Chapter 11 – Iris
I dreamt of him last night—after he stormed out of my room so abruptly, as if he were trying to stop himself from doing something he might regret later.
In my dream, however, he didn’t leave me all by myself. No, he reached out and pulled me to himself, then sealed my lips with a deep kiss that I couldn’t resist. I kissed him back with equal intensity, our tongues swirling in our mouths.
I tried to stop myself; I tried to pull away, but the kiss was so good it had me glued to him. His hands were all over my body, possessing my curves like he owned every part of me.
He fondled my breasts over the fabric of my shirt while pulling me closer against him. Overwhelmed with pleasure, I moaned in his mouth, basking in the feeling of his erection grazing my skin.
He lifted me in his strong arms and laid me back on the bed while his hands roamed over my body.
“I’ve always wanted to do this,” he whispered in my ear, lips pressed to my neck.
“Me too,” I breathed, locking my legs around his waist.
He ground his hips against mine, unbuttoned my shirt, and took my breasts in his hands. He raised my leg in the air, caressing my outer thighs with a touch so electrifying it sent tremors down my core.
“I wanna taste you.” He spread out my legs and went down on me.
“Oh, Ilya,” I groaned softly, fisting his hair.
In reality, I was writhing against the sheets, rubbing my thighs together as I said his name out loud.
Then I woke up.
After it dawned on me that it had been a dream and that I had been whispering his name, a wave of embarrassment washed over me.
I slapped my palm to my face, unsure how to feel about this. To make matters worse, I woke up wet—soaking wet. My panties were damp, and all I could think about was recreating the scene from my dream.
However, the thought of going down that road scared the bunkers out of me. I hadn’t done this before, and I didn’t want my first time to be with a ruthless mafia boss.
Not that there was something wrong with the mafia boss himself, per se. It was just that the circumstances around this newfound attraction made the whole thing super complicated.
It was no longer news that he was attracted to me or that I was attracted to him as well. However, I didn’t think I was ready to face the consequences that would follow if I ever allowed myself to give in to that temptation.
It felt like playing with fire, and I wasn’t ready to get burned.
Over the next few days, I tried to focus on reading as many books as I could, just to keep him out of my mind.
But no matter what I did, images of him would always sneak into my head, distracting me from whatever I was doing.
He’d been shirtless the night he’d barged into my room to save me from that spider.
Since then, I hadn’t been able to unsee him without a shirt.
Broad shoulders. A chest carved from something harder than skin.
His stomach was cut into hard, defined ridges, the kind of thing that came from years of violence rather than a gym.
There’d been scars too. A thin one along his ribs, pale with age. Another near his hip, rougher, more recent. Marks that told a story I didn’t have access to, each one a piece of a past I wasn’t sure I wanted to learn about.
I hated how much I’d noticed and how he occupied my every waking thought.
Lately, I’d been thinking about that night, not just about his ridiculously attractive body or how close we’d come to sharing a kiss, but about how quickly he’d shown up when he thought I was actually in trouble.
He’d called out my name when he barged inside, gun in hand. And although I didn’t pay attention to his tone then, I realized I’d missed something important.
His voice had been laced with concern—like he was genuinely worried about my safety. The man had stormed into my room with a loaded gun, meaning he was ready to kill to defend me.
That hit me harder than I expected.
Now, whatever emotions I’d been suppressing this whole time had doubled—tripled, even. And I hated how little control I had over what was happening to me.
***
The library light fell warm across the window seat by afternoon, and I’d claimed the spot as mine over the past few days without really deciding to. Book in my lap, knees pulled up, blanket over my legs even though it wasn’t cold anymore.
Natasha was working the shelves nearby, feather duster moving carefully along the spines, humming something under her breath in Russian.
She was one of the few staff who didn’t treat me like glass or a threat, just talked to me like I was a person who happened to be living in the same house. Respectfully, of course.
“Natasha,” I called, shifting my gaze toward her.
“Yes?” She turned to me.
“Where’d this book come from?” I asked, flipping through it in my hand. “I haven’t seen it before. And it’s not the only one.”
“Oh, new editions came in yesterday,” she replied in accented English. “Psychological thrillers, literary fiction, annotated classics like Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre, even a marked-up copy of Crime and Punishment.”
I stared at her, brows lifting in awe. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Natasha, but um…you seem to know a lot about books.”
Also, her English was more polished than every other staff member in the mansion. She looked young, older than I was, obviously, but still young. Maybe in her late twenties or early thirties. My money was on the former.
