Page 13

Chapter 13

The Morning After Greek Warriors

Erin

I ’ve been awake for hours now, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers to questions I have no business asking.

Like how Dmitri’s breath felt against my neck in that museum gallery.

Or what would have happened if Ris hadn’t interrupted.

God, what was I thinking?

I wasn’t. That’s the problem. One look at him in that dim light, all barely leashed control and raw hunger, and my brain just…short-circuited.

“Is that something you’d like to verify?”

The memory of his voice—rough, teasing, dangerous—sends another wave of heat spiraling through me. I press my thighs together, but it does nothing to quell the ache that’s been haunting me for days.

The house is silent. That perfect, pre-dawn stillness that offers a fragile illusion of safety. A few stolen hours before I have to see him. Before I have to pretend yesterday didn’t happen.

I should start my day. Work on my YouTube videos. Do literally anything except lie here, breathless, remembering the way he stepped closer, his heat obliterating the space between us. How he looked at me, like he was about to devour me whole.

But the second I think about picking up my laptop, I remember his hands. The way his fingers flexed when I teased him about the statue. The slow, controlled way he exhaled, like he was reining in something dangerous.

“Is this how you see me? Naked?”

Stop it. I press my face into the pillow. Just stop.

The gym. That’s what I need. A hard, punishing workout to burn off this restless energy. To stop my traitorous mind from spinning, from replaying the way his accent thickened when he caught me staring. The way his entire body went taut when I compared Attalus to hockey players. The flash of pure, unchecked hunger in his eyes before Ris called for him.

Running had seemed like the smart move last night, even though Ris’s excitement over her new cello was infectious. I’d focused on teaching her the basics—how to hold the bow, proper posture, the names of the strings—all while hyper-aware of Dmitri moving around in the kitchen.

Every time his footsteps passed the music room door, my skin prickled, heat curling in my stomach at the memory of his body behind mine in that gallery.

At dinner, I barely tasted the food. I was too busy trying not to stare at his hands. The way his fingers wrapped around his water glass. The slow, absentminded stroke of his thumb along the rim. The way I suddenly wished I were the glass.

But worse than his hands was his gaze.

Every time I looked up, his eyes would lock onto mine, intense and unreadable, sending a hot, electric current straight to my core. His nostrils flared slightly, jaw tightening—like he was physically restraining himself from reaching across the table. From taking what I had so recklessly offered in that museum.

Congratulations, O’Connor. You wanted to break his control. Mission accomplished.

Except now that I had, the raw hunger in his expression terrifies me.

Not because I don’t want it. God help me, I do.

But because one heated look from him makes me question if I can handle this. I don’t have the experience, the years, the history of other lovers he’s had. He’s control, dominance and ruthless precision—and I don’t know if I could ever compete with that. He’s almost a decade older, a man who knows exactly what he’s doing, and I’m suddenly acutely aware that I have no idea what I’m walking into.

Dinner was a battlefield of silence, thick and charged, stretching between us like a wire pulled too tight. Ris filled the space with chatter, blissfully unaware of the tension simmering beneath the surface. But Dmitri? He knew.

He barely ate or spoke. Just sat there, answering Ris’s questions with clipped answers, watching me with unnerving precision. Not pushing, not chasing—just waiting.

Waiting for Ris to go to bed, waiting for the moment we were alone, he watched me like he was about to consume me. Like I was already his.

But what if I can’t keep up? What if I shatter under him? What if he ruins me, and I never recover?

What if…

And faced with that possibility, I did the only thing I could.

I panicked.

The second my plate was clear, I mumbled something—emails, early practice, whatever lie came first—and fled.

His eyes followed me. Not in surprise. Not in pursuit. Just watching .

Tracking my retreat with quiet amusement, as if indulging me in this one last moment of escape.

A stay of execution.

I spent the entire night tossing and turning, willing myself to stay in my bed. I was so close to slipping out from beneath my covers, padding down the hall, pressing my palm to his door. That close to knocking. To facing the inevitable.

Surrendering.

I clenched my sheets instead. Bit my lip until it ached. Told myself I needed more time.

