Chapter 11
Ekaterina
Dinner this evening unfolds in the same quiet manner as the day before.
We all circle around harmless conversations about the weather, except for Artem, who eats in silence, avoiding looking at me.
He won’t lower himself to the level of ordinary mortals – like the rest of us – who are discussing something so frivolous.
Yaroslav is not exactly the most talkative either, but at least he offers an opinion here and there, while Sasha chatters even with his mouth full, like a child overflowing with energy.
After dinner, the youngest leaves for his nightly entertainment, while his older brothers retreat to the office, along with Dima and two other men.
I didn’t even see when they arrived or where they had been hidden, but I cannot help noticing their serious faces and black suits, as if those are their uniforms.
Both of them look at me curiously, but one of them, with greasy hair slicked down by too much gel and a swollen belly, seems more insistent.
I ignore him quickly, because before entering the room, Artem stops and turns toward me, signaling for the others not to wait for him.
“You don’t have any plans tonight?”
I stop near the stairs. “I will watch a movie.” He seems to think for a moment before
speaking again.
“And you’re not playing tonight?”
His question catches me slightly off guard, but
I do not even blink.
“No.”
“Pity,” he says shortly, then turns toward the
office without giving me the chance to ask for any details.
If I called after him, I would only draw attention to our conversation and to the others, and I would rather avoid that.
I climb the stairs slowly when my phone vibrates with a message from a number I do not know.
Unknown number: The password is Iwanttofuckyou69
I read it twice.
I blink.
Then I read it again, stopping at the top of the
stairs.
Something tells me the message was sent by someone from down there, and I expect, any second now, for one of them to come out laughing at me.
But nothing happens.
So I type back, my heart beating hard, but not from fear.
From... astonishment.
Me: Excuse me?!
A few seconds later, the answer comes.
Unknown number: The password for the streaming platforms installed on the TV.
Sasha chose it...
For a moment, I think I forget who I am talking to, because out of habit, I send a laughing emoji, since that is exactly what I am doing.
I walk toward the room, laughing at the madness of such a man, but of course my smile half disappears when I stop in front of the bedroom where I have to sleep again tonight.
Fuck.
Here we go again.
An hour later, I am halfway through the second
episode of a show I watch whenever I have time, Bridgerton. Even though I have already seen it, I enjoy rewatching it. It relaxes me and helps me fall asleep faster.
When sleep begins to circle me, I turn off the TV, but I cannot help wondering when the true owner of this bed will appear.
Fortunately, my thoughts find their answer only a few minutes later, when the door opens and his steps carry him toward the dressing room, then the bathroom.
Now there is no way I can fall asleep, not while hearing the shower running and imagining, for the second day in a row, what his body looks like with streams of water sliding over his lean frame.
Over his broad back and the chest covered in those tattoos.
Down toward the abdomen that ends in a V leading to something that should not cross my mind, but I cannot stop the image.
With a man like that, there is no way not to think about him the moment you hear the shower wetting his naked body.
I am a woman. I have hormones and ovaries that react too, no matter how much my brain says it is forbidden.
And even if I changed my sex, I think I would still be the gayest man alive when it comes to this severe, dark, dangerous man, who is far too attractive for my mental health.
Or anyone’s, for that matter.
The water stops running, and my heart beats faster, anticipating the moment he will be beside me again.
I don’t understand why I am so nervous, because last night proved he is perfectly capable of staying on his side of the bed and not touching me.
So far, he has been entirely honorable, and I cannot accuse him of anything.
But the fact that he will be beside me, only a few inches away, still fills me with agitation, even if it is not as intense as yesterday.
I pay attention to his every move: when he comes out of the bathroom, when he returns from the dressing room, when he lies down in bed, keeping the same distance as last night. And after a few seconds, I hear his deep voice.
“Did you like the movie?”
“Yes. But it’s not the first time I’ve seen it.”
“What movie was it?”
I am in the same bed as one of the most dangerous men in Bratva, talking about movies?
This surpasses every scenario I could have ever imagined, and not even the Devil would believe something like this is possible.
“Bridgerton. Season two.”
“I haven’t heard of it,” he says, almost thoughtfully. “Is it about murders?”
I swear I cannot stop myself from giggling, no matter how much I try not to. His question catches me by surprise, so I turn onto my side to face him, just so I can see his eyes.
Why the hell did I turn around?
The man is nothing but muscle, perfectly visible beneath smooth, almost porcelain skin in the dim light of the night.
I force myself to swallow, driven by a toxic desire to run my palm over that hard flesh, but I try to return to our conversation.
“There are no murders at all. It’s a romance series.”
He lies on his back, his palms resting on his bare abdomen, because – of course – he sleeps shirtless, while his lower half is covered by the same sheet I am under. But his gaze is turned toward me. Serious, yet calm, and in some strange way, curious.
He almost makes me believe he is genuinely interested.
“You like romance series?”
