Chapter 11 #2
It's a list. Rowan’s name is at the top in bold ink.
It was written in by hand. Underneath are dates, locations, cargo manifests.
Shipping routes through Eastern European ports.
Numbers that look like payments, amounts large enough to make my stomach turn.
Notes in the margins, handwritten, cramped script that's hard to decipher.
And then at the very bottom is one name that makes my insides turn rigid with anger.
Nikolai Volkov.
Rowan's name on the paper made me nervous. His son's name makes everything click into place with a violence that leaves me dizzy. I turn the paper over and then everything makes so much sense. In bold block letters the note reads:
You have a mole. Your son has your routes. Found this on a dead man at a warehouse Nikolai uses. Be careful.
He must have been on his way to Redthorne to give this to Rowan.
My heart sinks to the rock hard floor. Nikolai is behind all of it. The shipping problems Rowan has been working through on his tablet while I sketch on his floor. The organized pressure on their operations. The strategic campaign to dismantle everything Rowan has built.
It’s all due to his son. He’s going to be so heartbroken.
The dead contact who walked into my shop and bought roses and dropped this paper was trying to warn Rowan. And Nikolai killed him for it.
I sit on the edge of the bed. My hands are shaking again, but not from pleasure this time.
I fold the paper. Put it back in my boot.
I can't tell him. Not yet. Let him have one more night of calm and I’ll tell him in the morning. He deserves the truth, but he also deserves to have a moment for himself. I can't be the knife that cuts him tonight.
I'm sitting on the bed turning the weight of the secret over in my mind when the sound of water hitting stone fills the compound.
I was so occupied with the paper, I didn’t realize Rowan was in the bathroom.
The door stands ajar.
Not all the way. But enough that steam curls through the gap carrying the scent of his soap.
I stand from the bed. My bare feet are silent on the marble as I cross the room, drawn toward the sliver of light and steam like a moth with zero survival instincts. I ease up to the gap and peer through.
The shower has a glass wall that faces the cliff-face windows, and through those windows the lake stretches dark and endless under the night sky.
I should step back. I should close the door and crawl into bed like a grown woman with an ounce of self-preservation.
I don't step back. Nor do I look away.
Through the gap in the door, through the steam, I can see him.
The glass wall frames him against the lake and the night sky.
Water runs down his back, over the Bratva ink across his shoulders, down the Scandinavian runes along his forearms. His hands are braced against the stone wall, head bowed, the water hitting the back of his neck and streaming over muscles I had my fingers against this morning.
I dip my attention off the skin art and lower over a firm biteable ass and legs just as well-formed as the rest of him.
And then Rowan turns and my whole night shifts from possibly losing my virginity to most definitely giving this man my body.
I gasp softly with the fear of being caught. It tangles with everything else burning through me.
I wait for him to notice me standing in the bathroom door, but his eyes are thankfully closed.
His hand moves. His head drops lower. The tension in his shoulders shifts from the weight he carries as a powerful mafia man to a need he won’t allow himself to sate.
His breathing changes, audible even over the water, and the rhythm of his hand is deliberate and unhurried. Rowan Volkov does everything with patience. Including pleasuring himself.
This morning in the doorway was for me. He wanted me to see what I do to him, wanted to watch my face while he gripped himself and let the pre-cum slide over his fingers. That was a dare wrapped in a show and he walked away before I could call his bluff.
This is different. He's not performing. He's not watching for my reaction. His head is bowed, his breathing ragged, and every stroke carries a desperation the doorway version didn't have. The man in the doorway was in control. The man in the shower has none.
Thick fingers wrap around a thicker cock and he’s working his long, fully aroused length with hard, fast jerks.
I can't move. My body locks in place. Heat pools low in my belly. My thighs press together. My fingers grip the edge of the doorframe.
Then my name falls from his lips.
He steps from the water, throwing his other hand up to brace against the glass wall.
With the water now hitting his back I appreciate the pinched expression on his rugged face.
His eyes are still closed and his lips peel back with a low, animalistic growl.
He strokes his beautiful cock, the head swollen and angry-looking.
He strokes, hard, fast but the explosion of his release doesn’t come. I can help him, that’s why I came here. But should I? Self-doubt has me second-guessing my actions. He walked away from me when he had a chance to have me.
I chance a look up and at that exact second ice-colored eyes slam open and pin me in place.
"Cora."
The artery in his neck thumps fast and erratic.
My thighs squeeze tighter against the throbbing need pulsing there. Showtime. Can’t run and hide like a little girl now.
I should close the door. I should look away.
But that is not what I do.
I raise my gaze to his. And then I close the door behind me.