Page 12

CHAPTER 12

Sabrina

The soft buzz of my phone drags me up from somewhere deep.

At first, I don’t move. I’m warm, cocooned in soft bedding and something else—something heavier and far more dangerous. It takes me a second to register the thick, muscled arm draped around my waist, anchoring me in place like I belong here. Like this is home.

Oleksi.

His scent is everywhere—on the sheets, on my skin, buried in my hair. My body still aches from what we did. My thighs are tender, my wrists feel slightly sore, and my clit… Jesus. Just the thought of his mouth, his voice, that blindfold, makes my pussy throb again.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block it out.

I can't go there.

Not again.

The phone buzzes again and I carefully slide out from beneath Oleksi’s arm. He shifts slightly, murmuring something in Russian under his breath, but doesn’t wake. I grab the phone from my purse on the bedside table, my fingers trembling slightly as I check the screen.

Sam: Clyde’s alive. Found him in a hospital in New York. Call me.

My heart stops for a beat.

Sam has found Clyde. Does that mean he has Tara as well?

I stare at the message, stunned, trying to push the chaos of last night out of my mind. I tiptoe across the room and start collecting my things, moving quietly as I slip my dress back on, gather my panties from the floor, and find my shoes. I see my bra on the chair and pick it up.

The straps have been cut so I won’t be able to use it again. Fuck it has been so hard to find one with these very thin straps that hid beneath the ones of my little black dress. I shove it into my purse with my panties.

Behind me, the sheets rustle.

“Sabrina?”

His voice is low, gravelly with sleep, and it slides over my skin like a silk scarf.

I freeze. “Oh!”

“Is everything okay?”

I turn slowly, finding him propped up on one elbow, the sheets barely covering his hips. His hair’s tousled, his chest broad and bare and impossible to ignore. Even sleep-softened, there’s a dangerous power in him.

I swallow. “Oh, it's my mom. She just texted—Elena’s being restless.”

“Elena?” His brow furrows. “Who’s Elena?”

I brace myself. “My daughter.”

The words hang in the air like smoke.

“You have a daughter?” he asks slowly, like he’s not sure he heard me right.

I nod. “She’s eight months old. And she stays with my mom on the weekends when I work.” I try to smile, to shrug it off like it’s no big deal. “I need to get her. Sorry to leave like this.”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—shock, confusion, maybe something else I don’t have time to unpack. I have bigger things that need my attention like the fact that Sam may just have found my sister.

He sits up, sheets falling to his lap, his abs flexing with the movement, and Jesus, why does he have to look like that first thing in the morning?

“Can I take you?” he offers.

“No.” It comes out too quickly, too sharp. I scramble for an excuse. “I have my car. You should go back to sleep.”

His gaze lingers on me, heavy with unspoken thoughts, but he doesn’t push. “Of course.”

I nod, give him a tight smile, clutching my purse tighter and quickly slip on my shoes. My heels click softly against the floor as I slip out the door, my heart pounding like I’ve just done something wrong.

Maybe I have.

By the time I reach the foyer of the Golden Lights, I’m already dialing Sam.

He answers on the second ring. “Sabrina?”

“Is she with him?”

“No.” His voice is tight. “She was gone by the time I got here. But don’t worry—I’m looking for her.”

I grip my phone tighter. “Where is she, Sam?”

“I don’t know yet.” Sam’s voice is low and I can hear the edge of concern in it.

“Doesn’t Clyde know where she is?”

There's a pause before Sam tells me, “Clyde’s in a coma, Sabrina and it’s not looking good. He was shot twice. Once in the chest and then in the stomach.”

“Oh my God!” Shock pulses through me. “Is he going to live?”

“I don’t know.” Another pause. “I’m going to stay here until he wakes up, and while I’m here, I’ve got some contacts digging around to find her.” He clears his throat. “Listen I’ve already called your mother to let her know I’m looking for Tara now and she’s fired that idiot PI.” Another extended silence. “ You can tell Oleksi Mirochin his services are no longer required as well.”

A strange sensation prickles through my chest. Not relief. Not entirely. There’s a flash of disappointment, sharp and bitter, and I hate that I feel it.

“That’s… good,” I manage to say, keeping my voice steady.

“Are you okay, kid?” Sam asks, gentler now.

I don’t answer right away. How am I? I’ve just spent the night submitting to a Bratva prince who now knows I have a child. I’m exhausted, raw, sore, and drowning in sensations I don’t fully understand.

“I’m fine,” I lie, hoping I sound convincing enough.

“Good.” Clyde breathes a sigh of relief. “For a moment there your voice sounded like something had happened.”

“No!” I say a little too quickly. “Nothing happened. I think what you heard was disappointment and concern over Tara not being with Clyde.”

“Don’t worry, kid, I’ll find her,” Clyde promises.

“Thank you, Sam.” My voice wavers and I hate it.

“Stay out of trouble, while I’m gone,” he says softly. “I don’t want your daddy haunting me because I let anything happen to another one of his daughters.”

“Tara isn’t your fault, Sam,” I remind him.

“That’s debatable,” Sam mutters. “I must go. I’ll call you as soon as I have more news.”

The call ends and I stand there for a moment, just breathing. Trying to pull myself together before I head for the car, keys clenched tight in my hand like a lifeline. By the time I reach my apartment, the sun’s creeping higher into the sky. I lock the door behind me and lean against it for a second.

Then I pull out my phone and type out a message to Oleksi.

Thanks for the offer, but we have someone more reliable looking for Tara now.

I stare at it. I should leave it at that. But my thumb hovers.

Should I thank him for last night? For the mind-blowing, life-altering sex that still has my legs trembling?

No. I bite the inside of my cheek. Don’t be stupid. You’re not sixteen. You don’t thank a man for making you feel like your soul shattered and was rebuilt through your pussy.

I hit send before I can do something I’ll regret.

Dropping the phone on the couch, I head for the shower. I need to wash the night off me—his scent, his taste, the imprint of his mouth on my skin. I need to scrub him out of my pores and try to reclaim my sanity.

But even under the hot spray, as the steam curls around me and the water slides over every aching inch of my body, I can still feel him.

His mouth on my nipples.

His hands holding me down.

His hard shaft buried inside me as I scream out his name.

And his voice.

Soothing. Commanding. Worshipping.

I press my forehead against the tiles, my breath catching.

Because no matter how hard I scrub… I can’t seem to wash that away.

Not even a little.