And now, in the cold light of morning, I have to sit across from him over coffee. In his house.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Get up, Erin. Stop thinking. Just get up.

But even as I swing my legs out of bed, even as I force myself into motion, my hands shake.

Not from fear. But from anticipation.

Because I already know what’s going to happen.

Dmitri Sokolov is going to ruin me.

I slip into my workout gear as quietly as possible. The house creaks softly around me—old wood settling, pipes humming, the familiar symphony of pre-dawn. No sign of movement from down the hall.

What do you even say to someone after almost jumping them in a museum?

Sorry I basically propositioned you in front of ancient Greek art. Your daughter’s cello lessons are still on, right?

The stairs don’t make a sound as I creep down them, thanking whatever architect decided on solid construction. Just a quick workout, then maybe a shower, and I can figure out how to act normal.

Pretend we never had that conversation.

I stop dead at the bottom of the stairs.

Light spills from beneath the gym door, cutting through the early morning dim.

My pulse spikes. Because there’s only one person who would be up this early.

And he’s exactly who I spent all night trying not to think about.

I should turn around. Go back upstairs. Wait until a more reasonable hour when I’m better equipped to handle Dmitri Sokolov.

Instead, my hand grips the door handle.

Because apparently, I have zero survival instinct.

I step inside, and?—

Oh.

Dmitri is at the bench press, bare-chested, sweat-dampened, all coiled power and explosive strength. His muscles flex as he presses the weight upward, slow and controlled, veins standing out against his forearms.

Breathing? Suddenly a very complicated task.

He doesn’t see me at first, too focused on his workout, but as he racks the bar and sits up, our eyes meet in the mirror.

A slow, searing drag of his gaze down my body, then back up again.

Here we go.

“Morning,” he rumbles, voice rough with exertion, thick with something else.

I manage something that might be “hi” and might be a squeak. Real smooth.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t say anything else. Just watches . Waiting.

I turn to my warm-up, pretending my hands aren’t shaking. Pretending I don’t feel his eyes on me, dragging over my body, heavy and unrelenting .

The silence between us isn’t empty.

It’s charged .

Like a live wire, humming, waiting to ignite.

My muscles feel tight. Uncooperative. Like they remember his touch from yesterday.

Like they want it back.

“You ran last night.” His voice punches through the silence, a low vibration against my skin. Not accusing. Just stating the facts .

I swallow hard, my eyes locking onto my reflection, onto the heat creeping up my neck.

“Did I scare you, solnyshko? ” That endearment—low, reverent, intimate—lands like a physical touch. I meet his gaze in the mirror and nod. Just once.

Something dark flares in his eyes. Satisfaction. Amusement. Possession.

Then, without another word, he turns back to his routine. Like he’s letting me have this. Like he’s allowing me my space.

For now.

But the air between us pulses .

I pick up the dumbbells, my fingers unsteady, my breathing uneven. The weight feels heavier than usual.

Or maybe it’s just him .

His voice is closer now.

Too close.

Then he’s right behind me. So near, his heat seeps into my skin. So near, I can feel the whisper of his breath ghosting over my shoulder.

“Your form is good.” His voice drops lower . “But you could get a bit more out of it.” He pauses. “Let me spot you.”

I nod, because words? Completely out of my skill set.

The first set leaves me shaking. I set the weights down and drag in a breath, hyper-aware of him still at my back.

“Pick a slightly lighter weight,” he murmurs, handing me another dumbbell. “One at a time.”

“I can handle?—”

“Trust me.”

His tone is quiet but absolute. A command wrapped in silk.

My stomach clenches. My pulse pounds .

I follow his instruction, and he hums approval, the sound rolling through my body like a slow burn.

“Slower on the way down,” he murmurs. “Control it.”

I do as he says, my arms trembling from the effort.

“One more,” he says, as I start to lower the weight. His breath is warm against my neck.

And suddenly it’s not the workout that’s making me shake.

“I can’t—” My voice breaks as my arms tremble, the weight too heavy. His hand slides over mine. Barely there. Just enough to steady me. Just enough to make my skin scream.

A sharp, electric pulse shoots up my arm. I barely register the weight touching down—I’m too busy trying to breathe.

