of looking up to check. It will have to remain a mystery.
My phone buzzes against my upper arm, snug in the armband. The vibration cuts through my rhythm. I slow to a jog, then a walk, pulling out the device.
Baron. Again.
“What?” I answer, not bothering with pleasantries.
“Nik is moving faster than expected. The funeral is in four days.”
I stop walking entirely, rainwater from the overhanging branches dripping onto my shoulders. “In four days?”
“Money talks, Roman. Nik greased the right palms. The cremation is at noon; the service is at St. Nicholas Russian Orthodox. He’s announcing his succession immediately after.”
My jaw clenches. “That fucker. He is leaving nothing to chance.”
“He is running scared. News has spread of Zoya’s disappearance.”
“What are they saying?”
“That she flew the coop to sunnier climes.”
I snort. “Monaco? Dubai?”
“Either. Both. The point is, no one, least of all Nik, will expect her to show up on your arm.”
“Surely he has to know she won’t not go to her father’s funeral,” I say with a frown.
“Not if we put out there that she has been spotted on the other side of the world.”
“This is what Nik wants. He doesn’t want her there or to contest his succession. Fine. I will get Andrei to let it leak that she was spotted in L.A.”
“Good.” Baron’s approval carries through the static.
The line goes dead. I stare at the phone for a moment, wondering when the last time either one of us said goodbye before ending a phone call.
It’s something my younger brother Damien insists upon, and it amuses me.
He will call back just to end the call pleasantly.
Maybe that’s why Dad and I go out of our way to hang up on each other.
The small detour in my thoughts makes me smile, but then reality resurfaces.
Four days. The thought of Zoya standing beside me at her father’s funeral, watching Nik’s face when he realises she was with me the whole time, sends a dark satisfaction through me.
I dial Andrei.
“Sir?”
“Spread the word that Zoya Antonova was spotted arriving at LAX yesterday. Make sure it gets back to Nik.”
“Consider it done.”
I end the call and stride towards the house, mud caked on my trainers. I kick them off in the boot room. My staff aren’t here to keep up the illusion that messes don’t exist and that violence can be scrubbed away with bleach and silence.
I take the stairs two at a time, heading for my suite to shower. I should tell Zoya, let her prepare, but part of me wants to keep this from her until tomorrow. I control the narrative. I control what she learns and when.
I flick the hot water on and step back to strip off, throwing the phone armband on the counter.
I step under the scalding spray, letting it pound against my neck.
The heat does nothing to diminish the memory of water dripping from her fingertips as she glared at me with those furious brown eyes.
Christ. I press my forehead against the marble tiles, fighting the urge to march straight back to her room.
Keeping my hands to myself is more difficult than I thought. It’s challenging to pretend I don’t want to pin her against every available surface until she stops looking at me like I’m the enemy.
I am the enemy. But I’m also the only thing standing between her and a bullet in the back of her skull.
“Zoya,” I murmur and grip my cock as it stiffens with the thoughts of her. I tug gently, closing my eyes. I promised her I wouldn’t touch her, but it’s fucking killing me.
I stroke harder, imagining her beneath me, those defiant eyes going soft with need. The way she’d look spread across my sheets, dark hair fanned against the grey silk. The sounds she’d make when I finally break through that wall of hatred.
A low groan escapes as I pump harder, imagining her on her knees in front of me, her lips wrapped around my cock, taking me deep into that smart mouth until she chokes on my size. The image sends me over the edge, and I come hard against the tiles, my release washing away with the spray.
I brace myself against the wall, breathing heavily as the water continues to pound down on me.
The temporary relief does nothing to solve the real problem.
I want her. I need her. Every moment she spends in that room, looking at me like I’m the devil himself, only makes the craving worse.
But if I let her out now, she will run, and that is not an option.
I finish washing and step out, grabbing a towel to dry off roughly. My phone buzzes again from the counter. A text this time.
Package delivered to secondary location - P
The Albanian problem. Petr’s efficient as always. By now, the authorities should be crawling all over that warehouse, shutting down their operation before it can take root. Sometimes the law is a beautiful weapon when wielded correctly.
I dress quickly in casual clothes. I’m not going to see Zoya at dinner time.
She can have the pleasure of Andrei’s company, and see how she enjoys him making sure she eats.
I won’t go to her now until tomorrow lunchtime, when I will give her three days to prepare for her father’s funeral.
I will starve her of my presence, making her feel more alone and hopefully more grateful when I show up as her verbal punching bag.
I holster my weapon—habit, not necessity inside these walls—and stride out into the corridor. Andrei lurks near the staircase, scrolling on his phone. He snaps to attention as I approach.
“Tonight, you will take Miss Antonova her dinner. Keep conversation to a minimum. Ensure she eats, then leave. If she asks for me, tell her I’m busy.”
“Understood.”
I bypass the dining room and head straight for my office.
The isolation is a calculated cruelty. Zoya feeds on conflict; she uses her anger as a shield.
If I remove the target, she has nowhere to direct that fire except inward.
I am hoping it will backfire on her and she decides she prefers me around than absent.
It’s a small manipulation, but one that we both need, to see where we stand when the curtain drops.
Inside my office, the monitors glow with a spectral blue light.
I sit heavily in the leather chair and focus on the feed from Zoya’s suite.
She sits on the bed, holding the photo of her and her mother.
She looks like she is talking to it. With a control that even impressed me, I refused sound on the cams to afford her some privacy, but now I regret that choice.
She sways slightly, and I realise she is singing.
I study the movement of her lips. Soft. Rhythmic.
It looks like a lullaby, the kind mothers hum to feverish children.
Without the sound, the scene is haunting, a silent film of grief that twists a knife into my gut.
I want to go to her. I want to replace that cold silver frame with my own warmth, force her to sing for me instead of a ghost.
But I don’t.
I force my attention back to the Albanian file, though the words blur into meaningless shapes. The discipline I pride myself on is fraying at the edges.