Chapter 10
Maya
Turns out, following the rules could be pretty fun. Especially when the rules were set by the most handsome, desirable man on the planet.
The first rule arrived with breakfast at seven AM the day after we’d worked out the contract.
Scrambled eggs, toast with butter melting into the grain, sliced strawberries arranged with a precision that betrayed military training or obsession. Kostya set the tray on my desk without a word, then pulled up a chair and waited.
The eggs were perfectly scrambled—soft, buttery, still steaming on the plate Kostya set in front of me at exactly seven-thirty AM. My stomach clenched at the sight, that familiar resistance rising like bile.
“Eat,” he said.
Obey, I heard. I loved to hear it.
The fork felt heavy in my hand, but I lifted it anyway. Took a bite. Actually tasted it—salt and pepper and something herbal I couldn't identify. Chewed. Swallowed. My body remembered this ancient rhythm of nourishment I'd been denying for months.
"Good girl."
Two words, delivered in that low rumble while he leaned against the kitchen counter, coffee mug in hand, watching me eat like it was the most important thing happening in the compound. Heat bloomed in my chest, spread downward, made me press my thighs together under the table.
I took another bite to avoid examining that response too closely.
This was day one of my three-day trial, and already my body was testing me. Every time he made a decision for me, something inside unwound. And something at my core heated up, became damp for him, aroused by his commands.
How was I going to survive without feeling him inside me for three whole days?
When noon arrived and he appeared with lunch, I didn't even pretend to protest. Just closed the laptop and ate the sandwich he'd made, aware of his eyes tracking every bite.
"All of it, young lady," he said when I tried to leave the crusts.
I ate the crusts.
The relief was devastating. No internal debate about whether I deserved food, whether I'd earned it, whether I could afford the time away from the files. He decided I needed to eat, so I ate. Simple. Clean. Like breathing after holding my breath for six months.
By evening, my body had started anticipating him. Eight PM sharp, footsteps in the hallway, and my pulse jumped before my brain even registered the sound. The door opened and there he was, filling the frame with his presence, that particular look on his face that said the workday was over.
"Laptop closed."
My fingers moved without conscious thought, saving the file, shutting the screen. My body obeying before my mind could form objections.
"Dinner," he said, and I followed him like I was tethered by invisible thread.
The praise came in small doses, each one landing like a physical touch.
"That's my little bird," when I finished my plate without being reminded.
"Good job," when I went to bed at ten without arguing.
The words pooled low in my belly, warm and liquid, making me ache in ways that had nothing to do with food or rest.
Day two started with my body already trained. I woke at seven, showered, and was sitting at the kitchen table when Kostya arrived with breakfast at seven-thirty. The surprise on his face—quickly hidden but there for a moment—made something flutter in my chest.
"Someone's learning," he murmured, setting down scrambled eggs again, but with toast this time, cut into triangles like I was a child who needed manageable pieces.
I was beginning to think I was.
"I aim to please," I said, then immediately flushed at how that sounded.
His eyes darkened, just for a second, before returning to that controlled calm. "Time to eat."
I ate, hyperaware of his presence across the kitchen, the way his attention felt like hands on my skin. Every swallow seemed loud in the quiet morning, every movement of my mouth something he cataloged and approved.
The structure was settling into my bones now, becoming something my body expected. Lunch at noon. Coffee at three with a piece of fruit—"Blood sugar," he'd say, watching me eat the apple slices he'd cut. Dinner at six. Laptop closed at eight. Bed at ten.
My world had shrunk to these markers, these moments of intersection where he appeared and made decisions and I just . . . followed. It should have felt constraining. Instead, it felt like finally putting down luggage I'd been carrying so long I'd forgotten its weight.
The hardest part wasn't the obedience. It was how good it felt.
When he brought lunch on day two, I was already looking toward the door before he opened it. My body knew his schedule now, had internalized it, started craving the structure like a drug. He noticed—of course he noticed.
"Waiting for me?" he asked, setting down the plate.
"Just taking a break," I said.
"Liar." But he said it with warmth, almost affection, and the word made heat crawl up my neck.
