She pulls out her phone, that bright curiosity in her eyes. "Let me just..."
“Annie!” I protest, but she’s already searching. A moment later, she frowns.
“Nothing. No social media, no write-ups in the paper. There’s nothing about him being connected to the MFA. Nothing about him at all, actually.”
"Maybe he's private? Some donors don't want publicity." I shrug. “He seemed like the type.”
Thankfully, I manage to get Annie to drop the subject a moment later when Elio comes home, and the conversation turns to what to do for dinner. But later, lying in the guest room, I can't stop thinking about him—about the intensity of his eyes, his interest in the paintings, his clear interest inme. I think about seeing him in front of the brownstone, and the way he was standing there with such utter confidence. Like he owned the place.
I think about the way he disappeared when Annie appeared, like he didn't want to be seen. Something about Alexander Volkov doesn't fit.
It doesn’t matter,I tell myself, rolling over with a huff. I said no. I’m not going to see him again. Whether there’s something off about him or not, it’s immaterial now.
I should forget him. Should let this be what he said it was: a beautiful, brief moment not meant to last.
But deep down, in a place I don't want to examine too closely, I know I won't forget.
4
ILYA
The penthouse is quiet when I return, the city sprawling beneath me like a kingdom. I can still feel the ghost of her presence, as if she's somehow followed me home.
I pour myself two fingers of vodka, neat. The crystal tumbler is cold against my palm, and it makes me miss the warmth of her hand in mine. Her skin was soft as silk, her nails smooth against my fingertips, every part of her delicate and strong all at once. The memory of her touch sends a shudder down my spine, makes my cock thicken and twitch with the anticipation of feeling that same palm against my most sensitive flesh.
The museum encounter went exactly as planned.
Better than planned, actually. I knew she was beautiful; I saw her once already. I'd expected her to be intelligent, articulate, passionate about her work. Her reputation in the art world told me that.
But I hadn’t expected how her physical beauty would affect me in the flesh, like art come to life, like a priceless painting just within touching distance yet still forbidden for the time being. I hadn’t expected how good it would feel to carry on a conversation with her, how intoxicating her opinions on artwould be, howdifficultit would be not to touch her when she was so very close to me.
She smelled like jasmine and amber, and I wanted to take her right there, in front of the entire goddamn museum. To mark her as mine where everyone could see.
I’ve never felt anything so primal as when I laid eyes on her in the flesh again. And I hadn't expected to want her with an intensity that bordered on violence.
I drain the vodka and pour another, running through it all in my mind. The orchestration was simple enough. Kazimir put men on watching Annie’s house, so following them to their destination when they left was easy. I had someone watching when Annie left Mara’s side, letting me know when she was on her way back. It was easy enough to slip away before Annie could see me—the last thing I want is for her to recognize me and tell Mara who I really am.
Right now, I want to be Alexander Volkov, a museum donor and a wealthy, interested man. Nothing more. I don’t want Mara to know Ilya, the Bratvapakhan, until I choose for her to know.
She had no idea who I am. What I am. Or what she’s walked into.
I cross to the couch and wake up my laptop. The file is already waiting; security footage from the museum, obtained by Kazimir after I left. I click play, a shudder of anticipation running down my spine.
The angle is from above, slightly behind where I'd been standing. I watch myself approach her, the exact moment she sees me, the way she falters for just a fraction of a second. She remembered me from the sidewalk.Good.
I wanted her to remember.
I fast-forward to the moment she starts talking about the first painting. Her face transforms. This is what she looks like when she's in her element, when she forgets to be guarded. Hereyes are bright and animated. She gestures with her hands, and I remember the elegant movement of her fingers, the way they'd traced invisible brushstrokes in the air.
I replay it. Watch it again. I see her smile, the light in her eyes, a foil to my darkness. My jaw tightens.
I don't like it. This feeling. This... distraction.
I've built an empire on control, knowing exactly what I want and taking it. Emotion is a liability, and attachment is a weakness. I learned those lessons early on.
And yet…
I click forward. She was close enough that I could have touched her. I wanted to touch her, but I had a feeling that doing that, trying for familiarity, would have scared her off. She’s strong, but she’s also skittish. A cat with her claws ready to unsheathe. I reach out, my hand aching to brush a strand of dark hair out of her face that’s fallen forward.
