Page 13

The office is quiet.

Dim light slinks along the edges of the room, barely enough to cut through the shadows.

It smells of aged leather, expensive cigars, whiskey, and something more intimate—something unmistakably him.

The scent clings to the dark walls, to the plush curtains that spill heavy and thick across tall windows, to the deep grain of the mahogany desk positioned like a throne at the center of the room.

Everything here is designed to command, to intimidate. Even the fire—low behind an iron grate—flickers like it knows better than to blaze too bright.

I shouldn’t be here.

I tell myself that for the third, fourth, fifth time as I stand at the threshold, fingers curled tight against my palm. My dress clings to my legs like it resents the chill in the air. The silence presses in around me, thick and waiting.

I don’t leave.

The thought of my father—where he is, what they’ve done to him—burns hotter than the shame twisting low in my belly.

I step inside.

He doesn’t turn at first. He’s by the liquor cart, pouring something dark into a crystal glass, the sound of liquid hitting glass too refined for the weight of this moment. His suit is immaculate, his movements measured, like he’s been rehearsing this scene alone.

Then he turns. His eyes find mine with ease. Like he was expecting me. Like this was inevitable.

He doesn’t look startled. There’s no surprise in him. Just quiet amusement curling in the corner of his mouth, a flicker of something deeper in the dark glint of his gaze.

He lifts the glass, takes a slow sip, and watches me. Just watches. Like he’s giving me time to unravel.

I stay standing. Still. Every muscle drawn tight. My voice, when I find it, sounds too quiet in the vast room.

“If I do what you want—” I swallow hard. “—will you let my father live?”

He raises a brow at the question, as if it’s quaint. Like the answer should be obvious.

He doesn’t offer one. Not right away.

Instead, he takes another sip, his attention never wavering from me. The silence stretches between us until it starts to feel personal, intimate. Almost cruel.

Then he moves.

Not quickly. Not threateningly, but with a slow, predatory confidence, like he’s circling something fragile—something he could break without effort.

He stops just in front of me. Too close. His presence is overwhelming. Not just the heat of him, but the weight. The way the room bends around him.

My breath comes shallower as he reaches up and tilts my chin with two fingers, forcing me to look at him.

His voice is soft. Final. “I won’t kill him.”

That’s all.

The words drop between us like a lead weight, colder than the room. It takes me a second to understand why they feel so wrong.

I never asked how he’d let my father go. I never said free. I never said safe.

Just… let him live. Now I realize what that omission costs.

He won’t kill him, but he never promised anything else.

My breath catches in my throat. I want to push the words out. To demand more. A real answer. A guarantee.

I know what he’ll say—or worse, what he won’t. Part of me is afraid that even pressing the issue might provoke something I can’t handle.

Then he reaches for me again, and this time I stiffen.

His fingers return to my chin, holding me there—not tightly, not painfully, but with the quiet pressure of someone who knows I won’t pull away.

Someone who knows he’s already won this moment.

His hand is warm, rough from use, but careful.

Too careful. Like he enjoys drawing this out, enjoys watching me brace for something that hasn’t even happened yet.

His expression doesn’t shift. He watches me with that same unnerving focus—deep, cold, unreadable. There’s nothing kind in it. Nothing cruel either. Just total control.

I try to breathe evenly. Try to ignore how my chest feels too tight, how the fire crackling in the grate does nothing to chase the cold blooming beneath my skin. My heart pounds so hard that I’m sure he can feel it through his fingertips. Or worse—he can’t, and he doesn’t care.

He tilts my face slightly, adjusting the angle like I’m something to study. Like I’m already his, and he’s just inspecting what he owns. His thumb brushes slowly across the corner of my mouth.

I freeze.

The touch is featherlight. Measured. Not a caress. Not an accident. A deliberate question posed in silence: will you flinch?

I feel the tremor deep in my spine.

Then he leans in.

