The images won’t stop.
I grit my teeth, cursing myself.
This was a mistake. I never should’ve let her touch me.
But fuck, I’d do it again.
When we step outside, a sharp gust of wind hits, and she shivers before she can hide it. Without a word, I slip off my coat and drape it around her shoulders, wrapping it close until the collar brushes her jaw.
“Slip your arms inside, malyshka.”
Her fingers disappear into the sleeves, the length engulfing her. Her eyes lift to mine, glassy with something I can’t quite name. Surprise, maybe. Gratitude.
She holds the coat tighter as we cross the lot in silence, our footsteps echoing. As the doors of my LaFerrari lift, she climbs into the passenger seat while I circle around and take the wheel.
“This is some car.” She runs her palms over the leather interior.
I laugh. “I’m glad you approve.”
Her lips part like she’s about to say something, but instead, she just smiles tightly.
Once the car is on the road, her body angles toward the exit, legs pressed together like she’s either trying to keep distance from me or like she’s nervous.
But she doesn’t realize how nervous she makes me. How much power she has without even trying. I hate that I’m thinking about her right now—in that dress, in my bed. I hate that I keep looking down at her hand and wishing mine was still in it.
Chto s toboy?What’s wrong with you?
She’s twenty-three. Too young. Completely off-limits.
But that doesn’t seem to matter when every instinct I’ve spent a lifetime burying already sees her as mine.
This isn’t some harmless attraction. It’s not patient, and it’s sure as hell not gentle. It’s volatile. Raw heat wound tight, waiting for the wrong moment to erupt.
And when it does, I won’t be able to stop it. Not with her. Not when she looks at me like she doesn’t see the danger. Or worse, like she sees it and wants me anyway.
Either way, the line between us is thinning, unraveling with every look we share. If she asks me again whether I want her, I’m going to show her just how much I actually do.
I’ll take her. I’ll wreck her. And what’s worse is I won’t regret a damn thing.
We drive in silence for a while, and the moment the car turns onto my private road, her head lifts, her eyes darting toward the tinted window like she’s trying to figure out exactly where we are. The headlights catch on the iron gates just ahead, and when they begin to open, two of my men appear, rifles at their back, nodding as we pass.
“You live here?” she asks.
I glance over, watching the way her eyes track every turn as the road curves through thick trees on both sides. “I do.”
The gravel crunches beneath the tires as we pass through the towering stone pillars flanking the entrance. An iron arch stretches between them, etched with a Russian phrase she can’t read, something about fighting until you conquer your enemy. Around the final bend, the house comes into view, built from dark stone and glass that catches the moonlight in silver streaks. At the center of the circular drive, a fountain spills water from the jaws of a stone tiger, its fangs bared, its eyes fixed forward.
She doesn’t speak, simply takes it all in. The moment the car stops, I’m out and moving toward her side. Opening her door, I help her out.
“Come.” I hold out my hand. “I will show you inside.”
As she climbs up the steps, her gaze lifts to the house, full of awe, like she’s never seen anything like this before. And I realize she probably hasn’t.
Something about that makes my chest spasm. I want her to have it all, and I want to be the one to give it to her.
She doesn’t even realize how beautiful she looks right now. How easy it is to picture her walking through that front door every night. Like she belongs here. In my space. In my kitchen. In my bed.
You could move her in. Give her a room. Start with the nanny job. That’s smart. Professional.
