Chapter 11
Eleven
Katriana
Iwake to an empty penthouse. Disappointment settles heavily in my chest.
The silence tells me before I even open my eyes.
There are no footsteps in the hallway, no distant clink of coffee cups from the kitchen, no low rumble of his voice carrying through the walls.
The penthouse holds its breath around me, still and hollow in a way that speaks of absence.
I glance at the door between our rooms to find it pulled firmly shut.
An ache of rejection flares hot and unwanted in my chest before I can smother it.
Why? I don’t know. I don’t really care to find out either.
Loneliness curls through me, unexpected and unwelcome, followed quickly by irritation at myself for feeling it at all.
Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets where I spent the night tossing and turning and definitely not thinking about the man in the next room.
The clock on the nightstand reads half past seven, which means I've slept far longer than I intended and far less restfully than I needed.
I push back the covers and pad toward the bathroom, refusing to examine the hollow feeling in my chest. A shower will help clear my head and wash away the lingering images of moonlight on bare skin.
And if I try really hard it might even erase the echo of my name moaned like a prayer in the darkness.
The bathroom is as luxurious as I remembered.
It’s all white marble and gleaming fixtures.
A shower large enough to fit four people comfortably sits off to the left.
I strip off the silk pajamas and step under water hot enough to turn my skin pink.
I let it sluice over my shoulders and down my back while I force my mind to focus on practical matters.
Today is my first real day of work. I need to be professional. Composed. I need to remember that Drake Moses is my employer, not my lover, no matter what happened in that library last night or what I witnessed through the crack in that door.
By the time I emerge from the shower wrapped in a towel softer than anything I've ever owned, I feel marginally more human. I'm halfway across the bedroom when I notice it. A folded piece of paper on the dresser that I missed in my bleary-eyed stumble toward the bathroom.
I pick it up and read the masculine scrawl.
You'll find your closet full. If I missed anything please let me know immediately. - D
My closet full?
I cross to the double doors I assumed led to a modest storage space and pull them open, then stand frozen in the doorway while my brain tries to process what I'm seeing.
The walk-in closet stretches before me like a boutique showroom, lined with racks of clothing in every color and style imaginable.
Blouses in silk and cotton hang beside pencil skirts and tailored trousers.
Dresses for every occasion occupy their own section, from professional sheaths to flowing evening gowns that I would never even consider buying much less trying on.
Multiple shelves hold rows of shoes arranged by height and color, from sensible flats to stilettos that make my arches ache just looking at them.
He filled an entire closet with clothes for me and didn't even mention it.
I don't know whether to be touched or terrified by the gesture, so I settle for practical. I have a job to do, and standing here gaping at designer labels won't get it done.
I select a simple navy skirt that hits just above the knee and a white silk blouse that feels like water against my skin.
The kitten heels I choose are comfortable enough for a full day on my feet but elegant enough to fit into the world I've suddenly found myself inhabiting.
I tuck the blouse into the waistband of the skirt and examine myself in the full-length mirror, adjusting the fabric until the lines fall clean and professional.
My hair presents more of a challenge. The humidity from the shower has brought out its natural curl, and I don't have the energy to fight it into submission. Instead, I let the dark waves hang loose, falling past my shoulders and down my back in a way that feels more vulnerable than I'd like.
The bathroom drawers yield more surprises. Fresh packs of lipgloss in neutral shades that are my favorite. Hair products that smell like vanilla and coconut. Tampons. Face powder and mascara in brands I recognize from magazine advertisements but have never been able to afford.
A woman bought these. Someone who understood what I would need, who thought about the small details that men so often overlook. I wonder who I have to thank for this thoughtfulness, and I file the question away to ask later.
I spot a white box in the same drawer. My birth control pills. There’s a note attached in Drake’s handwriting.
I saw this brand on the kitchen counter in your apartment. If you need anything else, please let me know. - D
He’s thought of everything. Even the idea of me eventually giving in to his charms.
Arrogant man.
