Page 20 of Shatter Me (Beautiful Monsters #2)

20

TASH

I wake to early morning sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. Every muscle in my body aches deliciously as memories of last night flood back. I stretch carefully, cataloging each tender spot on my body—evidence of Dmitri's passion written on my skin.

His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer against his chest. "Going somewhere?" His voice is rough with sleep.

"Just stretching." I roll over to face him, struck by how different he looks with his hair mussed and guard down. No perfectly tailored suit, no calculating mask—just a man who held me through the night.

"Coffee?" he asks, propping himself up on an elbow.

"Please tell me you have a fancy Italian machine hidden in this place."

His lips quirk up. "Of course. Though I usually have my assistant handle it."

"Well." I sit up, wrapping the sheet around me. "I make a mean cappuccino."

"Do you?" His eyes follow me as I pad across the hardwood floor, picking up his discarded dress shirt to slip on.

In his gleaming kitchen, I find the machine and get to work. The familiar ritual grounds me, measuring beans, tamping the grounds, and steaming milk to silky perfection. The scent of fresh coffee fills the air.

Dmitri appears in the doorway, wearing only low-slung pajama pants. He watches me work with an intensity that warms my cheeks.

"Here." I hand him a cup, our fingers brushing. The simple domesticity of the moment catches us both off guard. No matter how much we've tried to pretend otherwise, this isn't just physical anymore.

He takes a sip, and his eyebrows lift. "This is... exceptional."

"Told you." I hop up on the counter, letting my legs dangle. "A girl needs her skills."

His hand finds my knee, thumb tracing circles on my skin. The tender gesture speaks volumes. We're crossing lines we never meant to cross, and neither of us seems able to stop.

His fingers continue their lazy path up my thigh as he sets down his coffee cup. The morning light catches the stubble on his jaw, softening his usual sharp edges.

"You're staring," he murmurs.

"You look different like this." I reach out, running my fingers through his sleep-mussed hair. He lets me, which surprises us both. "Less..."

"Controlled?" A shadow crosses his face.

"I was going to say intimidating." I take another sip of coffee. "Though you're still that too. Just... there's something else."

He steps between my legs, hands settling on my hips. "What else?"

"I don't know. Something real." My fingers trace the scar near his temple. "Like this. How did you get it?"

His jaw tightens for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he answers. "Car accident when I was twelve. Mother was driving."

The pain in those few words stops my breath.

"She didn't survive," he adds quietly.

My hand cups his cheek. He leans into it slightly, eyes closing for just a heartbeat. When they open again, that calculated mask starts sliding back into place.

I force a casual smile, sliding off the counter. "Well, I should probably head out."

"Of course." Dmitri's mask is firmly back in place as he steps away. "I'll have Akim bring the car around."

"No need. I can grab a cab." I button up his shirt, not meeting his eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous." He moves to the fridge, pulling out eggs and vegetables with mechanical precision. "At least let me make you breakfast first."

The offer catches me off guard. "You cook?"

"I have many hidden talents." His knife skills are as precise as everything else about him. He dices peppers into perfect squares. "Sit."

I perch at the breakfast bar, watching him work. He moves through his kitchen like he moves through life—controlled, efficient, brooking no resistance from even an egg white.

"This is getting domestic," I tease, trying to keep my tone light despite my chest tightening.

"Purely practical. Can't have you fainting from hunger." He slides a perfect omelet onto a plate.

His phone buzzes. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession. His shoulders tense.

"Trouble?" I ask, even though I know that look.

"Nothing urgent." He sets the plate before me, but his eyes keep darting to his phone.

"Dmitri." I touch his wrist. "Take the call."

He hesitates, and for a moment, I see something in his expression—like he's fighting against himself.

His phone buzzes again. "Nikolai," he mutters, finally picking it up. His face hardens as he listens. "When?... How many?... I'll be there in twenty."

I'm already standing, gathering my things. "Family business?"

He nods once, sharp and precise.

"Go." I wave at the omelet. "I'll wrap this up for later."

But neither of us moves. We stand frozen in his kitchen, morning light painting everything in soft gold, both pretending this isn't more than it should be.

His phone buzzes again. The spell breaks.

I rush to gather my clothes from the scattered pile on his bedroom floor. The silk of my jumpsuit feels cool against my heated skin as I slip it on. My fingers fumble with the zipper until I feel Dmitri's hands brush mine away, zipping it up with characteristic efficiency.

"Let me get your wrap." He moves to the closet, all business now. The intimate breakfast moment has evaporated like morning mist.

I grab my clutch and phone, checking quickly for messages. Three from Sofia. Of course.

In the kitchen, I find the omelet already neatly wrapped in foil.

His phone buzzes again as we stand by his private elevator. The tension in his jaw tells me Nikolai's situation must be serious.

"I'll call you," he says, his hand resting briefly on my lower back.

I shrug, aiming for casual despite how my skin tingles under his touch. "If you want. I know you're busy."

His eyes narrow slightly at my tone, but another buzz from his phone draws his attention.

"The doorman will get you a taxi." He steps back, already pulling up messages on his phone.

"Thanks for breakfast." I hold up the foil package with what I hope is a breezy smile. "And... everything."

The elevator doors slide open silently. I step in, watching Dmitri's reflection in the polished steel as the doors close. His expression is unreadable.

Downstairs, the doorman has a taxi waiting. I slide into the back seat, clutching my wrapped breakfast and trying not to think about how much I want Dmitri to actually call.

"Where to, miss?" the driver asks.

I give him my address, then lean against the leather seat, watching the city blur past my window.

I stare out the taxi window, the foil-wrapped omelet growing cold in my lap. Last night feels like a dream now—how Dmitri's controlled facade cracked and the raw need in his eyes.

There was nothing hesitant about us then. There was no careful distance or measured words. Just a connection that made me forget everything else existed. I remembered how Dmitri had whispered my name against my skin and how his perfect composure shattered when I touched him just right.

Now, in the harsh morning light, we're back to our careful dance. He, the powerful Ivanov brother with his precisely ordered world, and I, the museum curator, who should know better than to get involved with a board member.

The taxi hits a pothole, and I wince, feeling the delicious ache from last night's activities. At least that's real. At least I have proof it wasn't all in my head—the marks on my hips, the burn on my inner thighs from his stubble, the tender spot on my neck where he marked me.

But that awkward goodbye in his kitchen... The way he withdrew the moment his phone buzzed, slipping back behind that perfect mask like nothing had happened between us. Like we hadn't spent hours learning every inch of each other's bodies. Like I hadn't fallen asleep in his arms, feeling safer than I had in years.

I press my forehead against the cool glass window, watching the city scroll past. The wrapped omelet sits in my lap like a reminder—he did try, in his way. He made me breakfast and insisted on the car—small gestures that hint at something more than just physical attraction.