“That’s not a compliment,” I say.
“I know.” She glances back over her shoulder, and there’s a ghost of something dark in her eyes. “But it’s the truth. And right now, that’s all I’ve got.”
She walks out.
I stand there in my study, watching the door close behind her, my cock still hard and my chest doing things I don’t want to examine.
The devil she knows.
I pour myself another whiskey and drink it standing at the window, watching the Moscow sky lighten from black to grey.
ANYA — Volkovskaya Laboratory, 10:23
Iwake up alone and everything hurts.
My hip throbs when I roll over, and the welts on my ass burn against the sheets when I shift position. I counted, and then I got wet like some kind of fucked up Pavlovian response to pain, and then he put his fingers inside me and made me come so hard I saw stars.
What the hell is wrong with me?
The bed still smells like him, that scent that’s been imprinting itself on my brain since the first night I walked into this house. I should want to burn these sheets and scrub my skin raw and forget the way his hands felt when they stopped hurting me and started putting me back together.
I don’t hate it.
That’s the problem.
I force myself to sit up, wincing when the movement pulls at bruises I forgot I had. The clock on the nightstand says it’s almost ten in the morning, which means I overslept through my alarm, which never happens. I’m the person who survives on four hours and too much coffee and the stubborn refusal to admit my body has limits.
Apparently getting whipped with a belt and then fingered on a leather couch takes more out of me than a normal Tuesday.
There are clothes laid out on the chair by the window. Dark jeans, a sweater that looks soft enough to be cashmere, underwear that’s actually practical for once. My boots are sitting next to the chair, cleaned and polished.
I get dressed slowly. The jeans sit low enough to avoid my hip. The sweater is loose enough not to irritate the skin.
Fuck him for being thoughtful.
The hallway is quiet when I step out, and I make it about ten feet before Luka appears at the top of the stairs like some kind of blonde Russian ghost. His face gives away nothing, but I catch the way his eyes flick to my wrists, then my hip, then the careful way I’m walking.
My chin lifts. I don’t owe anyone an explanation for the marks on my body.
“Roman asked me to bring you to the lab,” Luka says. “When you’re ready.”
“I’m ready now.”
He leads me past a gym, a media room with a screen the size of a wall. Past closed doors that could hide anything from weapons to bodies.
We arrived to the laboratory that since yesterday has been stocked.
An actual, professional-grade toxicology laboratory.
Holy shit.
I step inside without meaning to, already labeling everything.
He built me a lab.
He beat me with a belt last night and then built me a fucking laboratory.
“You can close your mouth now.”