I take it for medical reasons, but yeah not getting pregnant is a good reason too because I think the impossible man might be right.
Instead of analyzing my weaknesses toward my boss, I apply minimal makeup. It’s just enough to feel put together, and then I slide my glasses on. The woman staring back at me from the mirror looks almost professional and like she belongs in a building full of powerful men and expensive secrets.
Almost.
The kitchen smells like coffee and something sweet when I finally emerge from the bedroom, my heels clicking softly against the marble floors.
I round the corner expecting to find Drake and stop short when I see Konstantin sprawled on one of the leather stools at the island, a cup of coffee cradled in his massive hands and a plate of strawberries arranged before him like a still life painting.
He looks up when I enter, and a grin spreads across his face that makes his ice-colored eyes crinkle at the corners.
"You are the cutest secretary I've ever seen.
" His Russian accent curls around the words like smoke, soft but unmistakably present, turning his vowels into something musical and his consonants into crushed velvet. "Those glasses.” He throws up a chef’s kiss.
“I don't know how my brother will get any work done with you looking as edible as all these strawberries. "
Heat floods my cheeks at the compliment, and I adjust my glasses in a nervous gesture I can't seem to break.
Konstantin is dressed casually today, dark jeans paired with a gray henley that stretches across his broad shoulders.
The sleeves are pushed up to reveal forearms covered in intricate tattoos that disappear beneath the fabric.
He looks like a man who could snap someone's neck without breaking a sweat.
He probably has, but there's a warmth in his expression that softens the edges of his dangerous aura.
"Don't be shy, malyshka." He pushes the plate of berries toward me. "Take some."
“Malyshka,” I repeat. “What does that mean?”
“Baby girl. Little one. It is almost like your sweetheart in English. I can’t wait to see Drake's face when I call you malyshka." A dark playfulness settles over Kon’s expression. His lip kicks up in a smirk full of brotherly affection toward Drake.
I file that away for later. Instead of encouraging him, I cross to the island and perch on the stool beside him, reaching for a couple of the plump red fruits.
The first one bursts across my tongue, sweet and tart and perfectly ripe, and I close my eyes for a moment to savor the simple pleasure of good food.
When I open them, Konstantin is watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
There's a calmness about him, a stillness that speaks of a man completely comfortable in his own skin.
But underneath that tranquility lurks a darkness, a shadow that says quite clearly that if you cross him, he will gladly make you pay for it in ways you can't imagine.
He doesn't scare me. I'm not sure what that says about me at this point. Either I've become so desensitized to dangerous men that my survival instincts have atrophied, or I genuinely like him despite the threat he represents.
Only time will tell which it is.
“Good, yeah?”
I nod. “Very sweet. Where is Mr. Moses?"
"Boss had early business." Konstantin takes a long sip of his coffee, the dark liquid steaming gently in the morning light. "I'm your guard for a little while if you don’t mind."
Boss. The word lands in my chest with an unexpected sting. Drake left before I woke up, sent someone else to escort me to work, didn't even bother to say good morning himself.
No. This is better, I tell myself firmly. Distance is good. Distance is safe. Distance means I won't do anything stupid like kiss him again or watch him through cracked doors in the middle of the night.
Konstantin rises from his stool and crosses to the coffee maker, pouring a fresh cup that he presses into my hands with a gentleness that surprises me. The ceramic is warm against my palms, and the rich, bitter aroma curls up to tease my senses.
"Cream? Sugar? Bourbon?"
I let out a soft chuckle. "Not this early but come find me after work. Black is fine for now. Thank you."
He nods approvingly and leads me toward the elevator, making small talk as we walk.
He asks about my morning, comments on the weather, mentions that Marta left muffins in the bread box if I want something more substantial than fruit.
His kindness has a polished quality, like a host making sure a new guest feels welcome.
The elevator doors slide open and we step inside, the car beginning its descent toward the lower floors of Redthorne Holdings.
"You called Drake 'boss,'" I say, watching the floor numbers tick downward. "But I thought you worked with him, not for him."