The house is too quiet for comfort, and far too pristine to feel like a genuine home. Even with the staff coming and going, the place still feels empty.
The luxury never really impressed me to a significant degree, but especially now, the novelty has completely worn off. While nice, the master bedroom is almost too soft and just a place to lie awake at night. The walk-in closet is full of clothes I didn’t pick. The house is full of entertainment, yet I’m bored.
None of it is mine, and none of it is truly for me.
Instead, I’m restless and agitated, and I don’t know how much more I can take of being Sergey’s stowed-away wife. A position I never signed up for.
I miss my old life and my work. My real work.
I miss the routine I built and the focus it demands. The way it was, the best distraction from my brother and his pestering.
In the garage, I could do as I pleased, and Roland and I had a mutual understanding about everything. But here, in Sergey’s house, I’m a hostage dressed in designer clothes with nothing to do but stew in the silence of his absence.
Glancing out the window, I watch as the sun dips below the skyline while I pace. I’ve done enough reading and skimming through whatever entertainment he bothers to keep in the house, and I can’t stand being still any longer.
By the time my feet grow tired, I hear the distant sound of his car pulling up to the garage.
Perfect. He’s home.
I’m more than ready to yell and throw something at him if I need to. I’m prepared to do something about all of this pent-up frustration, and to let him know I’m not okay with any of this.
I brace myself for the fury that builds beneath my skin, but as the door swings open and Sergey steps inside, something seems different.
He isn’t smirking or looking smug about something. He isn’t readying himself for a fight either.
Instead, Sergey just looks tired and worn. But beneath it all, I can see something else. Something dangerous, almost.
“Get dressed,” he says, setting his keys on a nearby countertop while hardly sparing a glance in my direction. “We’re going out tonight.”
My brows furrow, and I don’t move. “Out?”
He glances at me, not looking amused by any means. “Unless you feel like staying here and pacing a hole in the floor, I suggest you get ready. No dress this time.”
The command surprises me, and admittedly, it makes me curious. “Where are we going?”
“To blow off some steam. You look like you need it too.”
He isn’t wrong.
Not long after, I’m on the back of Sergey’s Panigale, feeling a bit more like myself in some darkish jeans and a jacket while we move down the Vegas strip. Lights flash by us in streams of color, and the wind pulls at my hair from beneath my helmet, and despite myself, I smile.
I should be angry. Furious, really.
I should be planning my grand escape, but instead, I let the rush of riding again clear my head. Holding onto Sergey with my chest pressed against his back, I can feel the way his muscles tense slightly, like even that much contact can make him short-circuit.
Good…let him squirm.
As much as I try to focus on the night unfolding around us, I can’t help but take notice of how strong his frame feels beneath me, and how intimate the position feels.
Before I can dwell on it for too long, we pull up to a steel-clad building on the outskirts of downtown. It looks unassuming, almost like it’s just a storage site.
But I know better than that. I’ve seen more than my fair share of these covert buildings back in New York, thanks to Dad.
When Sergey pulls up, pops the kickstand into place, and kills the engine, I pull my helmet off. “What’s this place?”
“You’ll see,” he says simply, rather than just answering me as per usual.
Sighing, I get off, and we both head inside.
