Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Laurel
Leonid’s been gone for almost a week, some business trip to another city, and so we haven’t been talking as often as we used to. My life feels empty without him.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some lovesick girl who can’t function without a man. I find fulfillment in my job and other things that don’t involve Leonid. But God, I miss him still.
I miss him like a physical ache: the low rumble of his voice, waking up sore in the best ways, marked by his hands, his mouth, his teeth. I miss the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching.
Ever since that night at the sex club, everything between us has shifted. He doesn’t hold back anymore in the bedroom.
He’s a full-on Dom now, commanding, rough, inventive. And I love every second of it. Every time we’re together it’s something new: restraints, impact play, edging until I’m begging, him taking me apart piece by piece and putting me back together with soft kisses afterward. I crave it. Crave him.
This is the longest we’ve been apart since… whatever this is. I keep telling myself not to name it. Not to overthink it. Not to fall too hard. But I’m failing spectacularly.
It’s Sunday and I’m walking back from yoga class, dressed in leggings and a cropped hoodie. Skin still damp with sweat, hair pulled into a messy bun.
The streets are busy with weekend shoppers, couples with dogs, the usual city hum. I decide to grab a coffee before heading home.
As I step off the curb toward the coffee shop, my eyes catch on a black SUV parked across the street, with its windows tinted. My stomach does a small, uneasy flip. I’ve seen that same car, or one exactly like it, parked across from my building at least three times this week.
I shake it off. Paranoia. New York is full of black SUVs. I’m being ridiculous. I order my usual oat milk latte, pay, and step back outside. The moment I turn toward my apartment, I glance over my shoulder.
The SUV is moving, slowly. Keeping pace with me on the opposite side of the street.
My pulse jumps.
I walk faster. The coffee sloshes in the cup. I glance again. The car is still there, half a block back, matching my speed. Not overtaking.
My heart starts hammering. I’m only a block from home, so I break into a power walk, then a jog.
By the time I reach my building I’m breathing hard. I shove through the lobby door, slam it behind me, throw the deadbolt, then the chain. My hands shake as I yank every curtain closed, living room, bedroom.
Then I creep to the living-room window, part the slats with two fingers, and peek out.
The SUV is now parked directly across the street. Engine off. Because of its tinted windows, it’s impossible to see inside.
My chest feels tight. Why? Who’s following me? My mind flashes to Jasper, my ex from Philadelphia. The last time I saw him, he was screaming that he’d find me. That I’d never be free of him, and that I belonged to him.
But that was years ago. And that car… it’s too expensive. Jasper could barely afford rent half the time. Unless he robbed a bank.
I back away from the window. I just started feeling safe here. Like I could breathe without waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Now I’m standing in my living room, heart racing, wondering if the past has finally caught up. And if it has… what the hell do I do next?
I’m spiraling, heart hammering so hard it hurts. I steal another peek through the window, and that’s when I notice the driver’s window glides down. The man inside turns his head slightly, gaze fixed on my building.
I’ve seen that face before. He was one of the guards at Leonid’s gate the first time I went there.
Is Leonid having me followed?
Why?
Am I in any danger that he hasn’t told me about? Or is this just… him needing control, needing to know where I am every second, like Jasper used to do?
My mind goes back to how Jasper used to track my phone, show up at my job unannounced, and become violent when I questioned him. Is this the same thing? Am I repeating old patterns?
My legs move before my brain catches up. I fly down the stairs, out the lobby door, across the street. The SUV’s window has now gone up. I rap my knuckles on the glass.
It winds down, and the terrifying man turns fully now, a look of surprise on his face.
“Ma’am,” he says, voice calm, professional. “Everything alright?”
I cross my arms, trying to look tougher than I feel. “Are you following me?”
He blinks once. “No.”
“Don’t lie to me.” My voice shakes, but I push on. “I’ve seen this car, seen you parked across from my building three times this week. You were outside the yoga studio I use, a while ago. You were at the coffee shop too. Why?”
He exhales through his nose, expression unchanging. “Ma’am, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not following you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He looks at me for a long moment, assessing, almost regretful, and then glances away. “You’ll have to speak to Mr. Volkov about that.”
