3. Emory
EMORY
It's the light streaming in the windows before dawn that wakes me, reminding me I'm not at home.
I have blackout curtains to keep this from happening, as well as a sleep mask that protects my eyes from the rude invasion.
Before I even open my eyes, I know something wild happened.
My body aches a little, tender from the waist down from whatever I did last night, and the warm lingering scent of a man clings to my nostrils.
It's early, maybe just barely dawn, and I have a slamming headache, but I let my eyes flutter open to reveal a hard body draped in a black sheet, lying next to me on the bed.
The images that flash back in my mind rapidly bring a half-grin to my face, as I begin to remember in bits and pieces.
There was vodka, and art… and my God, the way this man made me feel.
Sucking in a deep breath of him, I let my eyes flutter shut again and think about just going back to sleep.
The damage is done, right?
My father will already assume the worst, and a few more minutes of sleep won't make the punishment any worse than it already will be.
Besides, I'm exhausted and drained, and this little nightclub bedroom lair feels more comfortable than my own bed.
Any minute my own house will be rousing, too loudly to keep sleeping.
But I have finals to study for, and Irina will want to know all the juicy details as soon as possible.
And if I lie here in this bed until Rashid wakes, I'll have to explain why I can't give him my number, and why a relationship between a woman my age and a man his age is unconscionable.
My father would kill me, and him… but maybe just him.
And even if he didn’t, I don't know that he'd ever look at me the same way again.
To know his little girl soiled herself with a man almost his age might send him to an early grave.
I want to move, but I don't have the energy to do anything more than concentrate on the sensations in my body.
My head throbs, but my vagina feels wrecked, like he literally destroyed me.
I remember him feeling huge, so big it burned when he pushed into me, though I wasn't a virgin by any means.
My heart flips when I think about whether we even used protection. I can't remember.
He was just so alluring, and I was drunk.
This isn't good.
Pushing myself up, I look around the room.
My clothes are strewn around, clutch dropped near the door where he kissed me first.
But making myself get out of this warm bed is torture.
I linger long enough, struggling to keep my head from throbbing too hard, that Rashid turns over, draping his arm across my leg.
When I look down at his chest, it's bare.
Last night in the darkness, all I noticed were his eyes—and that painting.
But mostly his eyes.
They devoured me like I was the only thing in this room worth looking at when he literally has a masterpiece hung on his wall.
But this morning, as he turns and the sheet slides off his body revealing the hard planes of muscle I felt under my fingertips last night, my heart stops.
It literally decides to shut down and stop beating as my jaw drops and my eyes go wide as saucers.
Rashid's chest is scarred with black ink, emblazoned on his skin like a brand, and the dark images make me freeze with shock and fear.
"Holy shit..." I whisper, blinking a few times to make sure my eyes aren't playing tricks on me.
I even lean closer to confirm it, but the tattoo right in the center of his chest, covering a few scars and his sternum, makes my throat constrict and my stomach lurch.
Intricate black swirls wrap around the rays of an eight-pointed star. At the center is a black rose in full bloom.
Rashid isn't just a handsome club owner, and I know why he has that Surikov on his wall.
Rashid is a—no, he's the Krasnov.
The fucking leader... and I slept with him.
"Oh, no, no, no," I hiss, sliding off the bed as gently as I can.
It's one thing to have a random one-night stand with a good-looking rich man in a bedroom above a nightclub—which so obviously belongs to him.
Why didn't I see that?
But it's another entirely to fuck a man with mafia ties. And this man doesn't just have mafia ties. He is the mafia.
My feet stumble a few steps, slapping on the floor so loudly I fear it will wake the sleeping giant, but I manage to find my dress and shrug it on, then my shoes.
My panties are somewhere, probably tangled in the sheets, but my focus is finding my left heel and getting my clutch.
Rashid cannot wake up and see me fumbling around. I can't let him ask me my last name, or try to find out where I came from.
Men like him eat women like me for breakfast, and if my father makes any fuss at all, it could be the death of us.
I know his type doesn't mess around or play games.
He probably thinks he owns me now or something.
When I'm sufficiently dressed, I rush to the door, passing the painting that hooked me to begin with, and then slip into the hallway with my pulse racing.
For a second I lean on the door behind me after it's shut and breathe, trying to calm myself.
