She stares at me as if I'm a stranger. Like I'm the devil she finally recognizes. "It's like I'm talking to a wall," she whispers. "I'm not yours, Ilay. I have feelings. Thoughts. A life."
"You're mine." My voice drops lower. "You're mine. From the first day I met you, I marked you as my woman. And I'll kill anyone— even you— if you try to leave."
I look straight at her, letting every unhinged thought I've been biting down on spill free.
"Oh, I see it now," I say, grinning as heat flickers behind my eyes. "A perfect double suicide."
The silence that follows is suffocating. "You're insane," she breathes. "You finally snapped. You finally tipped over the edge. Get over yourself." She turns to walk away. "Don't you dare turn your back on me," I growl, stepping off the bed despite the tight pull of my stitches.
She twists around, fury tightening every line of her body. "I should've turned my back on you ages ago. But I stayed. And now, because you can't have me, you want to kill me. That's not love, Mr. Ivanovich. That's obsession."
She wrenches her arm out of my grip. "I'm going to wash up and finish your case. The faster I finish, the faster I'm out of this hellhole." She turns around leaving without another word.
I stand there, staring at the door she just disappeared through. My shoulders throb from standing up too fast, I notice my stiches have pulled open, spilling fresh blood on the clean bandage.
But even through all the pain I smile, I achieved what I set out to do. Her friend doesn't exist in her thoughts right now; I do. I'm the one she's terrified of losing. And that... that's the kind of victory a man like me calls perfect.
Chapter 16
?
IRIS
I try to avoid Ilay for the next few days. I do everything possible not to check on him or breathe the same air as him. He's a dangerous man and the freaking pakhan of Russia. I'd be a fool to involve myself in an affair with him. No matter how tempting he is or how obsessively devoted he acts, he's still a mafia boss, and I'm just a normal citizen trying to make it till forty-six.
Good thing he has a shoulder injury. It gives me the perfect excuse to avoid having dinner with him. I eat alone, I work alone, I exist alone. Every now and then, I catch the house staff giving me pitying looks. They are used to seeing me by his side, and yes maybe I could tolerate him for a few weeks, but hurting someone I consider a friend because they held my wrist for a fraction of a second is low. If he wants me, he sure as hell has to be a better person.
• • •
A week passes, and Ilay and I have become the hottest gossip in the house. You'd think, with how big the place is, the staff would have their hands full, but no—they'd rather sit around during breaks to discuss the issues their boss has with his employee.
I head down to his study and knock once before pushing the door open. At first, the room seems empty, but then my eyes fall on him, slouched in the oversized leather chair. I step closer, leaning in to inspect his face. His sleeping face is... absurdly beautiful. I swear, sometimes I wonder why God decided to blessa man with features straight out of some tortured Renaissance painting. Too bad he has the personality of a dog with rabies.
I stand there judging him silently. Then, without opening his eyes, he says, "Are you going to say anything, or do you want me to switch angles so you can get a better look at me?"
I blink. This man. "You wish," I mutter, stepping further in, annoyed at myself for standing there like an idiot. "If I want to look at something irritating while doing nothing, I'd watch Worldstar."
He cracks one eye open, then smirks at me. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, then tilts his head with a slow smirk. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asks. "You didn't come see me for a week. I feel... very sad. If not for the thought of you still breathing somewhere inside our home, I might've gone insane."
I roll my eyes. "Stop with the theatrics." He raises a brow, amused.
"I'm here because I crack the will." I toss a folder onto his desk. "It's under a different name, and the person isn't even in Russia."
"It's an American man," I go on. "Spencer Wright. Age thirty-eight. My guess? He's the real lover of Professor Lev. Or, if not that, then he's where the money gets laundered."
Ilay stays silent. I frown. "Did you hear what I just said? Or am I talking to myself?"
Instead of answering, he rose slowly and crossed the distance between us, his hand reaching up to brush his fingers against my cheek. "I hear you haven't been eating properly," he said, his voice deceptively soft and gentle.
His voice is soft, terrifyingly gentle, and though my mind screams at me to step back, my feet wouldn't move.
"Your cheeks look hollow," he murmured, his thumb brushing the skin as if he were testing for a pulse. "Have you not been sleeping?"
His touch is intoxicating, and those wicked, hypnotic eyes are weaving their spell again, stripping away my defences until I forgot exactly why I am supposed to hate him. I shake my head, physically forcing myself to break the trance.
"I'll answer that when you finally address the information that is starving me."
He frowned, his unblinking gaze locked on mine. "Yeah," he muttered in a tone of feigned disinterest, though his eyes never wavered, studying me as if gauging my reactions. Then, he begins to lean in.
