I reach out, slow and trembling, my fingers brushing his cheek. His stubble scrapes my skin, rough and warm, and he stops moving, his head tilting down.
Our eyes lock, storm-gray meeting mine, and time stretches, heavy and electric. I smile, soft and unguarded, my thumb grazing the corner of his mouth.
“You’re home,” I murmur, voice thick with sleep, the words slipping out like a secret I didn’t know I held. “I like this.”
His breath hitches, a faint tremor in his jaw, and his eyes darken, holding mine like I’ve said something he’s never heard before. My fingers linger, tracing the sharp edge of his cheekbone, and for a moment, it’s just us—me, touching him like he’s mine, and him, staring like I’ve cracked something open.
The dream holds me, soft and safe, and I don’t want it to end.
I smile, lazy and content, letting the dream pull me deeper.
Then the world shifts. I’m lowered, sinking into a bed so soft it feels like falling into a cloud. The arms slip away, and I whimper at the loss, reaching out blindly. My fingers find nothing but cool sheets, and the haze starts to crack.
Wait. Where am I?
My eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep, and the room comes into focus—shadows and moonlight, high ceilings, dark wood.
A bed too big for one person.
And him.
Konstantin Belov sits on the edge, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s praying to a god he doesn’t believe in.
His black T-shirt clings to his shoulders, the fabric taut over muscle, and sweatpants hang low on his hips, casual but deliberate; like even at home, he’s a man who commands. His jaw is tight, hair mussed from dragging his hands through it,and those eyes are locked on me, burning with something I can’t name.
Hunger. Restraint. Something more.
My heart stumbles.
“Konstantin?” My voice is a rasp, thick with sleep, and it feels too loud in this tomb of a room. I push up on one elbow, my faded Homer Simpson shirt twisting around my waist, the hem riding up my thigh. The blanket slips, and I’m suddenly aware of how bare I am underneath—just panties and this stupid pajama top. “Where…? What the hell?”
“My room,“ he says, voice low, clipped, like he’s biting back a thousand other words. “You fell asleep with Alya. I brought you here.”
I blink, piecing it together. Alya’s room. The lavender spray, the stuffed animals,Guess How Much I Love Youopen on the floor. I’d been reading to her, her little body curled against mine, and then… nothing.
Exhaustion must’ve hit me like a freight train. The day’s chaos—Julian and Lila’s drama, that cryptic call from Irina, juggling the kids and playing perfect mafia wife—had wrung me dry. But this? Waking up in his bed? My pulse spikes, heat crawling up my neck.
Waking up inhisbed?
My pulse spikes, heat crawling up my neck.
“Oh. Why?” I ask. “Why not my room?”
My voice sounds casual. Like this isn’t a huge fucking deal. Like I didn’t just wake up surrounded by him—his sheets, his scent, his presence.
I ask the question. But I already know the answer. Or maybe I just hope for it. Because my body’s still humming from the ghost of his arms. The weight of them. Solid and certain, like I was something worth carrying.
The memory of touching his face lingers—fleeting, instinctive. My fingers still tingle like they crossed a line I can’t uncross. Was that real? Or just a half-dream, the kind you want to crawl back into?
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me like I’m the last glass of whiskey on earth, and he hasn’t had a drop in years.
“Seemed easier,” he says, but his voice is rough, and his eyes flicker like he’s hiding something.
His gaze drags over me—my bare thigh, the curve of my hip, the way my nipples are already hard under this ridiculous shirt. My skin prickles, heat pooling low, and I cross my arms, trying to hide how much he’s getting to me.
“Easier. Right,” I scoff, shoving my hair out of my face. “You don’t do easy, Konstantin. You do control. So, what’s the play here?” My voice is steadier than I feel, but my heart’s pounding, and the contract’s screaming in my head—Do not fall in love with him.Two weeks in, and I’m already slipping, my body begging for him while my brain scrambles to remember Irina, the kids, Friday’s looming mess.
This is a deal, a fucking signature, not… whatever this is.