I meet his gaze in the mirror.

And fuck.

His eyes are burning. Devouring .

Then his fingers brush the back of my neck. It’s nothing. A whisper of contact. A flicker of heat. A touch so fleeting it shouldn’t even register.

But it wrecks me.

A slow, deep shudder rolls through my body, locking my knees, tightening my grip on the weight rack like it’s the only thing tethering me to the ground.

“Have you changed your mind, solnyshko ?” His accent is thick, each word dripping like dark honey. “About doing independent research? On those proportions?”

I can’t answer. My brain is blank, wiped clean by the ghost of his touch, by the unbearable want coiling low in my belly. My skin burns .

Then he leans in, just enough that his breath skims down my neck.

“You were testing my control,” he breathes. His exhalation is hot against my skin, his voice a slow, deliberate tease, a tantalizing promise just out of reach. “Yesterday, at the museum.”

“I wasn’t—” I start to protest, but he cuts me off with a quiet, knowing hum.

“You were.”

The air thickens. Heat radiates from him, surrounding me, making it impossible to think, to move .

“You wanted to see what would happen.”

He’s not touching me. Not really.

But fuck, it feels like he is.

“And now you know.”

His words are like phantom kisses on my skin, each syllable a featherlight caress that makes me shiver. My knees buckle as he breathes along my shoulder, slow, possessive, igniting every nerve with fire.

“Why were you holding back?” My voice is barely a whisper, my whole body thrumming .

He exhales sharply, like he’s still fighting himself.

“I promised your brother I wouldn’t touch you.”

“You haven’t broken that promise,” I point out, breathless. Reckless .

A slow, dangerous smirk curves his lips. “Not yet.”

“Dmitri — ”

I don’t even know what I’m asking for. But he does. His chuckle is wicked, a ghostly caress against my collarbone.

“So responsive.” His voice dips into something richer, something decadent. His breath brushes over my arm, tracing goosebumps in its wake. “Look how you shake for me.”

My grip on the rack tightens. Desperate .

“And I haven’t even touched you yet.” His voice turns husky, silk and steel wrapping around me. “I bet you’re wet for me too.”

I whimper. A real, honest-to-God whimper.

“Please—”

His breath hitches. “Please what, solnyshko ?”

“Touch me.”

His inhale is sharp, ragged. Like I just unraveled him as completely as he’s unraveling me.

Then, finally, his fingers graze my collarbone. The lightest, most maddening touch. Controlled. Measured. Cruel.

My knees actually buckle.

He catches me instantly, his arm snapping around my waist, holding me firm. And for one glorious second, I’m pressed against him—all that solid heat, all that restrained power coiled beneath his skin, ready to break.

“Careful, solnyshko .” His voice is all dark amusement, a teasing edge I can feel against my throat. “We wouldn’t want you falling.”

My heart is hammering so loudly, I swear he can hear it.

“Too late for that,” I whisper.

His answering growl rumbles through me, low and primal. But then, footsteps thunder overhead.

Ris.

Dmitri steps back, and the loss of his heat is a physical pain.

“Speaking of torture,” he murmurs, “I leave for Vancouver tonight. After the game.”

I blink . My brain is still mush. “How long?”

“Four days. I’m back Friday.” His voice is a low rasp. “We’ll FaceTime, yes?”

The question mark at the end undoes me.

Like even now, after turning me into a trembling mess with just his breath, he’s still giving me the choice.

“Yes.” The word comes out embarrassingly fast. “I mean…that would be… Yes.”

His smirk is devastating. “Good.”

My knees give out.

He catches me again, effortlessly. One arm around my waist, holding me up like I weigh nothing.

And then, because he’s wicked, because he’s him, he leans in, his lips a breath away from my ear. “Patience, solnyshko. ” His voice is pure sin. “Save that reaction for when I’m back. I want to savor it.”

Then, just like that, he’s gone. Striding toward the door, pausing only at the threshold.

“Oh, and Erin?”

I make a sound that might be acknowledgment.

“Wear something pretty for me.”

Then he’s really gone, leaving me trembling in front of the mirror, my skin ablaze.

Already counting the hours until he’s back.