Page 81 of Scarlet Thorns

Ilona

Yesterday feels like I imagined it all.

Osip showing me through each room of this impossible mansion, his deep voice explaining duties and schedules while my body hummed with awareness I couldn’t hide. The way he stood just close enough that I caught hints of his cologne— dark, expensive, intoxicating. How his fingers brushed mine when he handed me the master key ring, that brief contact sending electricity shooting up my arm.

Head in the game, Ilona.

But God, the tension between us was suffocating. Every time he looked at me, I felt stripped bare, like he could see straight through to the part of me that wanted to press him against the nearest wall and find out if his mouth tastes as dangerous as it looks.

I was so wet by the end of that tour I could barely walk straight. Actually wet, not just aroused— like my body had forgotten every rule about appropriate employer-employee boundaries. When he said goodbye, his voice dropping to that gravelly murmur, I nearly came undone right there in front of him.

Professional.

You’re his professional housekeeper.

Nothing more.

Today is my first real day of work, and I need to prove I can handle this job without melting into a puddle every time he’s near me. I know he’d said that there’s a cleaning crew, but I feel like simply overseeing everything isn’t enough work. Besides, what better way to get to know the place than by scrubbing it all?

I work my way through, room by room, until I finally manage to shake most of my inappropriate thoughts away. Until I reach the end of the upstairs hallway.

His bedroom door stands slightly ajar as I reach the master suite, and I knock softly before pushing it open. “Mr. Sidorov… um… Osip? Housekeeping.”

Silence. The space beyond feels empty, charged with his absence rather than his presence.

I step inside and immediately understand why this room commands the entire top floor. Wall-to-wall windows frame the Danube like a living painting, light streaming across plush gray carpet and custom furniture. Everything is precisely arranged, meticulously clean— except for the unmade bed that still carries the indent of his body.

The sheets are twisted, pillows scattered like he fought battles in his sleep.

I approach the bed slowly, my eyes tracing the depression in the Egyptian cotton where his body lay just hours ago. The covers are thrown back carelessly, and I can almost see him there— all that controlled power finally relaxed in sleep. His dark hair mussed against the pillow, those sharp cheekbones softened by rest.

Would he sleep shirtless?

The thought sends heat spiraling through my core. God, I bet he would. A man that confident in his own skin wouldn’t bother with pajamas. I imagine the morning light playing across the broad expanse of his chest, highlighting muscles I’ve only glimpsed beneath expensive suits. His body would be a roadmap of controlled strength— defined abs, powerful shoulders, maybe some interesting scars.

Stop it, Ilona.

That’s enough.

But my treacherous mind keeps painting pictures. The way his breathing would sound in the quiet darkness. How his face might look stripped of that careful mask he wears, vulnerable in sleep. Whether he dreams of violence or something softer.

I force myself to move away from the bed before I do something insane like press my face into his pillow and breathe him in. The nightstand holds a single framed photograph that makes me pause— a pregnant woman with gentle eyes and dark hair, her hand resting protectively over a clearly pregnant belly.

Who is she?

Pretty, serene, clearly important enough to keep beside his bed. His wife? Ex-wife? Where is she now, and why haven’t I seen her in this house? The jealousy that spikes through me is immediate and irrational. I have no claim on this man, no right to feel territorial about his past.

Cut out the jealousy, Ilona.

You’re his housekeeper.

But the possessive ache in my chest doesn’t listen to logic.

I start with the bathroom— black marble and gleaming fixtures that belong in a luxury hotel. The rainfall shower dominates one corner, glass-walled and spacious enough for two people. More than two people.

The thought makes me stop in my tracks. Osip, naked under that cascading water. Steam rising around that powerful body— I can imagine exactly what he’d look like stripped bare and it makes me squeeze my thighs together.

My pulse quickens as unwanted images flood my mind. Water streaming down the carved planes of his chest, following the trail of dark hair I’m sure leads south to… God. The man radiates raw masculinity even fully clothed. Naked, he’d be devastating. All that controlled power on display, tattoos I’d want to explore with my hands and mouth.