I ate while he watched, and this time I was aware of my mouth in a way that had nothing to do with food. The way my lips closed around the fork. The way my throat moved when I swallowed. The way his eyes tracked every motion like he was memorizing it for later.
"You're adjusting well," he observed when I'd finished.
"The structure helps," I admitted, then immediately wanted to take it back. Too honest. Too revealing.
"I’m glad." He reached across the table, and for a heart-stopping moment I thought he might touch me.
Instead, he just collected my empty plate, fingers brushing mine in what couldn't have been an accident.
"You've been taking care of everyone else for so long, you forgot someone should take care of you. "
"Will you keep taking care of me?"
He paused at the sink, shoulders tensing slightly. When he turned back, something in his expression had shifted—still controlled, but with heat underneath.
"Of course," he said. "Until you're ready for what else I want to do."
My thighs clenched involuntarily, and I knew he saw it—the tiny shift, the way my breath caught. His smile was small but knowing.
"Not much longer," he reminded me. "Tomorrow night, if you keep being good."
The promise in those words followed me through the afternoon, making concentration impossible. Every time I tried to focus on the files, my mind drifted to tomorrow. To what "being good" would earn me. To the kiss he'd promised and whatever came after.
By dinner on day two, I was vibrating with anticipation. He noticed that too—the way my hands shook slightly when I reached for my water glass, the way I kept pressing my thighs together, the way I couldn't quite meet his eyes.
"Patience," he murmured, and the word felt like a command. And like his other commands, I wanted to obey.
"Hey,” he said, voice full of charm, “do you want to head to my room? To check in with the kittens?" My whole body went tight with memory.
His room. Where we'd kissed. Where I'd slept in his arms. Where everything had changed and I'd been trying to pretend it hadn't for two days of careful structure and measured distances.
"Okay," I managed, my voice only slightly strangled.
He led the way, and I followed on legs that felt disconnected from my body. The hallway stretched endless and too short at the same time. When he opened his door and gestured me inside, I had to force myself to cross the threshold.
The room smelled like him—gun oil and soap and something masculine that made my stomach clench. The bed was perfectly made, military corners, and I tried not to look at it. Tried not to remember how it had felt to wake up there, surrounded by his warmth.
"They're bigger," he said, moving toward the utility closet, and I realized I'd been standing frozen just inside the door.
I made myself move, follow him to the small room where the kittens lived.
The moment I saw them, something in my chest loosened.
Zmeya was attacking a toy mouse with murderous intent, his orange fur standing on end as he "killed" it over and over.
Malysh was watching from his corner, gray tail twitching with interest but too lazy to join the hunt.
Then Zmeya noticed my shoelaces.
The attack was immediate and vicious. Tiny claws latched onto the lace, needle teeth following, his whole body committed to destroying this string that had dared exist in his presence. A sound escaped me—not quite a laugh, but close.
"Fierce little thing," I said, kneeling to unhook him. He immediately attached himself to my finger instead, gnawing with milk teeth that couldn't really hurt.
"He's gotten angrier," Kostya said, lowering himself to sit on the floor beside me. "I think he's offended by the concept of things existing without his permission."
This time the laugh was real, surprising us both.
The sound felt foreign in my throat, rusty from disuse, but genuine.
Zmeya released my finger to attack my sleeve instead, and I was laughing harder, the absurdity of this tiny predator taking himself so seriously breaking through walls I hadn't realized I'd built.
Malysh chose that moment to investigate, padding over on uncertain legs.
He sniffed my knee, seemed to approve, and started the arduous process of climbing into my lap.
Every movement was calculated, careful, like he wasn't quite sure his body would cooperate.
When he finally made it, he collapsed in a heap and started purring so loud it sounded broken.
"Oh," I breathed, my hand automatically going to stroke his soft fur.
Kostya shifted beside me, and suddenly I was hyperaware of his proximity.
Our shoulders brushed when he reached over to scratch behind Malysh's ears.
His thigh pressed against mine as he adjusted his position.
The heat of his body radiated through the inches between us, making my skin prickle with awareness.