Leonid is really the one who sent him then. “Fine.”
I turn on my heel and march back inside, slamming the door harder than necessary. Up the stairs, into my apartment, deadbolt, chain, curtains drawn again. I grab my phone with shaking hands and call him.
It rings. Once. Twice. Voicemail.
I hang up, furious, and text instead.
Me: Do you have someone following me?
Me: Don’t deny it. I already confronted him.
The three dots appear immediately.
Leonid: I’m in a meeting. Can’t talk right now. I’ll call you in a few minutes.
I throw the phone onto my bed with a frustrated huff, then storm into the bathroom. And I take a hot shower.
I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink. When I finally step out, towel wrapped around me, the phone is ringing.
Leonid.
I answer on the second ring. “So?”
A beat of silence. Then his voice, low, calm, edged with something I can’t place. “That’s a rude way to say hello.”
The way his accent curls around the words does things to me that I don’t want to feel right now. I shut it down immediately.
“You have someone following me. Why?”
Another pause. “It’s for your safety, solnyshko.”
I let out an incredulous laugh. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t need someone tailing me, Leonid. I’m not in danger. I’ve lived here for years without a bodyguard. I certainly don’t need one now.”
“You’re with me now,” he says, voice dropping lower. “That changes things.”
“I don’t need anyone following me.”
“You don’t get a choice.”
Anger flares hot in my chest. “Call him off!”
“No.”
“Leonid—”
“I have to go,” he cuts in, tone final. “I have another meeting now. I’ll call back when I’m done. We’ll talk then.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone in my hand. He hung up on me. I’m so pissed I can barely think straight.
Why the hell would he have someone watch me without even telling me? Without asking? The whole thing feels like a violation.
I spend the entire day trying to distract myself by preparing my lesson plans for the new week, and talking on the phone with Tasha, who keeps telling me to calm down and saying that Leonid might have a good reason for what he did.
When evening comes, I creep to the living-room window and peek through the tiniest crack in the curtains. The SUV is gone.
He listened. At least he did that much. Or the guy could be lurking around somewhere.
How long has he been having someone follow me? Days? Weeks? Just thinking about it makes me unhappy. Scared. Because if he’s already doing this without asking, what else will he decide “for my own good”?
I curl up in bed early, knees to chest, phone face-down on the nightstand, holding myself back from returning any of Leonid’s texts or calls.
Whatever “this” is. I can’t keep letting it go on. I need boundaries. I need to protect myself before he turns into another man who thinks he knows what’s best for me.
Sleep comes in fits. I wake around 2 a.m. to the soft click of my bedroom door.
My eyes snap open.
A tall shadow stands just inside the doorway. I let out a scream, startled, and grab the hairbrush from my nightstand.
“I have a weapon!” I hurl the hairbrush at the figure.
He catches it one-handed, mid-air.
“We need to work on your defense skills,” comes a familiar voice, dryly.
“Leonid?”
He steps fully into the room, closing the door behind him. The street light from outside illuminates his face. He looks tired, travel-worn.
“What… you’re back.”
“Yeah, came straight from the airport.”
“You did?”
He nods once. “I told you we’d talk when I got back.”
I pull the sheet up to my chest like armor. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“You weren’t answering my calls.” He sets the hairbrush on the dresser, steps closer. “And you were upset. I didn’t want to wait until morning.”
I swallow. “You can’t just break into my apartment.”
“I have a key.” He says it calmly.
“You have a key?”
“You gave it to me two weeks ago. Remember? When you said you wanted me to feel welcome.”
Oh, I did. I remember. I was half-asleep, blissed out after he’d fucked me slow and deep on this very bed, and I’d handed him the spare without thinking.
“You’ve been a bad girl,” he murmurs, voice dropping to that dangerous velvet register. “Arguing with me. Ignoring my calls. Throwing things at me.”
For a moment I forget I’m angry. Forget everything except how close he is, how warm his hands feel, how much I’ve missed him.
