I replay the moment she shoved me back over and over. The way her hands felt against my chest, the way her body trembled under my touch, the hesitation, the fear… it’s all there, playing like a loop I can’t escape. I can still feel the burn of her skin on mine, the way she reacted to me—like I was a storm she couldn’t control.
I should have left it. I should have let her walk away, should have respected the space she needed, but I didn’t. I followed her with my eyes, watched her go, the anger, the frustration bubbling up inside me like a pressure that never stopped building. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.
Her scent still clings to me. It’s everywhere. On my skin. On my clothes. In my mind. No matter how many times I shower, no matter how many times I try to wash it away, it’s there—lingering, suffocating. The sweet, delicate scent of her that’s burned itself into my senses.
I’d meant to keep my distance. I’d meant to let one mistake fade into nothing, to move on. But seeing her again—knowing who she is now—only makes it worse.
Zoe isn’t forgettable. Not even close.
She’s fire dressed in silk. A quiet, untouchable fire that burns with a fury I didn’t expect. She’s not like the others. She’s not something I can ignore or push to the side. Every time I close my eyes, I see her—her face, the way she looked at me in the garden, the way she pushed me away.
And the worst part? I want her more now than I did before.
I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be thinking about her. I shouldn’t be feeling this… this pull. But I can’t help it. It’s too strong, too consuming.
I’m already burning, and I don’t know how to stop it.
I spend the entire day and the next buried in silence, pacing the length of my study, my footsteps echoing off the polished floors. The bottle of whiskey sits on the desk beside me, untouched. I can’t bring myself to drink. Every time I reach for it, the weight of my thoughts crushes the desire.
I’ve been here for hours, for days, my mind spiraling in circles. Every time I try to focus, every time I try to force myself to think about something else, all I can see is her. Zoe. Her face, her voice, the way she pulled away from me, the way I felt like I was losing control, like I was watching something that I couldn’t have slip through my fingers, no matter how badly I wanted it.
The fact that I’m even thinking about her like this—spending my days trapped in this endless cycle of desire and frustration—is enough to make my stomach churn. I don’t have the luxury of wanting someone. I don’t have the luxury of weakness.
But here I am, pacing back and forth in my study, alone with my thoughts and the weight of what I can’t have.
I’ve spoken to no one except for Maria, Adrian, and Arseny, my right hand. They’ve checked in, as they always do,but I’ve kept my responses curt, my tone sharp. The business of the Bratva still demands attention, even if my mind is elsewhere, and despite my mood, I can’t afford to neglect it. The empire doesn’t run itself, and it’s still mine to control.
Adrian and Arseny have handled things well enough for now. They’ve made sure everything is in place, moving the pieces without me, without me showing my face to anyone outside of my walls. I don’t care that they’ve taken over. I don’t care that they’ve stepped up.
The truth is, I couldn’t bear to look anyone in the eye, let alone speak to them about the mess I’ve gotten myself into.
I haven’t told them why I’ve locked myself in here, why I’ve spent the past few days drinking away my frustration. How could I? How would they feel to hear that their almighty Pakhan, the one who’s built this empire with blood and steel, is pining after a woman?
I’m not supposed towant. I’m not supposed to care. But here I am, consumed by something I can’t control.
And I fucking hate it.
There’s a knock on the door, sharp and precise.
“Who is it?” I ask roughly, my voice laced with irritation from the tension still knotted inside me.
“Arseny, Boss,” comes the calm reply, and for a moment, I pause. I wonder what he could possibly want. It’s been days since anyone’s come near me except for the bare necessities. But Arseny knows when to stay quiet and when to act, and that’s why I trust him.
“Come in,” I mutter, straightening in my chair as the door swings open.
Arseny steps inside, as cool and composed as always, carrying a folder in his hand. He looks exactly the same—noemotion, no disturbance on his face. But I sense something in his posture, a weight in the air between us that’s heavier than usual. There’s something he’s not saying, something he wants to tell me but isn’t.
He places the folder on my desk, his eyes flicking over me briefly. There’s a slight hesitation, like he’s waiting for me to acknowledge it, but I stay silent.
He stands there for a moment, his gaze steady, but I can tell something is lingering in his thoughts, something unsaid. He doesn’t move for a long time, and I wonder what’s going on in his head, but I don’t ask. I know he’ll speak when it’s time.
“For you, sir.” He taps the folder before turning to leave.
I wait until the door shuts behind him before I reach for it. There’s a big, bold inscription on the folder that says “A Favor.” My fingers hesitate for a second, then I open it, flipping through the pages quickly. My breath catches in my throat. The dossier is thick, detailed, and precisely what I need. I don’t ask how Arseny knows. He knows everything. He’s my right hand for a reason.
Zoella Everleigh Monroe. Her name stands out on the first page, and my jaw tightens. It’s a dossier that contains everything Arseny can find on her.
I’m torn between wanting to berate him for digging into her like this, and wanting to thank him for giving me exactly what I need.
