Chapter 16
Varvara
Iset my fork down and stare at the half-eaten plate of food in front of me. My stomach churns, the anger draining out as quickly as it came, leaving nothing but exhaustion behind.
“Sorry,” I say. “You didn’t need to hear all that.”
“Don’t apologise for being honest.”
I glance up at him. He’s still leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, watching me with an intensity that unsettles me. Not judgement. Something else. Something I don’t know what to do with.
“You wanted to know if my mother cooked,” I say, picking up my fork again. “Now you know.”
“I wanted to know why you reacted to Pyotr’s food the way you did.”
“Because it’s good food.” I shove a piece of lamb in my mouth to avoid saying anything else.
He doesn’t press. That surprises me more than it should. Instead, he just watches me eat, and somehow that’s worse than if he’d kept asking questions.
I finish the meal in silence, every bite feeling heavier under his stare. When I’m done, I set the cutlery down and lean back on the chair, wiping my mouth with the napkin. I take a sip of the water from the bottle and glare at him. “Got anything stronger?”
He snorts. “Vodka?”
I shake my head. “White wine?”
“Bit early, isn’t it?”
“Who cares? I don’t even know what time it is.”
“Lunchtime,” he smirks.
“Boozy lunch then.”
“Are you sure you want to compromise your clear head?”
He asks a genuinely damn good question. But I’m done caring. The worst thing has already happened to me. If he wanted to rape me and kill me, he’d probably have tried by now.
And he hasn’t.
Does that mean I can trust him? No, it fucking doesn’t.
But it does mean I can have a glass of wine or two and not give a shit about getting up for work later.
“Me getting a bit tipsy isn’t going to change anything. You could’ve… forced me earlier… you didn’t.” I avoid his intense gaze.
“Force you?” His look of disdain is reassuring even though it shouldn’t be. “I don’t force women to have sex, Varvara. If I wanted a fuck and weren’t willing to wait for you, I’d go find someone who looks like you.”
I gulp. “I don’t want to acknowledge what you just said.”
“Don’t then. Just know that I won’t force you to fuck me. That’s not how this goes down, Varvara. When you do give yourself to me, you will want it so badly you will be begging for my cock.”
“Lev—”
“Try to deny it. That is what will happen. Taking you by force or drunk is not on my to-do list, so drink a glass of wine if that’s what you want. Drink two. The whole bottle, I don’t give a shit. I’ll be here to hold your hair when you throw up with the hangover from hell.”
“Please don’t,” I whisper. “This kind act is disturbing.”
I don’t know what I’m expecting, but it isn’t the look that crosses his face. Something raw and unguarded that disappears so fast I almost think I imagined it.
“It’s not an act,” he says quietly.
I don’t want to believe him. Believing him makes this worse. Makes him harder to hate.
My hands are shaking again. I press them flat against my thighs and force myself to breathe evenly.
“I’ll get you that wine,” he says, heading for the door.
I watch him leave, the door clicking shut behind him. The lock doesn’t engage immediately this time. I stare at it for a beat, wondering if that’s a test or if he genuinely trusts I won’t bolt the second his back is turned. But then I hear it click into place. He hesitated.
I don’t move until I hear the lock again. The door opens, and he’s back with a bottle of white wine already opened and a crystal glass. He pours generously and hands it to me.
I take it and drink half of it in one go.
His eyebrow lifts. “Thirsty?”
“Got nothing to do with thirst.”
I drain the rest of the glass and hold it out for a refill.
He obliges without comment, pouring another generous measure.
I take a slower sip this time, letting the cold wine settle in my stomach.
It’s good. Really good. The kind of wine I’d never buy for myself because I’d feel guilty spending that much on something I’d drink in one sitting.
“You can go now.”
“Don’t you want to know what I found out?”
I take a long sip of wine. “Do I want to know?”
His expression shifts, and my blood runs cold before he even opens his mouth.
“Probably not,” he admits. “But you should anyway.”
I take another drink. The wine is making my head feel lighter, which is both a relief and a terrible idea. “Go on then. Tell me how fucked I am.”
