Page 32 of Darkest Oblivion

I froze, my heart slamming against my ribs, and turned.

It wasn’t Dmitri.

It was him.

The man who’d dragged me to Dmitri’s dockside tent, his crooked nose and scarred face burned into my memory.

Now he stood in the doorway, black suit crisp, eyes as cold as the gun likely holstered under his jacket.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I snapped, my hands gripping the counter until my knuckles whitened.

He smirked, dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “Where else would I be? This is my boss’s house.” His boots clicked against the marble as he closed the space between us. “Better get used to seeing me, princess. I’m your shadow now.”

My blood boiled. “I don’t need a shadow. Or a babysitter.”

“Too bad.” He brushed past me to the fridge.

He pulled out a chilled bottle of sparkling water, cracked the seal, and slid it across the counter toward me. “Drink. You look like you’ll faint before you finish chopping that garlic.”

“I can cook for myself,” I hissed, my knife hitting the board harder than necessary.

His chuckle was low, knowing, as he leaned against the counter. “You can, sure. But why bother when standing right here is a chef who’s fed dons and presidents?” He gestured at himself with a lazy sweep. “Paris, Milan, Bocuse d’Or—ring any bells? I cook. You eat. That’s the arrangement.”

I glared, hating the smug tilt of his mouth.

Hating him. Hating Dmitri. Hating this whole nightmare. Fine. If he wanted to act like a master chef, I’d make him regret it.

“Alright then,” I said coldly, arms crossing. “Fusilli arrabbiata. Lobster risotto with saffron. Grilled octopus with lemon herb. And tiramisu from scratch. Don’t you dare cut corners.”

His brow arched, his smirk widening into something sharper. “That’s not dinner, sweetheart—that’s punishment.”

“If you can’t handle it, just admit it,” I shot back, my voice laced with challenge.

His laugh rumbled in his chest, dangerous. “You really don’t know who you’re playing with.” He rolled up his sleeves with theatrical precision, pulling pans from the rack. “Get out of my kitchen before I make you eat your words with your pasta.”

Good. Let him sweat.

I walked out, spine stiff, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a backward glance.

The warmth of the kitchen vanished behind me, replaced by the vast cold of the living room. My next problem loomed: where would I sleep? Definitely not in Dmitri’s room.

The upstairs corridor stretched ahead like a gauntlet.

I tried one door—locked. Another—sealed tight. Panic scraped at my chest with every click of the deadbolts. Hours ago, these rooms had been open. Now it was as if the house itself conspired to trap me with him.

The last door creaked open.

The bedroom swallowed me whole. And there he was.

Dmitri Volkov.

A towel slung dangerously low on his hips, his body still damp from the shower, droplets trailing down the ridges of his chest.

My breath caught.

My eyes betrayed me, tracing the expanse of muscle and—God—scars. Pale ridges, jagged lines, old and new, mapping his torso like battlefields carved into flesh.

Proof of a life steeped in violence. Proof he’d survived it all. Proof he was built to endure.