Not to kiss me—no, I realize too late. His mouth brushes just along the edge of my jaw, a ghost of heat that curls under my ear and lingers there, cruel in its softness.

My pulse spikes. My knees nearly buckle beneath me. He hasn’t done anything. Not really. The threat of it—the unspoken promise—sinks into my skin like a brand.

I tell myself this is for my father. That I can endure anything for him. That I’m here to negotiate, not submit.

That I don’t want this.

Even so, heat coils low in my stomach, thick and unwanted. My legs shift slightly, trying to alleviate the tension building with nowhere to go. I can feel the flush rising in my throat, spreading up to my cheeks. My breath stutters, too shallow now.

Andrei doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. I think he already knows.

He’s felt the shift in my breathing, seen the dilation of my eyes. Every sign of weakness I’ve tried to smother is laid bare beneath his gaze.

I hate that it’s working. I hate that some part of me isn’t recoiling. Most of all, I hate that I want to understand what happens if I don’t move. If I let him touch me again.

His touch drags down from my chin with the same deliberate control I’ve seen in every movement he makes—precise, composed, and laced with authority.

It doesn’t falter. It doesn’t linger awkwardly.

It just moves with the calm confidence of someone who knows the exact impact he’s having, and enjoys every second of it.

He traces the line of my neck, a slow descent past the ridge of my collarbone, until his fingers curl lightly along the slope of my shoulder and down my arm.

It’s not exploration. It’s memorization.

He moves like he’s etching every detail into memory, like each inch of my skin is something to be owned, not discovered.

Every nerve lights up beneath his touch, not from pain, but from unbearable attention.

As if my body, no matter how hard I try to control it, has already surrendered the truth of its responses.

My breath catches in my throat.

The effort it takes not to react is staggering. My lungs ache from holding in the tremor that wants to escape. My spine stiffens in rebellion against the instinct to lean into him. I want to stay still, want to fight it—but he moves like someone who’s always one step ahead.

His hand trails downward, grazing the inside of my arm, fingers skimming over the soft, sensitive skin just above my elbow. The contact is light, maddening, no firmer than a whisper. But it leaves heat in its wake, the kind of heat that burrows in and lingers.

Then he makes a sound. Low. Almost too quiet to hear. A rumble that vibrates at the base of his throat—half growl, half sigh. It isn’t a word. It doesn’t need to be. The sound isn’t meant to communicate. It’s meant to warn. Or claim.

I want to move away. I think about it—briefly. Just a step. Just enough to clear the space between us.

I can’t. Not because he’s holding me, but because the air between us has solidified, pressed tight with tension so thick it steals the ability to act.

So I close my eyes.

A mistake.

Everything else sharpens. His scent—rich and warm, threaded with whiskey and spice—wraps around me. The sound of his breath, calm and steady, fills my ears. The presence of him, towering and still, becomes unbearable.

My body, despite my resistance, leans in.

It’s subtle. A shift of weight. A tilt. He feels it. I know he does.

He exhales once, near my ear, and my skin prickles in response—raw, aware, humiliated.

I don’t want him to stop.

A sharp knock slices through the room like a blade.

I jolt.

The sound crashes through the haze like a sudden breath of cold air, breaking the tension that had thickened between us until it felt like a noose around my neck. My heart lurches in my chest, adrenaline surging too late to protect me from the damage already done.

Andrei doesn’t move. Not a flicker of surprise crosses his face. He remains as still and composed as he was a moment ago, like he’s known the interruption was coming and timed everything just to see how far I would let him go.

The door opens without waiting for permission.

Dima steps inside, all sharp lines and unreadable eyes.

His gaze sweeps across the room with surgical precision, taking in everything—me, still too close to his boss, flushed and breathless; Andrei, unbothered, towering over me like a shadow.

For the briefest second, Dima’s eyes meet mine.

There’s no sympathy there. No judgment either.