There is not a trace of irony in his question. “Yes. Very much,” I answer honestly.
“Why?”
I think for a moment before answering.
“Because they give me hope that maybe something beautiful exists beyond the life we have.”
“And why would a girl – who does not take part in mafia business and is about to marry her boyfriend of two years – say that?”
I could answer his dilemma with an entire novel, but tonight, I think it’s my turn to bring the conversation to an end without offering him one.
“Good night, Artem,” I tell him, then turn my back to him.
He is silent for a few moments, and then I hear his calm, low voice. “Good night, Ekaterina.”
The heat wakes me up.
I don’t know if someone put a radiator beside me or if Artem has heating built into his mattress. All I know is that my skin feels damp with sweat, and half-asleep, without even opening my eyes, I decide there is no way Pakhan has played some awful prank on me.
He is not the type.
Trying to a more comfortable position, my blood freezes, when I realize who I am touching.
I slowly open my eyes, praying with all my heart that I am still trapped in a dream, and that I am not lying with one leg thrown over his thigh while I feel his erection pulsing beneath me. Not to mention that instead of a pillow, my head, apparently shameless, has decided to use his thick arm.
Just like in the most ordinary movies, I blink, afraid I will be struck by a reality difficult to manage.
But when I do, I wish the earth would split open and swallow me whole in a single second, because a pair of mismatched eyes is only a few inches from my face.
And, my God, seeing them up close, they hold the most beautiful shades of gray, threaded with brown, while the other, with that brown corner, looks like a small gate of hope in a world ruled by death and darkness.
“Are you comfortable, dusha moya?” His voice is low and rough, but one corner of his mouth is slightly raised.
I am not his “soul”, but this is not the moment to ask where such a dose of irony is coming from this early in the morning.
I immediately pull away from his body and try to apologize for such an intrusion, which has undoubtedly colored my cheeks.
“Holy fuck. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
While I apologize, mortified that I climbed all over him in my sleep, I try to sit up. But his hand tightens and presses me back against him, even closer to his chest.
I feel his fingers on my back, holding me in place without much effort, without forcing me, only making it clear that he does not want me to leave.
And I don’t.
I keep looking at his face as he turns it toward the ceiling and closes his eyes.
“Five more minutes,” he asks in that rough voice I have no power against.
I am lost.
I know he is not asleep, because neither am I. But a sense of calm still takes hold of me, and unable to resist, I close my eyes too, savoring this forbidden moment as much as I can.
This closeness is almost intimate, even though there is nothing indecent about it, aside from an erection I am sure he has every morning like any normal man.
Who am I to refuse something like this with the man who has been haunting my dreams for two nights now?
My dreams are my secret from him.
This moment is the secret I share with him.
I don’t know exactly how long we stay like that, but I am almost certain no more and no less than five minutes pass before he turns his head toward me, brushes his nose through my hair, then whispers like an attentive lover. “I have to go.”
Something sparks to life inside me, and I can’t make sense of this unfamiliar emotion.
I don’t know whether there is disappointment in his voice, but my heart wants that to be the feeling carried by those words.
I release him immediately, sitting straight up.
“I know I sometimes sleep strangely, but I didn’t expect to go that far...”
I try to excuse myself, watching him get out of bed, but he turns toward me with a neutral expression.
“It didn’t bother me.”
“But it was inappropriate,” I say quickly. “I shouldn’t have touched you. If anyone finds out...”
“Ekaterina.” One word cuts my rambling into sudden silence.
“I didn’t think I needed to explain to you that whatever happens in this house does not go beyond the front door. Anyone who talks knows he is dead the next moment. The same applies to what happens in this room and to the strange way you sleep.”
He pauses, and I think the smile I believed was a product of my imagination earlier now confirms itself as entirely real.
And devastatingly beautiful.
“And believe me, dusha moya, you don’t fall into the category of people who sleep strangely,” he says, almost playful. “You look like someone doing yoga in her dreams...”
But that faint smile disappears very slowly, replaced by a threatening, hungry look.
“...or something else.”
I gulp, because from where he stands at the edge of the bed, there’s only an arm’s length between us, a distance he could erase in a heartbeat.
And the problem is, if he did, I wouldn’t stop him.
Just as I cannot stop the attraction I feel toward him, one growing stronger with every passing second.
He comes closer.
I barely notice how deeply I am losing myself in his strange eyes until he stops with his lips almost touching my ear.
“Next time, I won’t behave as nicely,” he whispers, sending a hot wave of shivers through my entire body.
His words sound like a cold threat, but my sick brain feels them as a promise too.
And, as if to drive the final nail into my coffin, he kisses my temple and then immediately pulls away, disappearing into the bathroom.
I think I can compare the abruptness of his retreat to the way an evil spirit moves: smooth and dangerous. Because I realize that if I won’t lose my life because of him, my heart is certainly in just as much danger.
I need to pull myself together.