He moves closer, pulling the other chair around so he’s sitting across from me instead of looming over me like some kind of avenging angel.
It’s surprisingly considerate, which just pisses me off more because I don’t want him to be considerate.
I want him to be the monster so I can hate him properly.
“The man who made the drop fucked up. The handler he was meant to give it to looks like you. Dark hair, petite, similar build. Somehow, he saw you, thought you were her and handed it to the wrong woman.”
I blink at him. “You’re joking. Mistaken identity? Really?”
“Unfortunately.”
“So, this entire nightmare is because some idiot can’t tell two brunettes apart?”
“Essentially, yes.”
I snort. Hard. The wine burns my nostrils as I take another sip. “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard.”
His lips curve up slowly. “Agreed.”
“So where does that leave me? The actual handler knows I got the drive and that you’re protecting me. What happens now?”
Lev leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Now they’re trying to work out how much you know and whether you’re worth the risk of coming after.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“They don’t know that.”
The wine is doing its job, dulling the sharp edges of panic that keep trying to claw their way up my throat. “You said someone came to my flat.”
“Alexey Smirnov. Low-level enforcer. No loyalty, no brain. He was there to test the waters, see who’d show up to defend you.”
“And you showed up.”
“I did.”
I drain the rest of my glass and hold it out again. He refills it with only a slight hesitation.
“I still don’t know what this means. Am I safe? If they know you are protecting me, surely, they know you have the drive now.”
“I destroyed it, but they don’t know who you are. I doubt very much that the guy who did the drop admitted his fuck up. He is lying low, probably left the country already.”
I roll my eyes. “Wonderful. A cowardly mafia arsehole. Who’d have thought?”
“Many people. Just because men are thugs doesn’t mean they are real men.”
“You differentiate between thugs and mafia like they aren’t the same thing.”
I take another sip of wine, watching him over the rim of my glass. He’s studying me with that same intensity that makes me want to squirm and lean closer.
“They aren’t the same thing,” he says finally. “Thugs are men who use violence because they have nothing else. No code, no loyalty, no purpose beyond their next pay cheque. They’re interchangeable. Disposable.”
“And mafia?”
“The Bratva has structure. Rules. Loyalty that runs deeper than money. We protect our own. We honour our vows.” His gaze holds mine. “Thugs like Smirnov and this other prick work for whoever pays them. They have no honour, no family, nothing worth dying for.”
“You’re romanticising organised crime.”
“I’m explaining the difference.”
“It’s still violence.”
“Yes.” He doesn’t deny it, which somehow makes it worse. Or better. I can’t tell anymore. “But violence with purpose. Violence to protect what’s ours.”
“And I’m yours now.” I hear the words as I say them. Not a question. A statement. Because that’s what he keeps telling me, and somewhere between the wine and the exhaustion and the absolute insanity of the last twenty-four hours, I’ve stopped fighting the reality of it.
His eyes darken. “Yes.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
“You didn’t have to.” He shifts forward slightly, and my gaze drops to the ink showing on his chest. “You’re in my house, in my bedroom, eating food I provided. Under my protection. Breathing because I decided you would. Tell me, Varvara, how is that not ownership?”
My fingers tighten around the glass. “Because ownership implies consent.”
“And you think you haven’t given it?”
“I haven’t.”
“You didn’t say no.”
“That does not in any way mean yes.”
He reaches up and cups my face, his thumb brushes over my bottom lip.
The sensation goes straight to my clit. Every nerve ending lights up where his skin touches mine.
My brain is screaming at me to pull away, to slap his hand off, to do anything except sit here letting him touch me like he has every right.
But I don’t move.
His thumb traces my bottom lip again, slower this time, and I gasp.
“You’re still not saying no,” he murmurs. He leans closer, and I can smell his cologne again, that clean, expensive scent that shouldn’t affect me but does.
I lick my lips. “You’re twisting everything.”
“I’m stating facts.” His thumb moves to my jaw, tilting my face up slightly. “Your body knows what it wants. Your mind is fighting it.”
“My mind is the smart part.”
