Chapter 7
Willa
T hree o’clock arrives faster than I’d hoped, finding me standing at the imposing gates of Iskander’s estate while second-guessing every decision that led me here.
The wrought iron barriers part in silence, recognizing my approach through technology I can’t see but that I definitely feel watching me.
They don’t even make a sound. Not a creak, not a moan, not anything to indicate that they have even the slightest imperfection. It’s… a little unsettling, just like Iskander.
Ugh…
I’ve spent the past three days trying to avoid admitting I want him while simultaneously figuring out how to escape him. The contradiction exhausts me but facing it seems impossible when every rational thought collides with memories that make my pulse quicken.
Last night’s dream didn’t help. I woke tangled in sheets, heart hammering, and body aching with the need to feel Iskander’s hands on my skin. I’d been so close to an orgasm in that dream that waking felt like punishment.
Cruel. Teasing. He’d love that.
The circular drive crunches beneath my car’s tires as I approach the mansion, which is as I remember it.
I park near the main entrance and check my appearance in the rearview mirror.
I’m wearing a professional blazer, conservative blouse, and sensible heels.
It’s all just a show of boundaries, even though my boundaries feel increasingly fragile. I hope I don’t crumble.
The front door opens before I can knock, revealing Alina’s serene smile. “Miss Reynolds, Mr. Taranov is expecting you in his study.” She leads me through hallways lined with oil paintings and Persian rugs. The house feels like a museum.
Iskander’s study occupies a corner of the mansion with windows overlooking Charleston Harbor.
He stands silhouetted against the afternoon light, wearing dark slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
The casual elegance should make him less intimidating.
Instead, it makes him more approachable, which feels infinitely more dangerous.
“Willa.” He turns when I enter, gray eyes conducting their usual assessment. “Thank you for coming.”
“You made it sound urgent.” I settle into the chair across from his desk, maintaining careful distance while noting how the light catches the silver threads in his dark hair. “Something about safety concerns?”
“Among other things.” He moves to the bar cart and pours amber liquid into two glasses. “Scotch?”
I shake my head. “It’s three in the afternoon.”
“It’s that type of conversation.” He sets one glass on the desk within my reach anyway, then claims the chair behind his massive desk. The mahogany surface could probably serve as a landing strip and is scattered with documents that look official and expensive.
I glance at the papers, recognizing financial statements and what appear to be security reports. “What exactly are we discussing?”
“Your future, our partnership, and the practical realities of running a business that serves multiple purposes.” His tone remains conversational, but steel underlies each word. “You’ve been avoiding the shop since our last meeting.”
Heat climbs my neck at the reminder of that kiss, and the way he’d claimed my mouth with such certainty that my defenses had crumbled like tissue paper. “I’ve been handling business remotely. Woods has been very helpful with the transition details.”
“Has he? My sources tell me you’ve been exploring options for dissolving our partnership entirely.”
The accusation hangs between us, accurate enough to make me squirm.
I had spent hours with Woods yesterday, going through financial projections and legal documents, searching for some way to buy out Iskander’s share without destroying Henri’s legacy.
“I’m exploring all my options. Henri left me a business, not a life sentence. ”
“Didn’t he?” Iskander settles back in his chair, studying me with unsettling intensity. “From my perspective, you inherited considerably more than a tailor shop.”
“I inherited a front for money laundering that makes me an accessory to crimes I don’t understand.” The words tumble out sharply. “Forgive me if I’m not embracing that legacy with enthusiasm.”
Something shifts in the air between us, though his expression doesn’t change. “You also inherited protection, connections, and financial security most people would kill for. Literally, in some cases.”
I lift a shoulder. “I don’t want protection I didn’t request.”
“What you want and what you need are different things.” He stands and moves around the desk, eliminating the barrier between us. “Mikhail Balakin has soldiers watching your apartment building. They’ve photographed your routine, your friends, and every vulnerability you possess.”
I tense. “What are you talking about?”