Just acknowledgment. Like he sees exactly what happened and knows it’s none of his concern.

“We have a problem,” he says, voice clipped.

That’s all it takes. The spell snaps.

Andrei steps back, his hand dropping away from my arm like it was never there.

He turns from me without a word, walking to the desk with the same ease he wore when he first poured his drink.

The only sound is the crisp tug of fabric as he adjusts his cuffs—straightening them, smoothing himself out like he’s shedding the moment.

His smirk ruins the illusion.

It’s not obvious. It’s small. Barely there. Just the faintest curl at the edge of his mouth as he reaches for his jacket.

But it’s enough. It says everything.

He felt it. Every stutter in my breath, every shift of my body. He knows exactly what I’m trying to pretend didn’t happen—and worse, he knows I can’t take it back.

That I let him touch me. That I let myself want it. Even for a second.

My stomach churns as I force myself upright, adjusting the fall of my dress with shaking fingers. My skin still buzzes where he touched it, the ghost of his breath lingering near my ear.

Andrei doesn’t look at me again. He slips into his jacket, nods once to Dima, and crosses the room toward the door.

As he passes, he doesn’t speak.

He walks past me without a glance, murmuring something beneath his breath I can’t make out.

It isn’t meant for me to hear. Maybe it’s not even meant for words—just sound, weight, dismissal.

Then the door swings open again, and Dima follows after him, quiet and composed, leaving me standing there like the silence itself is mocking me.

When the door clicks shut, the room changes.

The heat he carried vanishes, leaving the air colder than it should be. The fireplace still flickers behind its iron grate, but it doesn’t help. It’s ambient, distant, decorative—nothing like the heat that radiated from him. That lives in him.

I wrap my arms around myself, but the chill sinks deeper.

My skin still tingles in the places he touched, my lips swollen from a kiss that never happened.

I press my thighs together and hate the way I can still feel him there too—just the suggestion of pressure, of presence.

Andrei never rushed. He didn’t have to. His hands lingered like he had all the time in the world to make me forget what resistance felt like.

What scares me most is how much of me already had.

I should be relieved he’s gone. I should be angry.

Except… I miss him?

The concept makes my stomach twist violently.

I clench my fists, fingers curling hard into my palms until my nails sting. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps. My gaze snaps to the desk—the place where he left his drink. I move without thinking, crossing the room and reaching out, fingertips brushing the crystal glass he abandoned.

It’s still warm.

I snatch my hand back like it burned me.

What am I doing?

Why did I come here? What did I expect—that I could bargain with a man like Andrei Sharov? That I could trade myself for my father’s safety and walk away untouched? I knew better. I always knew better.

I should’ve run.

I could’ve. Hours ago. Before the wedding. Before the vow. Before the ring on my finger and his breath against my skin.

Now I don’t know what I’m more afraid of—what he’s doing to my father… or what he’s doing to me.

The fire draws me in, not for warmth, but for something steady to look at. I settle in front of it, sinking down to the carpet, arms folded tight across my body. I stare into the dancing flames until my eyes sting.

It doesn’t chase away the memory.

I still feel his fingers under my chin, along my jaw, his lips brushing my skin with calculated restraint. Not affection. Not even lust.

Possession.

My lips part without meaning to, and I can still feel the hitch in my breath from when he leaned close. My heart starts to race again, confused and traitorous.

I should feel used. Trapped. Sickened.

A part of me does feel all of that, but that’s not all I feel. There’s something else inside me now—twisting, taking root. It isn’t love. It’s not even hate.

It’s need.

A raw, disoriented need that makes no sense. It terrifies me. I don’t want to want him.

I can’t help myself. It’s not just his touch, but the certainty of it. The way he moves without hesitation, speaks with finality. As much as it unravels me, some part of me—some shameful, quiet part—wants to drown in that force. To let go. To stop resisting and just feel.

I whisper into the silence, “Don’t fall, not for him.”