“It’s okay. I get that a lot.” She laughed, the sound easy and warm, a small smile still on her lips. “I just love reading. Sharpens the mind, they say.”
A faint grin tugged at the corner of my mouth.
“Plus, the boss lets me read any book in the library whenever I want,” she added almost immediately. “As long as I don’t get carried away and forget to do my job.”
How thoughtful of him.
Ilya truly was a thoughtful man because the new books Natasha talked about were the same ones I’d once mentioned in passing over breakfast. I didn’t know he had stored the titles somewhere in the back of his mind.
This only proved that he’d always been listening, and that realization unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
***
The kitten—who I’d named Whiskers, after finding out he was boy—settled into the estate faster than I did.
He followed me through the gardens now, weaving between my ankles on the gravel paths and curling up beside me in the library most afternoons without prompting.
His presence had become one of the reasons I left my room some days, dragging me outside into sunlight I might otherwise have avoided.
One afternoon, I was playing with him near the fountain, dragging a loose thread from my sleeve across the stone for him to chase, when I looked up and caught Ilya watching from the terrace.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move either, just stood there with his hands in his pockets, watching me the way he’d been doing recently.
His gaze was less like a man cataloging a threat and more like someone who’d simply grown used to finding me in his space and no longer flinched at it. Underneath all of that, though, was a hint of something else. And I was too afraid to name it.
That evening, he left in a hurry after a call came through, pulling the calm right off his face. He didn’t explain. He just told me to stay upstairs and was gone within minutes.
He was away for hours, and gradually, a part of me began to worry about him. Whatever he had to attend to seemed important, even dangerous. To my surprise, I stayed up late in my room, waiting for him to return. I couldn’t explain why I couldn’t fall asleep, worrying about the man who kidnapped me.
The only explanation that made sense was that I was starting to feel some sort of attachment to him. But I wasn’t ready to accept that. Yet.
I heard the cars return long after midnight.
I leaped out of bed and crept to the balcony, careful to stay in the shadows. There, I caught a brief glimpse of him being helped out of the backseat by two guards.
His knuckles were split open, raw and swollen. His white shirt was soaked through with blood that clearly wasn’t all his.
My throat tightened at the sight, my heart pounding in my chest.
What happened? Is he okay?
I almost ran down to go check on him but stopped myself immediately.
One of the guards muttered something about the traitor refusing to cooperate. Ilya’s head turned, and whatever look he gave the guard silenced him instantly.
I stepped back from the railing before either of them noticed me watching, my heart pounding the whole way back to my room.
Wherever he had come from, things clearly hadn’t gone as planned. He was hurt, and I found myself wondering how I would’ve felt if he had lost his life tonight.
What if it was his corpse that returned?
The thought alone terrified me more than it should have.
I genuinely wanted to go check on him—not just to ask what happened, but also to make sure he got the medical attention he needed. But I had to stop myself from leaving my room.
He would sort himself out.
I was already too attached to him. The last thing I wanted was to bond with him while helping him clean his wounds.
So I tucked myself into bed with a pillow clutched to my chest, waiting for the moment I’d fall asleep. At least I was sure that was fine. That was good news.
Much later, half asleep with the Whiskers curled up warm against my side, I sensed movement near the door. When I opened my eyes, I saw it was him.
Ilya stood there, freshly showered, dressed in dark sweatpants and a black shirt, hair damp and pushed back from his face.
He seemed to think I was fast asleep, even though I was wide awake. I didn’t let him know, though.
I kept my eyes barely open—just enough to convince him I was asleep while still allowing me to keep track of my surroundings.
He paused before coming inside, his feet silent on the floor.
He crossed the room quietly and reached for the Whiskers, his careful hands stroking his fur.
Then his eyes moved to me.
Softer than I’d ever seen them.
Something almost conflicted flickered behind his gaze, like he was trying to work out whether something this gentle, this quiet, belonged anywhere near the world he came from.
I kept my eyes slightly open, watching him through my lashes, and said nothing.
He towered over me for a while, his hand reaching toward my face. My heart raced with anticipation, and I braced myself for his touch.
However, at the last second, he withdrew his hand and lingered a moment longer before walking away.
I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until he stepped out of my room and closed the door gently behind him.
He didn’t touch me at all.
Part of me was glad he didn’t; the other part was disappointed because, deep down, I wanted to feel his skin on mine.
What exactly was going on between us?
What game were we playing?
And how long were we going to keep this up before it blew up in our faces?