8. Russ
RUSS
I spend most of Saturday irritated with myself, which is a fucking problem because I'm supposed to be focused on business, not on some redhead who's managed to get under my skin in the span of a single night.
The situation should have ended the second I realized Alex and Nick had both slept with her too.
That should have been it. Done. Over. Move on to the next woman and forget about Marla entirely.
Except I can't.
I'm sitting in my office at the warehouse, listening to one of my captains drone on about shipment schedules and distribution routes, and all I can think about is the way Marla looked at me that night at her cottage.
The way she trembled when I touched her, and the gasps of pleasure I'd wrung from her. The way she'd been so fucking responsive and genuine in her reactions.
"Boss?" The captain's voice cuts through my thoughts, and I realize he's been waiting for an answer to a question I didn't hear.
"What?" I snap, harsher than I meant.
He shifts uncomfortably, exchanging a glance with another captain who's standing near the door. "I asked if you wanted us to move the shipment to the secondary location or keep it at the primary warehouse."
I run a hand through my hair, forcing myself to focus. This is important.
This is the kind of decision that can't be made carelessly, not with the merger negotiations still ongoing.
"Secondary location," I say after a moment. "We're spreading things too thin at the primary warehouse, and I don't want everything in one place if something goes wrong."
He nods, making a note. "Got it. Anything else?"
"No." I wave my hand dismissively. "You can leave."
They leave quickly, and I'm alone again with my thoughts, which is exactly what I don't want.
I've been short-tempered all day, snapping at my men over minor issues, unable to concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes before my mind drifts back to Marla.
This is ridiculous. I've had plenty of women. Beautiful women, experienced women, women who knew exactly what they were getting into when they shared my bed.
Marla shouldn't be any different. She was supposed to be a one-night stand, nothing more. That's what she'd been after, too.
But she is different, and that's the problem.
By the time evening rolls around, I'm so frustrated with myself that I decide to get out of the warehouse entirely.
I need to clear my head, and there's only one place I know that might actually help.
My mother's house sits on the outskirts of the city, a modest two-story home that she's lived in for as long as I can remember.
It's nothing like the luxury penthouses and downtown condos that Alex and Nick prefer, but it's home in a way those places never could be.
I pull up in the driveway and sit in my car for a moment, trying to get my head straight before I go inside.
My mother has always been able to read me like a book, and the last thing I need is her asking questions I don't want to answer.
But I'm here now, and turning around would only make things worse.
I get out of the car and head up the front steps, letting myself in with the key she gave me years ago.
"Rustik?" Her voice comes from the kitchen, warm and familiar, calling me by my full name. "Is that you?"
"Yeah, Ma," I call back, closing the door behind me. "It's me."
She appears in the doorway a moment later, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
She's a small woman, barely five-three, with long blonde hair streaked with gray that she keeps pulled back in a bun.
Her dark eyes study me carefully, and I can see the exact moment she realizes something is off.
"You look terrible," she says bluntly, crossing her arms. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," I lie, following her into the kitchen. "I just thought I'd stop by for dinner."
She gives me a look that says she doesn't believe me for a second, but she doesn't push. Not yet. Instead, she gestures to the table. "Sit. I made borscht."
I sit, watching as she ladles soup into a bowl and sets it in front of me.
The kitchen smells like home and comfort, like everything that's good in a world that's mostly dark and dangerous.
My mother has always been my anchor, the one person who keeps me grounded when everything else threatens to pull me under.
She sits across from me with her own bowl, and for a few minutes, we eat in comfortable silence.
But I can feel her watching and studying me, and I know it's only a matter of time before she starts asking questions.
"So," she says finally, setting down her spoon. "Are you going to tell me what's bothering you, or am I going to have to guess?"
"Nothing's bothering me," I say, not meeting her eyes. "I'm fine."
"Rustik Stepanov, I know you better than you know yourself. Don't lie to me."
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "It's nothing, Ma. Just work stuff. The merger negotiations are complicated."
"Work," she repeats, her tone skeptical. "You've been handling work since you were eighteen years old. You don't get distracted by work."
"I'm not distracted."
"You are," she says firmly. "You've been distracted since you walked through that door. Actually, you look like you've been distracted for days. So either tell me what's going on, or I'm going to assume it's a woman."
I freeze, my spoon halfway to my mouth, and that's all the confirmation she needs.
Her face lights up with a smile that makes me want to sink through the floor. "It is a woman. Rustik, are you finally involved with someone seriously?"
"No," I say too quickly. "It's not like that."
"Then what is it like?"
I set down my spoon, trying to figure out how to explain this without actually explaining anything. "I met someone. It was supposed to be casual, just one night. But it's complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"Just complicated," I say, not wanting to get into the details of how Marla managed to sleep with all three pakhans involved in the merger negotiations. With my two best friends. "It doesn't matter. It's over."
My mother studies me for a long moment, her dark eyes seeing far too much. "You don't look like it's over."
"It is," I insist.
She reaches across the table and pats my hand, her touch gentle. "Rustik, you've been alone for a long time. Too long. I know you think you need to focus on the business, on being pakhan, but you're allowed to have a life too. You're allowed to care about someone."
"I don't care about her," I say, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears. "I barely know her."
"But you want to know her," my mother says softly. "I can see it in your eyes. You're thinking about her right now, aren't you?"