“Is it?” His voice drops lower, rougher. “Or are you just scared of what happens when you stop fighting?”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. His thumb is still on my jaw, warm and firm, and I’m acutely aware of how close he is. How easy it would be to close that last bit of distance. How badly part of me wants to.
“I’m not scared,” I lie.
His lips curve into a smile that’s dangerous and devastating. “Liar.”
The word hangs between us, a challenge and an acknowledgement. The wine has made everything feel softer around the edges, less sharp, less frightening. Or maybe that’s just him.
The smart thing would be to pull away. The rational thing. The thing any woman with half a brain and a functioning sense of self-preservation would do. My hands know this. My mouth knows this. Every reasonable part of me has decided and is waiting for the rest of me to catch up.
But I don’t.
Instead, I lean forward slightly, testing. His eyes flare, that cool blue turning molten. His control fractures just a little bit more.
“What are you doing, Varvara?” His voice is strained. I set my wine glass down on the table with more force than necessary, the crystal clinking sharply against the wood. My hand is shaking. He sees it and grips it tightly.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit, and the honesty of it makes my chest ache.
His thumb moves from my jaw to the cut on my neck, tracing it so gently I barely feel it. But I do feel it. Everywhere.
“You’re making a choice,” he says quietly.
“A stupid one.”
“Maybe.” His hand drops away, and I immediately miss the warmth of it. “But it’s yours to make.”
I stare at him for a beat, trying to work out what game he’s playing. Because men like him always play games. They have to. It’s how they survive in a world that would eat them alive otherwise.
But his expression is open, honest. Raw.
Before I even realise what I’m doing, I crawl into his lap.
He leans back, creating a distance I don’t want. My hands go to his chest, resting lightly. His blue eyes are fixed on mine. “Are you drunk?”
“Nowhere near enough.”
He takes that in, his gaze dropping to my lips. “Then fuck it. You don’t get another chance to back out.”
His hand cups the back of my neck and drags me towards him, crashing my lips into his.
My brain short-circuits the second his lips touch mine, and everything else disappears. There’s only heat and pressure and a possessiveness in his kiss that sends goosebumps skittering over my skin.
His hand tightens on the back of my neck, holding me exactly where he wants me, and I make a sound that is needy and desperate, and that I should be mortified about, except I can’t think past how his mouth moves against mine.
I grip his shirt, bunching the fabric in my fists, and kiss him back harder. If I’m doing this—if I’m making this catastrophically stupid decision—then I’m doing it properly. No half measures. No pretending I don’t want this. No backing out.
He groans against my mouth, and the sound goes straight to my pussy. His other hand finds my hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and he pulls me closer until I’m straddling him properly, grinding over his rock-hard cock.
Recklessly, my fingers move to the buttons on his shirt, and I undo them. One by one. Slowly. Excruciatingly. I pull back from the kiss, wanting to see him, feel him.
The fabric parts, revealing more of the ink covering his chest, all intricate patterns that tell stories I don’t understand yet. He’s hard muscle and dangerous beauty, and I want to put my mouth on every inch of him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands flexing on my hips. “You’re killing me.”
I lean forward and press my lips to his collarbone. He groans, pushing my arse further onto him. It makes me feel powerful.
His hands move to my back, sliding under my t-shirt. His palms are warm against my skin as I arch into the touch.
I kiss along his jaw, testing, exploring.
His fingers find the clasp of my bra, and he undoes it with one hand. Sitting straighter, I grab the hem of my tee and pull it over my head, taking the loosened bra with it.
Lev’s eyes darken as he takes in my tits. He cups them, pushing them together before he sucks a nipple into his mouth.
“Fuck,” I moan, sliding my hand into his hair. “Harder,” I moan as his teeth graze me.
My fingers tighten in his hair while he switches sides and gives the other nipple the same treatment. I grind down harder against his cock, chasing the friction that makes my head spin.
The wine buzz swirls with everything else until my thoughts blur into one hot mess of want. He pulls back just enough to yank his shirt the rest of the way off. I run my hands over his chest, feeling the muscle flex under my palms. My hands drop, and I undo the button on his pants.
His hands clamp around my wrists, and I stop, panting, ready to beg him to keep going.