After several long minutes, her breathing starts to lengthen out and her body relaxes, so I let sleep take me. I need to be fresh if I'm going to get this job over with quickly. And I will need her to be fresh to deal with Sasha and keep him occupied while I do my job.
And when we get back to St Petersburg, we'll have a long talk about what will be expected of her. Because her job description changed the instant she yielded to me in my study. Ms. Dragunova is no longer just Sasha's teacher.
Now she's my very own plaything.
14
NOEMI
The sheets smell faintly like the cologne Fyodor wears, something expensive, no doubt, and the soft fabric slides over my bare legs when I shift under the sheets. I'm not fully awake yet, hovering in that gray space between sleep and consciousness where sounds reach me muffled and my body feels too heavy to move. But Fyodor's voice pulls me closer to the surface, reverberating through the wall from the living area where he must be sitting with Sasha.
I don't open my eyes. I press my cheek deeper into the pillow and let the warmth of the mattress hold me in place while I listen to their conversation.
They're talking about the hippodrome, which is rumored to be Bratva controlled, so I'm not shocked to hear Fyodor speaking so confidently about it. But the tone he's using does surprise me a little. He's speaking in such soft, gentle tones, the way a father speaks to his son. It makes me smile to think how hard Fyodor is actually trying to change so he can be a good father. It almost makes up for the callous way he yanked me into this bed last night as if I belong to him as nothing more than a possession.
The conversation fades into murmurs I can't follow, and eventually, I hear Sasha's door close and the suite goes quiet. I reach for my journal on the nightstand, tugging myself to a seated position against the headboard, and flip to a blank page.
Today's journal entry is easy and flows from my pen seamlessly.
I never thought Fyodor Gravitch would be capable of such nurturing behavior but he's surprising me every day now. I still want to hate him for stealing me away, but I know I can't hate him for being Sasha's father. He can't change biology any more than I can.
But I don't hate him. I'm softening toward him.
For all his flaws and faults, he's not the monster I thought him to be originally. Like every other human on this planet, he has complex layers to his personality, and he probably has more trauma and triggers than anyone I've ever met. But the fact that he's trying so hard to do the right thing is moving.
Fyodor Gravitch isn't the sort of man a woman should fall in love with, no matter how her pulse quickens when he enters a room or how her skin heats when his gaze lingers too long on her mouth. And God, the way he made my body feel yesterday was unlike any other sexual experience I've had. He did the same actions that I've experienced several times before, but every single touch was electric because he knows how to speak to me.
But he's dangerous and broken in ways I could never hope to heal, cracked along fault lines that formed long before I stumbled into his life. It's sad, really, to know a man with such potential stands just outside of reach because of his own choices, with which I don't think I'll ever come to terms.
The door opens before I can close the journal, and Fyodor stands in the doorway with his dark hair falling across his forehead and his eyes sweeping over me, making my skin flush.
"Sasha's getting dressed," he says.
"I heard you talking to him." I sit up against the headboard, the journal pressed to my chest.
His jaw tightens and his gaze drops to the journal. "You were listening?"
"Your voices woke me. I couldn't help it." I watch his face for any sign of anger, but there's none. "It was sweet, Fyodor, the way you spoke to him."
He doesn't answer, but something shifts in his expression, a softening around the eyes. He moves into the room and shuts the door behind him gracefully. He's gentle when he wants to be, but I know exactly how much power is in that body. I've seen the muscles that ripple beneath the surface.
"Would you come to the museum with us today?" he asks.
"You're asking me?" I almost scoff, but I hold myself back. For him to do a complete one-eighty and be polite and inviting after last night's bickering match is a huge stride.
"Yes."
"Not ordering…" I'm double-checking because I can't believe what I'm hearing. Maybe my comments have finally gotten to him.
"I am asking, Noemi."
God, I love the way he says my name. It's almost poetic. Though, when he called me Ms. Dragunova yesterday while pinning me to that desk, it made me feel something ethereal and unhinged.
"Then yes. I would like that."
He stands over me as I lay my journal on the nightstand and slide out of bed. I gather my clothes from the chair and head toward the bathroom. But when I set my things on the counter and reach for the door, Fyodor's hand catches the edge before it can swing shut, and he steps inside. The space is small and he fills half of it himself, and my cheeks burn with embarrassment as I know a confrontation is about to happen again.
"Fyodor, you need to stay out."
