Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Hailey
Morning sunlight cut through the dusty window of my old Brooklyn apartment.
I rolled over, and the beat-up wooden bed immediately let out a teeth-grinding squeal.
My whole body protested with it. Especially my inner thighs and lower back—soft, aching pulses that felt like a brand. A loud, unavoidable reminder of exactly how wild and how far out of control last night had gotten in this very room.
I sucked in a sharp breath and dragged the thin blanket back up to my waist.
The spot beside me was empty. The sheets still held his faint scent—cedar tangled with pure male heat.
Then the smell hit me. Butter sizzling, bacon frying, coffee brewing—slipping in through the half-closed bedroom door like a damn invitation.
I blinked, forced myself upright through the soreness, and grabbed Viktor's black linen shirt from the mess of clothes on the floor.
It swallowed me. The hem barely covered the top of my thighs, and the collar smelled like him.
Barefoot, I padded over the scratched wooden boards and followed the scent into the living room.
Viktor stood in my once-empty, falling-apart kitchen like he belonged there.
He wore only black dress pants. His upper body was bare, broad back and hard arms covered in dark, ruthless tattoos.
He worked the old gas stove like it wasn't one bad day away from dying, spatula in hand, flipping eggs and bacon with an ease that didn't match the rest of his life. My cheap flea-market coffee maker gurgled beside him, coughing out steam.
The sight of him like that was fucking obscene.
"Awake, princess?" he said without turning, like he had eyes in the back of his head. His voice came out low and rough in the tight space. "Go sit. Food's almost done."
I leaned on the doorway, arms folded, watching him slide golden eggs onto a plate. I couldn't help it. "You cook? And... where the hell did you get food? My fridge was empty yesterday."
"Yuri dropped it off half an hour ago." Viktor turned, carried two plates to the wobbly little table, and arched a brow. "As for cooking, when I trained on Siberian ice, if I couldn't figure out how to get raw meat hot, I would've ended up a frozen statue. Don't look at me like that. Come eat."
I sat and took a bite of bacon. Perfect. Crisp, still juicy.
"Good?" He sat across from me, lifted his black coffee, and took a slow sip. Those deep blue eyes pinned me in place. His gaze dragged from my slightly swollen lips down to the open collar of his shirt—right to the purple marks blooming across my skin.
"It's really good." Heat crawled up my neck under that aggressive stare. I tugged the collar higher. "But we need to move. I still have a few boxes to pack. I have to turn this place back over to the landlord today."
"You don't have to touch a damn thing." Viktor set the cup down, moved behind me, and his big hand—callused, warm—worked my sore neck with slow pressure. "In your current condition, getting to the subway would've been a problem. Eat. I'll handle the rest."
My face burned, and I didn't argue. He wasn't wrong.
After breakfast, I stuffed toiletries and a few loose pieces of clothing into the last box.
Viktor somehow produced packing tape and sealed everything fast, clean. Then he didn't even let me try to help—just bent down and stacked the two heaviest boxes of books like they weighed nothing, hauling them up against his chest.
"Damn," I said, half laughing. "Didn't think a rich guy like you could do grunt work this well. I figured you only read financial reports and sign papers."
"There are a lot more surprises you haven't seen yet, baby." He shot me a look.
Watching him in tailored slacks carrying my cheap cardboard boxes made something sweet melt in my chest.
"Come on," he said, nodding toward the door. "We're leaving."
I took one last look around the place I'd lived in for over six months—filled with fear and ugly memories—pulled in a breath, and shut the door without a second thought.
The black car rolled smoothly into the Upper East Side.
By the time we settled into the penthouse duplex on Central Park South, it was already eleven.
"You rest," Viktor said, setting the boxes down. "I'll take these to the closet." He disappeared down the hall.
I stood in the bright, wide living room, staring at Central Park spread out like a postcard, and for the first time I felt like I'd actually crawled out of the mud.
I walked into the open kitchen, poured myself water, drank it down, then headed toward the closet to see if he needed anything.
No one was there. The boxes already sat neatly lined up against the wall.
The apartment felt quiet—too quiet—except for the low, steady rush of water coming from the bathroom connected to the master.
