Chapter 11
NALA
“You’re awake.”
My heart slows the instant I realize it’s Roman stepping through the door. He stops when he sees me on the living room couch, his eyes widening before his expression smooths back into place.
"I couldn't sleep.” I hop off the couch, taking a step toward him. "I needed to know nothing bad happened."
His features soften then harden again like it never happened. "So you know to call Lev?"
"That’s not funny. You know why.”
He watches me for a few seconds, brows narrowed. He opens his mouth as if to say something but closes it quickly. He shrugs off his jacket and unhooks his gun.
"Nothing happened while I was gone?"
"No. At least not that I know of. I can’t see anything through those blinds."
He moves into the kitchen, opens a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of brown liquid and a glass. He pours it and drinks it down in one go.
I know it’s alcohol even though I’ve never seen him drink before.
"Was it that bad?"
He lowers the glass. "Yeah. About as bad as I expected." Roman leans against the counter. “He thinks it was someone inside Volchya who took you. He went around the table asking where we were that night, who saw us."
He takes another drink. "I told him I was home, but he didn't believe me. He just can't prove it."
"You're safe?” she asks, eyes wide as she searches my face. “We’re safe?"
"For now. He can't move against me without proof. Not after tonight. They all saw how fucking insane he is."
I frown, hating myself for being so eager for someone's death. "He’ll be... I mean, by the time he finds proof, you'll—”
He nods once. "By then, yes. I'm working on it."
He swirls the liquor in his glass, drinking again. I look up to see him watching me.
"You ever drink before?"
The question catches me by surprise. I shake my head. "No."
Amusement crosses his face. “Come here.”
He crooks his finger and I step into the kitchen, stopping in front of him.
He holds out the glass. "It’s cognac. Try it."
I stare at the glass, then at him. I try not to think too deep about the fact that he's offering me his glass. My pulse races.
I bring it to my lips. The scent is sharp, almost overwhelming as I take a small sip. The alcohol burns going down my throat, spreading heat through my chest. I swallow hard, blinking and trying not to cough.
"How can you like that?"
Roman laughs. I’ve never heard him laugh before, not a full-on laugh with his eyes lighting up. I like this so much.
"You get used to it,” he says. “It burns less after a while and keeps a man warm in winter."
I hand the glass back. "That's hard to believe. There have to be better ways to stay warm than drinking alcohol."
He stills. His eyes meet mine, holding there. Somehow his blue eyes look darker now, heated and intense. It feels like the room got smaller, crowding us.
He tears his gaze away, looking down into the glass. "You're right,” he says quietly. “There are.”
The deep rumble of his voice makes my stomach flutter. Heat spreads across my skin, settling where it always does when I’m around him. Right between my legs.
This feeling isn’t from the sip of cognac. It’s all Roman, what he said and didn’t say. It’s about intimacy, something I want so badly to learn about and experience.
With him.
"Tell me," I whisper, my voice catching in my throat.
He sets the glass on the counter, edging closer to me. The back of his hand brushes my cheek, his rough knuckles grazing my skin before his thumb finds my jaw.
"Pchyolka," he murmurs. "You want to know everything."
The word sounds beautiful in his accent, his voice wrapping around each syllable. I don't know what it means but I love the way he says it, like I'm someone he cares about.
His gaze drops to my mouth and my legs tremble. My chest feels so tight, it hurts to breathe, but I don’t mind. Neither of us move, both wanting to lock this moment in time.
Roman wants me the way a man wants a woman. I know it. He leans closer, ever so slightly. My heartbeat drums inside my ears as I lean toward him, desperate to feel his lips on mine.
Then his hand drops. He steps back, picking up the glass and taking a long drink, his eyes on the cognac, no longer on me.
He's shutting himself off, pulling back behind whatever walls he's built around himself. The ones that prevent him from admitting he wants this.
The silence stretches between us, tense and uncomfortable. I draw in a breath, forcing my voice to stay calm, not betraying my feelings for him.
"Roman," I say softly.
He looks at me, his mask of detachment not firmly in place yet.
"What does that mean? The word you called me."
"Pchyolka?"
"Yes, that one.”
"Little bee."
"Oh. Do I look like a bee?"