My pulse is racing so fast it's not easy to think straight, but I still feel slightly drunk too, which makes me wonder if I woke up in a blacked-out state and had more sex than just the first time.
It's not like I can ask him, but I wonder.
Then I start my walk of shame, wobbling on shaking legs down a narrow hallway that's too bright for this time of day, past a man in a dark suit seated at a narrow high-top table.
He looks up from his magazine and eyes me, but says nothing as I tug my dress a bit higher in the front to make sure my tits are covered.
I pass him and head through the club and out the front door without anyone stopping me or asking any dumb questions.
Worst walk of shame in my life.
I'm such an idiot.
I curse myself the entire trek to my car, which starts on the first try, rather than three times like it has been lately.
Batya says it's the starter going out, but it doesn't matter what's wrong with it if I can't afford to fix it.
But it gets me where I need to go, which right now is home.
It's early, so I hope by being quiet and slipping in without turning on any lights I can manage to get away with my overnighter without much fuss.
But Batya is already seated at the kitchen table with his laptop open and a cup of coffee next to him.
His eyes drift up to take me in as I turn around.
I can tell by the expression on his face of stolid anger that he's not happy with me.
"Where were you?" he asks, picking up his coffee mug to have a sip. There's probably vodka in it, not coffee, or maybe he's mixed it into his coffee this morning. That's not entirely unheard of.
"Out," I mumble, dropping my clutch and keys on the sidebar. "I had Irina's party last night, remember?" I try to avoid eye contact with him as I kick off my heels.
Wearing no panties under this dress makes me feel exposed, though I know my father can't read my mind or know that.
And the overly moist sensation between my legs would be mortifying if he did know.
"Out?" he quips, but I know he's not asking for an explanation. He's upset, like I knew he would be. He thinks he can still coddle me and give me curfews. I’m twenty-three years old, not a child. I don’t need a babysitter or guardian.
"Not calling home is disrespectful, Emory. I've taught you better than that."
"Batya, please?—"
"That girl is a bad influence on you." His tone is sharp, but I bite back my response. At least he still thinks I was with Irina and doesn't know or even suspect the truth. "You used to be such a good girl, Emory. What's gotten into you?"
I hate when he pulls that line out. I am a good girl. I am .
And I resent the sentiment that enjoying my life makes me somehow bad.
I've done nothing but help him and serve him since I turned eighteen. Technically, I could be on my own.
But then every time I think about it, I worry about him.
Rebecca is gone, so is Mamochka.
Without me he has no one, and his life isn't exactly easy on him.
It softens my heart, and I walk over to rest my hand on his shoulder and kiss the top of his head.
"I’m sorry, Batya. You're right. I should've called." I linger there, waiting for him to press his hand to mine and pat it.
Then he says, "You stink like booze. Go shower, dochka ."
I grit my teeth and press my eyes shut for a second, again refusing to bite back.
Then I pull away, heading straight to our shared bathroom.
He's right, I smell like booze and sex, and I hate the stench of Rashid Krasnov—a man who needs no more reason to hurt my family than the fact that we exist.
My father works for some really bad men, and even they don't scare me as much as the name Krasnov.
I was so foolish going along with him, up to his little love nest. I should’ve known better.
Batya warned me not to even go to that club and I had no clue why.
Now I know.
He knew all along it was controlled or owned by the Krasnovs, and I didn't. I should’ve trusted him.
The dress clings to me as I peel it off, and so do the sensations of Rashid's hands on my skin as I step into the flow of hot water.
It's one small luxury I can afford to indulge in—a steamy bath to wash away the filth I allowed into my world.
But God, was it incredible.
Rashid made my body sing like he was my creator and knew just how I function, and I've never had sex that amazing.
Not to mention with a man that powerful or attractive.
And that Surikov on his wall?
Just seeing one is a dream come true, but knowing I slept with the man who owns it—whether or not he stole it—puffs up my ego a few notches.
But I don't have time to sit around berating myself for the mistake of fucking a criminal.
Irina is getting married next weekend and if I'm going to enjoy that wedding the way I should, I need to pass my finals and finish this term.
It means I can't afford to let trivial worries like what Rashid will think when he wakes up and finds me gone distract me.
Besides, it doesn't matter.
I can never tell a soul what happened.
And I can never do something so foolish in my life ever again.