Chapter 15
“Here you are, Madam.” A server arrives with my afternoon tea tray, including my favorite guilty pleasure accoutrements of petit fours.
“Thank you, you may leave it on my desk.”
Tea is exactly what I need on a lazy Sunday.
The past week has been filled with just as many strenuous meetings and tasks, but somehow it all seems manageable now.
Thatcher’s help in winning over Ivan’s men is an enormous weight off my shoulders.
I have Misha of course, and plenty of my own men from Thunder Bay, but they’re looked at as an extension of myself.
Our lonely hockey player really does have a talent for making friends.
Not a single person on the compound doesn’t smile when they see him.
And how could they not, when he lights up every room he walks into?
I’ve come across plenty of pretty boys like him, born with a silver spoon in their mouth, never having to work for anything.
They all possess a certain charm, but it’s skin deep.
This is different. Thatcher genuinely cares about the people he interacts with, and it shows.
It’s almost endearing to watch. Almost. And luckily for me, it’s precisely the skill set I need to help break the ice with the men here.
When he told me that he becomes reckless without a purpose, I knew exactly what to do.
Luckily for him, one of my skills is placing people in roles they’re best suited for.
Of course, in the Bratva, it often has more to do with combat proficiency than with personality.
All I asked of him was to help me build rapport with the New York team.
Simply drop a compliment here and there to help them trust me.
Well, that, and I also asked him to keep an ear out for anyone plotting against me.
It’s been an immense relief to hear his reports that there aren’t any whispers of mutiny.
At least I can rest easier knowing that the minute Ivan officially leaves, his men won’t try to kill me in my sleep.
Of course, I still have all the misogynistic assholes breathing down my neck, fighting over whose son would make the best husband.
The men who would rather watch it all burn down than see a woman seated on the New York throne.
That threat alone makes it so much more important to have my men’s loyalty.
I always wait five minutes for my tea to steep before pouring a cup, but I’m restless today. For someone who’s been wishing for an off day, I don’t know how to relax. Three minutes will have to do. It’s a berry blend today, so I skip cream and opt for one cube of brown sugar.
Confirming it’s at least drinkable, if weak, I grab my cup and make my way down the hall.
I gave almost everyone the day off, so it’s particularly calm around here.
A quiet house is usually my preference, but with everything going on, the peace only magnifies the commotion in my mind.
Alcohol helps dim it, but I’ve been drinking way too much lately.
The next best thing is sex. Nope, not ready to go there yet. Which leaves option three, training.
I shoot Misha a text to meet me in the sparring room in an hour and continue my walk around the house. Of course, I’ve barely taken ten steps when I catch sight of a blond stud outside, skimming the pool.
Fuck, he’s pretty.
But he shouldn’t be cleaning the goddamn pool. We pay people to do that.
I’m about to open the door and yell for him to stop, but I decide to take in the view for a moment longer.
He’s sporting a pair of gray sweatpants that ride low on his hips, showing off his impressive Adonis belt.
His golden skin glistens in the sunlight as beads of sweat drip down his eight-pack.
I’ve trained with a lot of very fit men, and I’ve seen and felt plenty of muscular physiques, but none of them have had this effect on me.
They were just bodies, just flesh. They didn’t pique my interest sexually, much less give me fucking butterflies like a goddamn schoolgirl.
You’ve got to get a grip, Mila.
Finally looking my fill, I open the sliding door and call out to him several times. He never looks up.
I’m halfway to the pool when I realize how stupid I look with my heels and my tea walking through the yard to catcall a boy fifteen years my junior. And of course, he takes the exact moment I’m about to turn around to finally acknowledge me.
“Hey, what are you doing out here? Do you need something?” He wipes his hand across his brow, and I’m close enough to see the beads of sweat fall, sending currents of arousal straight to my core.
“No. Well, yes, actually. What in the world are you doing cleaning the pool?”
“Some of the guys were out here cleaning it and were erm…kinda grumbling about it and—”
Oh, that’s right. I assigned some of the groundkeeping chores to ten men who finished the physical assessment in last place. “Who was complaining? I’ll—”
“It doesn’t matter who it was, remember? We’re trying to win them over, and if I rat them out and they stop trusting me, we don’t stand a chance.”
We…
As if we’re a team running this Bratva together.
Anyone else, aside from Misha, who said that would get kicked off the property before they could finish their sentence.
I alone hold the power here, and any man who might insinuate otherwise could only be a threat…
except Thatcher. When he says “we,” it doesn’t feel threatening at all.
It feels like true camaraderie. Similar to Misha but very different at the same time.
“Okay, you’re right. Go on.”
“Well, some of the guys were complaining, uh, about you. So I, um…I told them that you sent me out here to clean the pool instead. That you saw how much hard work they were putting in and wanted them to have a day to relax and—”
“Thank you. I appreciate that more than you know.”
He flashes his goofy little smile and winks. “Anytime, ba—”
“That’s enough.” I roll my eyes, but can’t help returning his smile. “You know you don’t have to finish this, right? I’ll get our pool guy to do it when he comes next week.”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind at all.”
“If you’re sure…”
“I’m sure.” He looks at me with a lazy smile, then hangs his head. “It’s not like I have anything else to do.”
“Very well.”
When I turn to leave, a hand catches mine. “Will I see you later?”
I stand frozen for a moment. Part of me wants to slap the shit out of him for touching me without permission.
It’s not something I’m used to. All the men know not to lay a finger on me unless prompted, but he wouldn’t know any better.
The other half of me wants to lay him down on one of the pool chairs and ride that insane cock I’ve been dreaming about for a week.
Instead, I just look over my shoulder and smile.
“Yes, you’ll see me later.”
As I make my way back inside, the thought crosses my mind that maybe this could work.
Thatcher is a loyal friend, or Teddy wouldn’t be so fond of him, and Misha seems to like him as well.
He’s been extremely helpful to me this week.
Then there’s the fact that he submits so beautifully.
And fuck, is he gorgeous. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to let him alleviate some of my sexual frustration after all.
If he’s actually up to the task.