I hesitated, then padded closer without thinking.
The frosted glass door wasn't fully shut. It sat open just enough to see through.
Steam curled in white sheets, and Viktor stood under the wide rainfall showerhead with his back to me.
Both hands braced against black marble as warm water ran down his shoulders and over the hard planes of his back.
Drops splashed and traced every powerful line, every dark tattoo sprawled over his skin like it owned him.
I stopped outside the door, breath catching. For a second I just... stared.
He must've sensed me. He shut the water off, raked wet hair back with both hands, and those blue eyes cut through the steam and locked on me like a target.
"Looks like you've gotten your energy back," he said, turning with a crooked, wicked smile. Water slid down his chest, over carved abs, straight to that sharp V. "You like what you see?"
"I-I just came to check if the boxes were put away." I took a guilty half-step back, already trying to escape. "Keep showering. I'll go—I'll go work on the bookshelves."
I didn't even finish the sentence.
Viktor strode out of the shower, shoved the glass door open, and before I could react his hand shot out—hot, wet—and closed around my wrist. He yanked me hard into him.
"Ah!"
I lost my footing and slammed into a scorching, soaked wall of muscle.
He reached back and turned the shower on again. Warm water crashed down over both of us, and before I could blink through it, his arms were already around my waist, pinning me to the cold marble.
"Viktor! Are you out of your mind?" I wiped water from my face and smacked his shoulder.
The shirt I wore—already too big—went completely see-through. It clung to my skin, the collar sliding down until it barely covered anything.
"This is on you," he murmured, a dark laugh vibrating in his chest against the wet fabric. "You were the one sneaking looks."
His eyes dropped, went heavy, and he kissed me like he'd decided I didn't get a vote.
Water roared around us. The kiss tasted like steam and trouble. His tongue forced my mouth open, swallowed every scrap of resistance, and his hand slid down my back to my waist, gripping and kneading like he owned it.
And in the middle of it, I felt him change—fast.
That hard, burning pressure shoved against my thigh through the thin, soaked fabric, relentless and demanding.
I shuddered. Last night flashed through my head in hot, brutal images, and my pulse spiked so hard it hurt.
"Viktor..." I turned my face away, gasping, dodging his mouth. My palms pressed against his blazing chest. "No. Stop. Not today."
He breathed roughly, pressed his forehead into the hollow of my neck, and shut his eyes like he was dragging himself back from a cliff.
"You're torture, princess," he rasped, then bit my collarbone—sharp, punishing. "Go change. Before I change my mind."
Relief hit so hard my knees nearly buckled. I scrambled out of his hold and bolted into the bathroom.
When I came out in clean lounge clothes, Viktor had already changed too—simple gray cotton T-shirt, sweatpants.
We spent the afternoon putting the place together.
I barely had any personal stuff from the old apartment, so it wasn't hard. But the living room felt too cold, too modern. I wanted it to look like a home.
"That armchair—push it to the windows." I stood in the center of the room, forcing myself to be bold. "Yeah. That corner."
Viktor didn't say a word. He walked over and shoved the heavy Italian leather chair into place like it was nothing.
He'd just showered, and his T-shirt fit close. When he bent and pushed, the fabric stretched tight, dampening slightly with sweat, outlining his abs and the thick veins in his arms.
I couldn't stop staring at his back. My throat went dry.
"Move the floor lamp a little left," I said, swallowing hard. "Don't block the outlet."
He set it down, then looked at me, eyes narrowing with amusement.
Slowly, he walked over and planted one hand on the wall, boxing me in between him and it.
"You know, Hailey," he said, dipping his head. His breath burned against my ear, his mouth curling like he was laughing at a secret. "In my world, I give orders. Always. And for the first time in my life, a woman is pointing at me like I'm hired muscle."
My heart stumbled. "Then—then you can stop. I can do it."
"No." His other hand slid to my waist, pulling me closer, his voice soaked in a dangerous kind of indulgence. "I don't mind. Not with you. You can tell me to do anything. I'll love it."
The words hit like a stone tossed into my chest—hot ripples spreading fast, unstoppable.