The corner of his mouth lifts. "No. You’re very small, though” His gaze drifts over my face. “But you sting when you need to.” It lingers a bit longer. “And your skin…” he stops before saying, “It’s the same color as honey. That’s why the name fits. Nala sounds too American."
"I like my name."
"I do too. Pchyolka’s a nice name. I chose well."
I roll my eyes and point to his glass. "Can I try it again?"
His brow lifts as he hands it over. I take another sip. It still burns and it still tastes awful. I give it back, shaking my head. "Nope. I definitely don’t like it."
He chuckles. "You don’t need this."
In typical Roman fashion, the humor immediately drains from his face and eyes. “It’s late,” he says. His voice isn’t as firm as before, when he dismissed me last night. “You should go to bed.”
"Aren't you going to bed also?"
"I will. Soon."
I don't want to leave, but I don’t think he’s telling me to leave to be mean. I’m exhausted and despite the way he’s acting, I can tell he's tired too.
“Goodnight.”
I turn, forcing myself toward the bedroom even though every part of me wants to stay.
I can feel his gaze on me the entire way.
I don’t look back. That night, I lie awake with my hands trembling against the sheets.
My body feels overheated and restless. I can’t stop thinking about how close we were to kissing.
I inhale deeply, remembering the scent of his cologne. He smelled so good.
I close my eyes, imagining his hands on my face again, this time, they don’t stop at my jaw. They slide lower, touching my breasts, his fingers on my nipples.
That would be amazing. His lips on mine, kissing me hard. Possessive. Like I really belong to him. I peel my underwear down, touching myself right where it aches, my pussy. That's a word I wasn't supposed to know but heard at school. It's so wet, pulsating and needing what only Roman can give me.
I stroke myself pretending it's him. It feels good and helps, but it’s not nearly enough. The ache is insistent, demanding more from me. I don’t know how to make it stop, so I pull my hand away, tug my panties back up and curl onto my side, knees drawn up, trying to make the pulsing need go away.
It doesn’t. It takes hours before I fall asleep. When the faintest hint of morning light peeks through the blinds, I get dressed and head into the living room.
Roman is already up, at the table with his laptop. He looks up as I enter, his eyes giving no hint of what happened last night.
"I have to go out,” he says. “Business.”
“Okay.”
He closes his laptop and stands. "Tonight, when I get back, I’ll take you outside.” A faint smile touches his lips. "Like I promised."
My heart jumps. "Really?"
"Yeah."
Happiness that no one else could ever understand unless they'd been locked away for years, floods through me. "Thank you."
His eyes soften. "You're welcome." He reaches for his jacket. "I'll be back around seven."
I fall into my routine. I read, eat and do some fake yoga poses I made up in the basement.
At seven-oh-five the door opens and Roman comes in carrying two more large shopping bags like last time.
"If you're going,” he says, setting them down, “you need a coat."
I feel stupid for not thinking of that, but happy Roman did.
I walk across the room and pull the coat free.
I see the color first and it’s beautiful, a light brown that reminds me of caramel.
It looks heavy and also very expensive. I run my hand over the smooth fabric and the thick fur lining the sleeves and hood.
"This is so beautiful,” I whisper.
I try to lift it, but it’s heavier than I expected. I guess it has to be for Russian winters.
Roman steps closer. "Here."
He takes the coat from my hand, holding it open.
I turn around and slide my arms into the sleeves, the coat settling onto my shoulders.
I feel Roman's hand adjusting how it sits across my back.
His fingers brush the nape of my neck, smoothing the collar into place.
My breathing stills. Heat spreads across my skin and that familiar ache is between my thighs again.
He comes around to face me, his movements feel deliberate, as if he's purposely taking his time. His eyes stay on mine as he reaches for the zipper, pulling it up slowly until the back of his hand grazes my collarbone through my sweater.
When the zipper reaches my throat, he uses both hands to adjust the collar again, his fingers lingering there longer than necessary, making sure the fur rests right against my skin.
"How do I look?" I ask, once I remember how to speak.
He steps back, his gaze traveling from my face down my body then back up. He nods.
"It fits."
"That's not what I asked."
He raises both brows. "It fits," he repeats, his harsh tone confusing me.
"Try the boots." He tilts his head toward the other bag, then walks off into his room, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t come back out for some minutes.
"You ready?" he asks, shrugging into his jacket.