Chapter 14
Varvara
That sounds awfully like an accusation.
It did. It was. I don’t know where it came from. Did I honestly expect him to kill anyone who came looking for me? Did I?
Apparently.
“God,” I say. “Who am I?”
I lean against the bathroom door and stare at the suitcase on the floor. My suitcase. The one I keep under my bed.
He went to my flat, broke in, packed my things and then stabbed someone in the hallway.
The absolute worst part is that when he said he let the man walk, I felt disappointed.
I am disappointed.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I crouch down and unzip the case, rummaging through the contents. He remembered everything down to my tampons.
“Jerk,” I say as I shove the box aside. Again, he is proving to be thoughtful and kind when in reality he is a killer. A mafia killer.
I root through more of the case and find my jeans, underwear, and a bra. I pull them out along with a clean t-shirt and get changed quickly. Stripping off his shirt, I fold it neatly and leave it on the counter.
The bra feels restrictive after being free of it, but I fasten it anyway because I’m not giving him a reason to stare at my tits, and yank on the jeans. They’re familiar. Safe. Mine.
I check the cut on my neck in the mirror. It’s a thin red line that says exactly what happened. I touch it gently, then drop my hand.
I need to get my head on straight. I need to stop reacting to everything he does like it’s normal. Like any of this is normal.
But the problem is that somewhere between the pepper spray in the park and waking up in his bed this morning, my brain has started categorising him as safety instead of threat.
And yet when he told me he’d kill anyone who hurt me, a part of me believed him, and wanted him to. I wanted him to find out who that man was who attacked me on my way home from work two years ago and drive a knife through his heart.
I gulp and practically feel the flames of hell lapping at my heels.
After splashing cold water on my face, I dry it with one of his expensive towels. When I open the bathroom door, he’s standing by the window with his back to me, phone pressed to his ear. He’s speaking Russian, low and clipped.
He ends the call when he hears me and turns. His eyes track over me, taking in the jeans, the t-shirt, the fact that I’m no longer wearing his clothes.
“Better?” he asks.
“I’m dressed and not dead.”
“Is that a thank you?” he asks, the smirk too sexy for this situation.
“In your dreams,” I say and then regret those words as his gaze darkens.
“In my dreams, you’re sucking my cock with that smart mouth,” he murmurs, moving closer.
“You’re sick,” I say, backing away and hitting the wardrobe.
His gaze drops to my mouth. “You brought up dreams, moya sladkaya. I’m just telling you what’s in mine. The only thanks I hear is you screaming it after I’ve made you come so hard, I’ve ruined you for any other man.”
My heart slams against my ribs. Every pulse point throbs, where I absolutely should not be feeling anything right now.
“You wish,” I say.
He stops a foot from me and leans one hand against the wardrobe beside my head. Not touching me. Just caging me in. “I do. The question is, Varvara, are you going to make those dreams come true?”
My breath comes faster. His cologne—something expensive and clean—cuts through the air between us. My body has apparently decided to completely abandon the part of my brain that is screaming at me to knee him in the balls and make a run for it.
“Move,” I demand.
“No.”
“Lev—”
“Say my name again.”
I stop. His eyes are locked on mine, blue and intense and absolutely focused. Like I’m the only thing in the world that matters right now.
“What?” I whisper.
His other hand comes up to rest against the wardrobe. “Say my name.”
I don’t know why I do it. Maybe because some broken part of me wants to see what happens when I give him what he’s asking for.
“Lev,” I breathe out.
He clenches his teeth. He swallows hard. Neither of us moves.
“Again,” he says, voice dropping lower.
“No.”
“You’re lying to yourself if you think you don’t want this.”
“I don’t want this,” I insist, but my voice wavers, betraying me.
His eyes search mine. “Your mouth says no, but your eyes, your body are telling me something else entirely. Remember, I can read you like a book, moya sladkaya.”
My face burns. “You’re delusional.”
He shifts closer, still not touching me, but close enough that I can hear him breathe. “Your pulse is racing. Your breathing is uneven. Your pupils are dilated. You can lie to me all you want, Varvara, but your body can’t.”
“That’s fear,” I say.
“Is it?”
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out, because it isn’t fear. Not entirely. And we both know it.
His eyes drop to my mouth again, and I feel that look like a physical touch. My stomach churns. My clit twitches, and I try to think of anything that will make it stop.
“This is wrong,” I whisper.
“Most things worth doing are.”
His breath ghosts across my lips.
My face is tilted up towards his.
“You could’ve stayed in that corner all day. You chose to come out. You chose to stand here and let me get this close.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did.” His voice is rough now, strained. “You’re still doing it. So tell me, Varvara. What do you want?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because if I’m honest with myself, I don’t know anymore.
My hands are shaking. I press them flat against the wardrobe behind me to hide it.
He notices anyway.
“I’m not going to touch you unless you tell me to,” he says.
Somehow, that makes everything worse.
“But I’m also not going to pretend I don’t want to.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. My heart is hammering so violently, I’m certain he can hear it. “You’re my captor.”
“I’m your protector.”
“Same thing.”
“Not remotely the same thing.” His eyes burn into mine. “One takes. The other gives. I’m giving you a choice right now, Varvara. Tell me to back off, and I will.”
Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to tell him to get the fuck away from me and never come this close again.
But the words won’t come.
Instead, I’m standing here, pressed against his wardrobe, breathing too fast, feeling the heat radiating off his body, and I can’t make myself say it.
“See?” he murmurs. “You can’t even tell me no.”
“That doesn’t mean yes.”
“I know.” His gaze drops to my mouth again. “But when you’re ready to say yes, I’ll be right here.”
He pushes off the wardrobe and steps back, giving me space I didn’t ask for and desperately need.
I drag in a breath that feels like it burns all the way down. He moves to the door, unlocks it, and glances back at me. “Pyotr will bring lunch up in an hour. I have work to do.”
Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him. The lock engages a second later. I stay pressed against the wardrobe for longer than I should, trying to get my breathing under control and failing spectacularly.
What the hell just happened?
I push off the wardrobe and pace to the window, then back again. My hands are still shaking. My pulse is still racing, and there is still a heat in my pussy that I haven’t felt in a long time. A really long time.
“Damn him.”
He’s a criminal. A killer. The man who held a knife to my throat and was going to kill me. The man who brought me a pillow and blanket when I was having a panic attack, and who went to my flat and packed my things. The man who stabbed a man in my hallway.
This is bad. This is so much worse than being locked in a room. Because now I know what it feels like to have him that close, to feel the heat of his body, to hear that voice drop low and rough with want.
And I know that some dark, twisted part of me liked it.