Then, he steps back to let me go. The cage of heat dissolves around me, and I can breathe again—except I don’t. I refuse to take another breath as I walk past him. I don’t need more of him inside of my lungs than there already is.
When I move past him, my step falters, and my ponytail accidentally bounces against his face. I turn just in time to see him raise his hand up, and run his thumb across his lower lip.
And the only fucking thing I can do is wonder how it might feel for him to run it against mine.
7
BELLA
DAYS LATER
Hot water sluicesoff my body, and my mind can’t stop thinking about the impossible phone call with De Savoie and everything it implied.
I close my eyes and try to empty my mind but my thoughts don’t want to leave. And under the hot water pitter-pattering around my feet, all they do is sink and stay.
It was a custom commission that Mr. Romanov worked very closely with us on.
I turn my face into the water and let it run down over my face. A custom commission that he worked on closely with De Savoie. The necklace is sitting on the edge of my bathroom vanity, and I turn over every possibility in my head. But none of them provide a satisfactory answer.
None except one, and that single answer is almost too terrible for me to think about.
Thankfully, that’s when the intercom buzzes, and snaps me out of my thoughts.
Lydia is here. Just like the night with the Bellamy gallery, she’s coming to watch Anthony while I play my role by Slava’s side for another gala.
I just hope this time, things won’t go the way they did the last time.
But Nico’s ominous answer leaves me doubting that very much.
I shut off the water and grab my towel, wrap it tight around my body, and leave wet footprints across the tile towards the door.
When I reach it, the intercom buzzes again, impatient.
"Anthony," I call out to him as I buzz Lydia in. "Can you go in your room while I let Aunt Lydia in?"
"Okay!" His little voice floats back, cheerful and uncomplicated.
My hair leaves a dripping trail of water on the hardwood as I reach the door. I should wait until I hear the knock, but I’m running late already. The sooner Lydia is inside, the sooner I can finish getting ready. Which means the sooner this evening can begin and end and become another night I survive Slava Romanov.
“Finally.” I open the door and my voice dies in my throat when I see who’s standing outside.
It's not Lydia.
It’s Slava, all six-foot-three of him.
For a single suspended second, the world stops making sense.
"You're not—" I start, and my voice comes out strangled, wrong. "What are youdoinghere?"
He answers me with a penetrating stare. I’ve seen him stare at me before, usually whenever I glare at him. But after the other day in the office, his stare feels different now.
He looks at me like he can see me, like really see me. As he looks, he runs his thumb across his lower lip again. I feel myself growing hot despite a slight breeze rushing through the door against my wet skin, and I’m having trouble drawing another breath.
Seconds stretch into minutes, and water continues to pool around my feet.
“Don’t ever open doors without knowing who’s on the other side again,” he says. “Ms. Creminelli.”
The heat of his gaze travels inch by inch from my face to my exposed collarbone and I’m suddenly aware of just how exposed I am to him right now. Standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but a towel.
