“Why are you staying over there?”
The question slipped out before I could censor it. It wasn’t an invitation, but it wasn’t a rejection either. It was a plea for clarity.
He didn’t answer immediately. He walked toward the bed, stopping just where the light of the lamp faded into shadow. The proximity made my pulse leap, a frantic drumming in my throat that I couldn’t blame entirely on fear. I remembered the heat of him during our dance, the way his hand had felt against the small of my back. There was an undeniable, terrifying pull between us—a magnetic field generated by two people who should never have been in the same room, let alone the same bed.
“Nothing,” he answered.
“You think giving me space makes this less of a cage?”
“No,” he said again, and for the first time, I heard a flicker of hesitation in his voice. “But it makes me less of a jailer.”
I turned onto my side, watching him. In the low light, he looked devastating. I hated that I noticed the breadth of his shoulders, the way the tattoos on his hands seemed to tell a story of violence and loyalty. I hated that my body, traitorous and confused, was vibrating with a need to be touched.
I was a psychology student; I knew what this was. Transference. My brain was looking for safety in the very source of my danger. But knowing the name of the feeling didn’t make the heat in my blood go away.
He didn’t move any further. He stood there, a guardian and a threat all in one. He didn’t force. He didn’t ask. He just existed in my space, letting the silence do the work.
And that was the problem. By not taking anything, he was making me want to give. By being gentle, he was making me forget the bars.
I lay back down, pulling the covers up to my chin, the internal storm raging. I could hear the faint, distant sound of the guards on the gravel outside—the reminder of the war we were in. But inside this room, under the glow of the golden lamp, the only war was the one between my mind and my body.
I closed my eyes, but I could still feel him watching me. Safe, yet never free.
**********
Another day had passed in a blur. I sat perched on the edge of the mattress, the fine white slip I wore feeling like a flimsy barrier against the sheer gravity of the man standing before me. The air in the room had changed; it was no longer just the cool, sterile atmosphere of a fortress. It was thick, charged with the scent of whiskey, woodsmoke, and the impending collision of two lives.
Alexei moved with the silent, predatory grace that defined him. His jacket was gone, his white dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing the hard, tanned skin of his torso and the dark, intricate ink that crept up his throat. He looked disheveled, his auburn hair mussed as if he’d been running his fingers through it while pacing the halls of his mind.
I wanted to be angry. I wanted to scream at him for the cold efficiency with which he had dismantled my autonomy. But as he stepped into the light, my body betrayed my mind. A slow, honeyed heat pooled in my belly, a visceral reaction to the raw, masculine power he radiated.
“I’m not fragile,” I said, my voice shaking. It was meant to be a warning, a reminder that I wasn’t just another asset to be managed.
Alexei stopped inches from me. He was so close I could feel the heat radiating from his skin.
“No,” he replied softly, his voice a low, rough rasp. “You’re fire, Mila. But I’ve learned how to be careful with fire.”
He reached out then, his hand large and calloused, and trailed his fingers down the line of my jaw. The touch was agonizingly light, a stark contrast to the violence I knew he was capable of. His fingertips traced the curve of my throat, pressing gently against the pulse that was hammering a frantic rhythm. When his thumb brushed over my lower lip, I flinched, my breath hitching.
He stilled instantly. He didn’t pull away, but he froze, watching me with an intensity that felt like he was peeling back my skin to see the soul beneath. He was a predator learning the exact frequency of my fear—and something else.
“I’ve never done this before,” I whispered.
The confession felt like a surrender.
The world seemed to drop away. The hum of the estate, the guards outside, the weight of the Petrov name—it all vanished. Something fundamental shifted in Alexei. The restraint he had been wearing like a shroud seemed to crack. His jaw tightened, and his hands gripped the edge of the mattress on either side of my hips, the muscles in his forearms bulging.
“Then I’ll make sure,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, possessive tone, “that the first man who touches you is the last.”
The words sent a violent shiver through me, but it wasn’t fear—it was a dark, unholy thrill. He didn’t wait for a response. He leaned down, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that was slow,deep, and utterly consuming. It tasted of scotch and a hunger that had been suppressed for far too long.
He moved me back onto the pillows with a deliberate slowness that was more overwhelming than any rush could have been. His hands began to map my skin, his palms hot against the cool silk of my slip. He didn’t tear it; he slid the straps down my shoulders with a reverence that made my eyes sting. He touched me like I was a puzzle he had spent his whole life trying to solve, his mouth drawing out gasps and whimpers I didn’t recognize as my own.
Every touch was a claim. Every kiss was a signature. He traced the line of my ribs, the curve of my hip, his tattoos a dark contrast against my pale skin. He was meticulous and patient, stoking the fire until I was arching against him, my fingers tangling in his hair, begging for a release I didn’t fully understand.
When he finally moved between my legs, he paused, his forehead resting against mine. His breathing was heavy, his body rigid with the effort of holding back. He looked into my eyes, and for a second, I didn’t see a mafia boss. I saw a man who was terrified by how much he wanted to lose himself in the girl beneath him.
“Mila,” he groaned, my name a prayer on his lips.