I don't answer, which is answer enough.
She smiles, squeezing my hand. "It's okay to be distracted by a woman, Rustik. It's normal. Healthy, even. You've spent so many years being careful and controlled, never letting anyone get close. Maybe it's time to let someone in."
"It's not that simple," I say, pulling my hand back. "The situation is complicated, and getting involved would be a mistake."
"Why?"
"Because it would be," I say, standing up from the table. "I should go. Thanks for dinner, Ma."
She stands too, following me to the door. "Rustik, wait. I'm not trying to push you into anything. I just want you to be happy. You deserve to be happy."
"I know," I say, leaning down to kiss her cheek. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."
"I'm your mother," she says, touching my face gently. "Worrying about you is my job. But for what it's worth, I haven't seen you look this distracted in years. Maybe that's not such a bad thing."
I leave before she can say anything else, getting back in my car and sitting there for a moment. My mother has always been able to see through my bullshit, and tonight was no exception. She's right that I'm distracted—that I can't stop thinking about Marla.
But she's wrong about it being a good thing. Getting involved with Marla would be a disaster, especially now that Alex and Nick are both interested in her too.
The merger negotiations are already complicated enough without adding a woman into the mix.
I should go home, pour myself a drink, and forget about Marla entirely.
Instead, I find myself driving toward the Ivory Wolf.
I tell myself it's just to check on business and make sure everything is running smoothly on a Saturday night. The club is always packed on weekends, and it's not unusual for one of us to stop by and make sure things are under control.
But I know that's not why I'm going. I'm going because I can't stop thinking about her, and maybe if I can find out more about her, I can figure out what the fuck is going on in my head.
Maybe she'll even be there. "Damn it," I curse, slapping my hand against the steering wheel.
I'm acting like a sick puppy looking for attention, hoping she'll be there.
The club is loud when I walk in, music pounding through the speakers and bodies packed onto the dance floor. I make my way through the crowd, nodding at a few of the regulars who recognize me, and head toward the bar.
Sharon, the blonde bartender who was with Marla the night we met, is working behind the bar, mixing drinks and chatting with customers.
I make my way over, sliding onto a barstool and waiting for her to notice me. When she does, her eyes widen slightly, and I can see the moment she recognizes me.
"Mr. Stepanov," she says, her voice a little too bright. "What can I get you?"
"Whiskey," I say, watching her carefully. "Neat."
She pours the drink quickly, her hands steady despite the nervousness I can see in her eyes. She sets the glass in front of me and starts to move away, but I stop her.
"Sharon, right?" I say casually, taking a sip of the whiskey.
She nods, her smile faltering slightly. "That's right."
"You were here a few weeks ago with a friend. Redhead, blue eyes." I pause and offer a slight smile. "Curvy."
Her nervousness increases, and I can see her trying to figure out where this is going. "Marla. Yeah, she's my best friend."
"Marla," I repeat. "She doesn't come here often, does she?"
"No," Sharon says carefully. "She's not really a club person. She mostly keeps to herself. Look, Mr. Stepanov, I don't mean to be rude, but I really need to get back to work. We're slammed tonight."
"Of course," I say, taking another sip of my whiskey. "One more question. Does she come here often? To the club?"
Sharon's eyes narrow slightly, and I can see her protective instincts kicking in. "Not really. Like I said, she's not a club person. She only came those few times because I convinced her to get out of the house."
"Those few times," I repeat, catching the plural. "How many times has she been here?"
"I don't know," Sharon says, her voice getting defensive. "A few. Why are you asking about her?"
"Just curious," I say, keeping my tone casual. "She seemed interesting."
Sharon studies me for a long moment, and I can see her trying to decide how much to say. Finally, she leans in slightly, her voice dropping. "Look, I don't know what's going on, but Marla is a good person. She's been through a lot, and she doesn't need any complications."
Before I can respond, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn to see Alex walking into the club, his eyes scanning the crowd until they land on me. A smirk crosses his face, and he makes his way over to the bar.
"Russ," he says, sliding onto the barstool next to me. "Didn't expect to see you here tonight."
"Could say the same about you," I reply, taking another sip of my whiskey.
Alex's smirk widens, and I know he knows exactly why I'm here. We're both here for the same reason, and the realization is both irritating and amusing.
"Checking on business?" Alex asks, his tone making it clear he doesn't believe that for a second.
"Something like that," I say, finishing my drink and standing up. "I was just leaving."
"Sure you were," Alex says, his eyes gleaming with amusement.
I leave the club without another word, getting back in my car and starting the engine. I should go home. I should go back to my place, get some sleep, and forget about this entire fucking day.
But as I drive through the city, I find myself taking turns without thinking. It's not until I'm on the road leading out of town that I realize where I'm going.
Marla's cottage is about five miles outside the city, down a winding road that cuts through the woods. I've only been there once, but apparently once was enough for my brain to memorize the route.
I catch myself turning down the road, and that's when it hits me. I'm being drawn to her, pulled toward her like a fucking magnet, and I don't know how to stop it.
This is a mistake. Getting involved with Marla would complicate everything, especially with Alex and Nick both interested in her too. The smart thing to do would be to turn around, go home, and forget about her entirely.
But as I drive down the dark road, the trees closing in on either side, I realize I'm not going to do the smart thing.
I'm going to see her.