I pushed him away and turned, pretending I needed to find something, hiding my flaming face.
And during the rest of it, this damn man acted like he'd been let off a leash.
I climbed a stool to hang a picture and he "helped" by holding my waist—his hand creeping higher.
I bent to stack books and turned straight into his chest; he immediately dipped his head like he was going to kiss me.
We argued over whether a painting should go left or right, and he ended it by shoving me to the wall and kissing my protests shut.
"Viktor!" I shoved him away for what had to have been the hundredth time, face on fire, chest heaving. "If you keep this up, we're not going to finish anything before dark!"
"So?" He leaned in, voice rough. "I have time."
"No." I braced both hands against his chest and held him back. "Either you help for real, or you sit over there and stop getting in the way."
He stared at me for a few seconds, then let out a low laugh and lifted both hands in surrender.
"Fine. Your call."
After that, we finally calmed down and actually got things done.
By the time the sun started to sink, the apartment didn't feel empty anymore. It felt lived in.
Books stood neat on the shelves by the windows. Pillows I'd picked sat on the couch. A few prints hung on the walls. A green plant waited quietly in the corner.
Golden light poured through the floor-to-ceiling glass, washing the whole place in warm orange.
I collapsed on the couch, too tired to move even a finger. Viktor sat beside me and, like it was the most natural thing in the world, pulled me into his arms.
I stole a look at him.
His brow wasn't clenched. That constant, terrifying weight he carried—pressure, suspicion, readiness—had slipped away like a coat he finally dropped.
He looked relaxed. Almost lazy.
I pressed my lips together, about to say something, when the doorbell rang.
Viktor didn't get up. He just hit the intercom button on the coffee table.
"Boss, it's me," Yuri's flat voice came through.
"Come in."
Seconds later, the door opened. Yuri walked in carrying a ridiculously fancy crate. From inside came soft scratching.
"Put it there. You can go," Viktor said, calm as ever.
Yuri set the crate down and vanished without a sound.
I sat up, confused. "What's that?"
Viktor didn't answer. He walked over and flipped the metal latch.
"Woof!"
A little golden blur tumbled out, ears too big for its head, black grape eyes wide and innocent. It took one look around, then waddled straight toward me on tiny legs.
My eyes went huge. I scooped the warm, squirming thing up and froze.
A golden retriever puppy.
"Do you like it?" Viktor asked.
"Oh my God..." My hand flew to my mouth, and my eyes stung instantly. The puppy licked my palm with a pink tongue and made soft, needy little sounds like it already owned me. "I love it. I love it so much."
I couldn't believe it.
Then the rush faded, and unease slid in.
I looked up at Viktor, standing a few steps away. I remembered yesterday—his face when he'd seen the puppy on the street corner. That ugly flash. Like dogs had left him with something awful.
"Viktor, thank you, but..." I stood with the puppy in my arms, clumsy and overwhelmed, staring at him with a tight ache in my chest. "Why would you— You don't like dogs, right? You didn't have to force yourself for me."
Viktor watched me in silence.
The sunset softened his profile, eased the steel out of his lines. He came closer, didn't even look at the puppy, and lifted the hand that still carried a scabbed-over wound. He touched my cheek gently.
"That's in the past, Hailey," he said, low and steady, steering the conversation away from whatever pain sat behind his eyes. "Outside the aquarium, when you played with that little dog, you smiled like you meant it. That's all I care about."
He paused, and something almost tender curved his mouth. "So. You should name your new roommate. This place is huge. You're going to need someone to keep you company. Someone to cause trouble with."
I just stared at him.
I didn't know how to name the feeling. It hit harder than attraction, burned hotter than gratitude. Like a stone dropped into deep water, ripples spreading and spreading until there was no way to stop them.
"Then..." I lowered my face into the puppy's soft fur to hide my burning cheeks and the sting in my eyes. My voice came out muffled. "I'm going to think. It has to be a really good name."
The little thing yipped like it agreed.
Viktor let out a low chuckle.
And in my chest, the heart that had been cracked to hell and back had started beating—hard, reckless, hopelessly—for the dangerous, gentle man right in front of me.