I stand there, fingers drifting to my lips, listening.
He doesn't lock it.
And somehow that's more frightening than if he had.
Chapter three
Rafail
With Jana it’s coffee first, always black; the furrow between her brows when she concentrates—but my cameras are a poor substitute for nearness. Now that she’s here, under my roof, I register details the feeds couldn’t capture: the way morning light finds the gold in her brown skin, how her curls are still mussed from sleep, the precise moment her pupils blow wide when I enter a room.
Like now.
I stand in the doorway of the breakfast room. She jumps, hard enough to slosh coffee over the rim of her cup. A pulse hammers in the hollow of her throat. Her eyes widen, pupils blowing out before she can school her expression into composure. Too late. I’ve already seen her body’s honest reaction.
She’s drowning in my robe, the hem hitting her knees and the sleeves falling past her hands. She thinks it hides her, but the fabric clings to the swell of her breasts, the outline of their peaks pressing against the terry cloth. She’s positioned herself in the chair to see the doorway, to track threats.
Smart girl.
“Good morning, milaya,” I say, moving into the room. I let my casualness be a statement. Nothing about this morning touches me.
She sets down her cup with hands that want to shake. “I see Rina took care of your dress.”
“She took it without asking.” The words are sharp, edged with something harder than fear.
Good. Anger I can work with. Anger means she still has fight.
“It needed to be washed.” I pour myself coffee and sit across from her, my gaze tracking her movements. Prey watching the circle tighten. “Would you have preferred to wear dirty clothes?”
“I would have preferred to be asked.”
The entitlement pulls at the corner of my mouth. She still thinks she has a say. I file it away for later. “Noted.” I let it land. Then I ask the question I already know the answer to. “How did you sleep?”
“Fine.”
The lie is automatic. She’s testing me. I arch an eyebrow and wait.
Her expression shifts. The brief confusion clears, replaced by a tension that locks her jaw. When she corrects herself, her voice is sharp enough to cut. “Terribly. I slept terribly. Happy?”
“Not particularly.” I sip my coffee, letting the silence stretch. “But I appreciate the honesty. You could have been more comfortable in my bed.”
The reaction is immediate. A tremor runs through her, her breath catching in a sharp, audible hitch. The peaks of her breasts, already outlined against the fabric, tighten into hard points that even the thick terry cloth can’t hide.
“That wasn’t part of the arrangement.”
Under his protection.The phrase does nothing to comfort me. If anything, it drops my stomach, because protection from a man like this comes with conditions I'm not ready to consider.
“Within reason—”
“I decide what’s reasonable, Jana. Not you.”
The words land. Her jaw tightens. Her throat works as she swallows whatever protest she was about to make. She picks up her fork with fingers that tremble just slightly and takes a bite of eggs she doesn’t taste. But she can’t hide the way her thighs press together under the table, the subtle shift of her hips. The rapid rise and fall of her chest has nothing to do with fear.
Every instinct I’ve sharpened in the Bratva watches her come apart piece by piece.
The silence stretches while she pushes food around her plate. I track every tell: the way she can’t meet my eyes, the constant shifting in her seat, the subtle bite of her lower lip when she thinks I’m not looking.
“Is there something you want to say?” she finally snaps, defensive. “Or are you just going to sit there watching me?”
