I’ve been hard for hours, ever since I burst through that bathroom door and saw her standing there like something out of a fantasy I didn’t know I had. I try to ignore it. My body refuses.
I close my eyes, snake my hand under my waistband, and wrap my fingers around my length.
Wrong. Unprofessional.
But I’m only human, and I’ve been watching this woman for a week. Biting her lip when she’s concentrating on a difficultpassage of music. Watching her hips sway when she walks and noticing the curve of her ass in her yoga pants.
I stroke myself slowly, hating my weakness even as I give in to it.
I imagine pushing her against the shower wall and the feeling of my chest hot against her breasts. My mouth would find hers, and I’d kiss her until she forgets to be afraid, until the only thing she feels is want. In my mind, one hand slides between her thighs, finding her slick and swollen, and I work her clit with my fingers until she’s grinding against my palm and begging for more.
I thrust into my fist, biting my tongue to keep from groaning.
My breath is ragged now. I’m close, and my cock throbs in my grip.
In my head, I’m inside her, under the running water, and she breaks with a gasp. Her nails rake my shoulders, and my name spills from her lips like she’s been waiting to say it.
Safe. Wanted. That’s how I’d make my little dove feel, until she forgets every hand that ever left bruises on her beautiful skin.
I come with a groan I can’t quite suppress, spilling over my fist in hot pulses. Her name stays trapped behind my teeth, bitten back so hard that I taste blood. Pleasure and rage twist inside me until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
When it’s over, I lie there in the darkness, breathing hard and furiously.
I’m here to investigate her. Prove guilt or innocence.
Instead, I’m lying in her spare room with cum cooling on my stomach, thinking about killing whoever left those fingerprints on her arms.
The conflict between duty and desire tears at me. I want her. I want to protect her. I want to destroy whoever hurt her.
None of those align with my mission.
6
Daria
The sole of Kira’s left shoe slaps the floor as she toddles to the breakfast table.
I’ve been pretending not to notice for three days.
Every morning, I watch her shuffle across the apartment, and every morning, I tell myself I’ll figure something out.
The hole in her right shoe has grown from a pinprick to something I can fit my finger through, and the left sole is hanging on by a thread.
“Mama, my foot is cold,” Kira announces as she climbs into her chair. “There’s a hole, and the snow gets in.”
“I know, malyshka. We’ll fix it soon.”
“When is soon?”
“Soon.”
She accepts this non-answer like she’s learned not to push, and my chest tightens.
Pyotr glances up from his coffee, and I see his gaze flit to Kira’s feet. He doesn’t say anything, but I catch his eyes narrowing slightly. There’s no judgment, which I appreciate. I’m doing the best I can.
“I need to stop by the secondhand shop after my lessons today,” I tell no one in particular as I pour Kira’s juice. “See if they have anything in her size.”
Pyotr’s only response is a slight nod before he returns to his coffee.
