Her hand closes around mine, firm and reassuring. "I agree."
"Do you have any witch-hazel?" I ask. "It will help it fade quicker."
She smiles. "Nah. Marie, the housekeeper, has a steak in the fridge she made me keep on for an hour last night and threatened to sit me down with it again this morning." She rolls her eyes, but it’s clear she is fond of the housekeeper.
"Is that who I should report to this morning?" I ask, wondering if Gennady has set anything up yet in terms of my employment.
Mila frowns, tilting her head slightly. "What do you—"
Footsteps sound in the hall. His presence seems to arrive before the knock does, the air shifting in a way that makes my spine straighten.
Mila’s frown deepens when he knocks on the door. Her eyes flicking back to me with curiosity.
"Matilda," Gennady says through the door. "Are you…decent?"
My pulse quickens. Mila lifts her brows, amusement written plain across her face.
I square my shoulders and reach for the handle.
"As ready as I’ll ever be," I say, taking a deep breath, because I don’t feel ready at all.
"Welp," Mila says, popping the P as Gennady enters the room. "I’ve got a date with a big fat juicy…" she gestures holding something big with both hands, "steak."
Mila smirks mischievously at Gennady, who is looking at her with resignation. A genuine smile stretches over my face as she winks her good eye at me and wiggles her eyebrows while Gennady shakes his head and shoos her out the door.
"She is lovely," I say once the door is closed behind her.
"Yes," Gennady agrees as our eyes lock and the air in the room thins. My mind’s eye immediately goes to the not-kiss, and I drag my bottom lip between my teeth.
It’s a bad habit, chewing my lip when I’m nervous. Most of the time, I don’t even know I’m doing it, but when Gennady’s eyes drop to my mouth and narrow, I release it quickly.
Standing in front of him like this feels different.
Last time he saw me, I was barefoot in a torn nightdress and his borrowed jacket. Now I’m dressed in clothes that don’t belong to me, my hair still damp, skin flushed with embarrassment or awareness...I’m not sure which.
The oversized hoody hides more than it shows, swallowing my shape and making me feel younger, smaller, like I’ve stepped backwards instead of forward.
I’m used to being softer than this. Dresses. Skirts. Clothes chosen carefully to look pleasant without drawing attention. This version of me feels unfinished, like I’ve shown up to my new life without the right preparation.
Gennady's gaze moves over me anyway, slow and unreadable. Heat creeps up my neck, and I resist the urge to tug the hem of the hoody lower.
"We need to talk," he says.
Three words that sound like a verdict.
I nod, because what else can I do? I followed him here. I gave up my family. I let him taste my blood in the back of a car and brand me with words I still don't understand.
Whatever comes next, I know I chose this. Even if I don't know what "this" is yet.
Gennady
I've built an empire on control. On thinking faster, reacting slower, and never letting emotion dictate action. Men who lose control lose everything. I learned that lesson early and I learned it well.
So I don't know what the fuck happened in that car.
One moment I was assessing her as a responsibility, a loose end that needed managing. The next, all I could think about was the blood on her lip and how badly I needed to taste it. No calculation. No strategy. Just raw, inexplicable compulsion that overrode decades of discipline.
I put my mouth on her like I had a right to. Like she was already mine.
