I'm surprised—so surprised I actually stare directly at him for a beat. This big, scary Russian mafia guy is checking in? Like a real Daddy Dom?
"It... it was fine," I say, voice small.
Fine? It was intense, scary, hot. But fine covers it, I guess.
He nods once, like that's all he needed. No smirk, no gloating. Just... concern? It throws me off. In the back of my mind, doubts swirl louder.
Is he playing me?
Making me feel safe so I don't run to the cops? Because yeah, I could be dangerous to him. I saw the murder—self-defenseor not, it was cold-blooded. One word from me, and his life crumbles. Or maybe he plans to silence me permanently. The thought chills me more than the ice pack did.
But I can't overthink it now.
My brain's fuzzy from the adrenaline crash, the spanking, the whole insane night. Before I can spiral, Viktor scoops me up in his strong arms—like I weigh nothing, like picking up a doll.
I yelp, grabbing at his shirt instinctively. "What are you?—?"
"Bed," Viktor grunts, already striding toward the stairs. His chest is solid under my hands, heartbeat steady against my side. He carries me effortlessly, up the wide steps, his boots thudding softly on the wood.
I should fight, protest,something.
But exhaustion hits like a wave.
And... it feels nice. Safe, even, despite everything.
Viktor’s arms are warm, his grip secure. No one's ever carried me like this—not since I was a kid. A hint of affection flickers in my chest, unwanted but there. He's rough, commanding, but he saved me. Tended to me. Maybe he's notalldevil.
We reach the top, and instead of heading to the far guest room where I was before, he turns left—toward what must be the master suite. He nudges open the door next to it, a smaller room but still luxurious: big bed with crisp white sheets, nightstand with a lamp, windows overlooking the lake.
"This one," he says, setting me down gently on the bed. "Next to mine. So I can hear if you wake. Or if you try anything."
I swallow, nodding. Practical. Controlling. But that flicker of affection grows a tiny bit—he's thinking about me waking up scared? Or is it just to keep tabs?
He pulls back the covers, gestures for me to get in.
I slide under, still in my clothes. The sheets are soft, cool. He tucks me in—actually tucks, like adjusting the blanket around my shoulders, making sure it's snug. His hands linger for a second on my arm, warm through the fabric.
"Sleep," he says. "Tomorrow we talk more. Or rather, I talk and you listen."
I clutch Goldie to my chest—Viktor must have grabbed him from the floor earlier, because my stuffie's here now, his mane fluffy against my chin.
I whisper thank you, but Viktor doesn’t hear. Or is he does, he doesn’t respond. Instead he simply straightens and heads for the door.
As he flicks off the light, plunging the room into soft moonlight, resolve hardens in me. Despite the affection, the safety he's wrapping around me like these blankets—come tomorrow, I'm escaping.
No matter what.
I won't be his prisoner.
I won't wait to see if his motives turn dark.
And anyway, Robbie is probably worried sick. My art show's ruined. My life is upside down.
I needout.
The door clicks shut. His footsteps fade to the master suite.
I stare at the ceiling, butt throbbing faintly, mind racing.