Then reality crashes back. I shove at his chest, weak, half-hearted. “You had someone watching me.”
His expression doesn’t change. “I did.”
“Why?” My voice cracks. “I told you I didn’t—”
“Safe,” he finishes quietly. “I wanted you safe.”
“I don’t need a bodyguard, Leonid. I need you to trust me to take care of myself.”
He exhales through his nose, eyes never leaving mine. “I do trust you. I don’t trust the rest of the world.”
I shake my head, tears stinging again. “That’s not how this works. You don’t get to decide for me.”
He leans closer, forehead resting against mine. “I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because I can’t lose you,” he says, so low I almost miss it. “Not to someone who wants to hurt me by hurting you. Not to anything.”
The raw honesty in his voice cracks something open inside me.
I stare at him, really look. His eyes are tired. Shadows under them. Jaw tight with worry he won’t admit to. My anger fractures.
I reach up, cup his face. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He closes his eyes for a second, exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.
Then he kisses me, slow, deep, desperate. Like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t say into it.
When he pulls back, his voice is rough. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
I nod. “Okay.”
He brushes his thumb across my cheek again, wiping away the tear I didn’t realize had fallen.
“But right now,” he murmurs, lips curving into that dark, wicked smile, “I’ve been on a plane for six hours thinking about you. And I’m dying to be inside you right now.”
Before I can answer, he’s covering my body with his.
The next morning, I wake up slowly to the rich, unmistakable smell of bacon frying and fresh coffee brewing.
My body feels deliciously sore in all the right places, reminders of last night’s intensity, and I smile into the pillow before I even open my eyes.
I roll over, reach for Leonid’s black button-down from last night, and slip it on. The fabric is soft, still carrying his scent, him. It hangs past my thighs, sleeves swallowing my hands, but I don’t care. It feels like wearing him.
This is the first time he’s stayed the whole night. I’m surprised he did, and didn’t slip out in the night like he always does.
I pad barefoot down the short hallway toward the kitchen. He’s there. Shirtless. Cooking.
My feet stop moving.
Leonid stands at the stove in nothing but low-slung black slacks, every line of his back and shoulders carved in sharp relief under the morning light streaming through the window.
His dark hair is still messy from sleep and my fingers. He’s flipping bacon in one pan, while stirring eggs in another, biceps flexing, abs tightening with each motion.
Watching him cook is like watching food porn. Slow-motion. Sensual. Ridiculously hot.
He turns, catches me staring, and a slow, lazy smile spreads across his face. He stretches out one hand toward me while turning off the heat under the eggs with the other.
“Hey.”
I walk straight into his arm. He pulls me against his chest, warm, solid, smelling like sex and breakfast, and kisses me deeply.
“Good morning, baby,” he murmurs against my lips.
“Morning,” I breathe back, dazed. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
He chuckles, then turns back to the stove to keep the bacon from burning. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me yet.”
“Yeah…” I lean against the counter beside him, watching the way his forearms flex as he plates eggs. “Like the fact that you had someone watching me.”
The words hang between us.
He keeps moving, setting plates on the small table, pouring coffee, before he finally turns to face me fully.
“It’s because I’m a prominent person,” he says quietly, voice steady. “I have enemies. I have people who would hurt me by hurting the people close to me. When I’m out of town, I need to know you’re okay. That’s all.”
I cross my arms. “I don’t want to be controlled, Leonid. I don’t want someone tailing me like I’m a child or a liability.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once. “Okay.”
I blink. “Okay?” I expected more resistance.
“I’ll call my men off.” He steps closer, cups my face with both hands. “I don’t want you to feel trapped. I want you safe.”
Relief rushes through me so fast my knees nearly buckle. “Thank you.”
He kisses me again, soft this time, almost apologetic.
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask first,” he says against my mouth. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
I nod, throat tight. “Okay.”
He pulls back, brushes his thumb across my cheek. “Now sit. Eat. Before it gets cold.”
I smile. “Okay.”
He sets a plate in front of me: perfectly crispy bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, toast with butter.
As we eat, I realize something terrifying and wonderful at the same time.
I’m falling. Hard.