“The men who killed Henri aren’t finished. They’re gathering intelligence to plan their next move, and you’re the primary target.” He perches on the desk’s edge, close enough that I catch his cologne, which makes my mouth water despite the fear coursing through me.
“Why me? I’m nobody important.”
“You’re the person Henri died protecting. You’re my business partner. Most importantly, you’re the woman Mikhail believes he can use to hurt me.” His voice drops to something intimate and deadly. “He’s not wrong about that last part.”
The admission sends electricity through my nervous system, confirming suspicions I’ve been trying to ignore. “This is exactly why I want out. I won’t be used as a weapon in your war.”
“It’s not just my war anymore. It became yours the moment you inherited Henri’s business.” He reaches for the scotch I declined and takes a measured sip. “The only question is whether you’ll fight it intelligently or stumble through blindly and get yourself killed.”
“Those aren’t my only options.”
“Aren’t they? Dissolving our partnership won’t make Balakin’s interest disappear. It will simply remove the protection that’s keeping you alive.” He sets down the glass and fixes me with that penetrating stare. “Is that really what you want? To face this alone?”
The question unexpectedly stirs fears I’ve carried since childhood, when I was alone, abandoned, and left to fend for myself in a world that’s never felt entirely safe.
Henri’s death ripped away the only stability I’ve known besides Harper’s friendship, and now Iskander’s offering a different security that comes with strings I’m not sure I want attached.
“I want to run my business without armed guards and surveillance teams.” I stand and move to the windows, needing distance from his proximity and the way it makes clear thinking impossible. “I want to serve clients who appreciate quality craftsmanship, not launder money for criminals.”
“You want a fantasy.” He joins me at the windows, standing close but not touching. “Henri tried to give you that fantasy for twelve years. Look how it ended.”
The casual cruelty of that statement makes me whirl to face him. “Don’t you dare blame Henri for what happened.”
“I’m not blaming him. I’m stating facts.” His voice remains maddeningly calm. “Henri thought he could keep you separate from the realities of his business arrangements. That protection cost him his life.”
I blink back tears at the memory of Henri’s blood on the marble floor, taking on a harsh veneer that feels brittle. “You think you can do better?”
“I think honesty serves you better than comfortable lies.” He steps closer, crowding me against the window. “Facing reality gives you a chance to survive what’s coming.”
“By surrendering my independence? By accepting your control over every aspect of my life?” I instinctively shake my head, rejecting the idea.
He puts a hand on the window beside my head. “By accepting partnership with someone who has the resources to keep you safe.” He brings up his other hand to cup my face, stroking my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. “Stop this pointless fight against something that’s already decided.”
I should pull away from his touch. Instead, I lean into his palm while my pulse hammers. “Nothing’s decided.”
“Isn’t it?” He brushes his thumb across my lower lip, and I feel the touch like electricity.
“You’ve been avoiding me for three days, but you came here anyway.
You’re angry about the business arrangements, but you’re not walking away.
You want independence, but you’re responding to my touch like you’ve been starving for it. ”
The accuracy of his assessment makes me flush with embarrassment and arousal in equal measure. “You’re reading too much into?—”
“I’m reading exactly what you’re showing me.
” His other hand settles on my waist, anchoring me against the window while his body cages me in.
“The way you look at me when you think I’m not watching…
How your breathing changes when I get close…
” He lowers his voice to a seductive whisper, “The way you kissed me back in Henri’s office like you were drowning and I was air… They all tell me something.”
“That was a mistake.”
“Was it? It felt like the first honest thing that’s happened between us.” His mouth hovers just inches from mine, close enough that I feel his breath against my lips. “Tell me you don’t want this, Willa. Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want me to kiss you again.”
I open my mouth to deliver exactly that denial, but the words won’t come.
How can I lie about something so fundamental when my entire body is screaming for his touch, and the memory of his mouth on mine has haunted every quiet moment for three days?
“I don’t have the luxury of wanting you,” I whisper instead.
“Don’t, or won’t?”
I recognize the questions echo the last time we had a variation of this conversation and give the same answer. “Does it matter?”