Page 53 of The Russian's Bought Bride

Then memory comes rushing back all at once, and I’m brought back to the kitchen with the teasing, his hands on me, and the way he kissed me like he’d been holding himself back for days and finally snapped.

My cheeks warm instantly, and I groan softly, dragging the blanket over my head in mortification despite being alone.

God, I actually slept with him.

And I didn’t just sleep with him…I practically melted for him, and I acted like he was the only person I’ve ever craved and needed before, without considering the consequences.

Worst of all, I liked every second of it to a shameful degree.

Every touch and look had me completely mesmerized by him, and every rough laugh against my skin when I teased him right back, every sound he made because of me made me feel so important. As if I truly was with him in this, and not just an issue to be sorted out.

The memory of the night plays in fragments in my mind, making my stomach twist in ways I absolutely do not need right now, because this is completely insane.

Nikolai lied to me repeatedly, admitted to being part of organized crime, and technically still isn’t letting me leave his house, and yet, I somehow ended up in his bed.

After getting it out of my system, I slowly lower the blanket from my face and stare up at the ceiling, trying to process the emotional whiplash of my own life.

Before, my day-to-day seemed so boring and uneventful. I went to work, took care of my dad, and had some stolen moments for myself. At best, I would experience one significant life event in a year, but more recently, I’ve experienced several in just a few weeks.

As much as I want to blame Nikolai for that, it started before he stepped into the picture.

The bed beside me is empty and cool enough to suggest that he’s been gone for a while now, and something about that unsettles me more than it should. A piece of me wishes he were still here, regardless of how needy that sounds coming from me.

Last night had felt different, and not just physical.

There had been moments where his guard slipped enough that I could almost pretend none of the ugly realities around us existed, along with instances where he looked at me with this raw intensity that made me feel wanted in a way I’d never experienced before.

In the moment, I mattered, but now, I don’t know what happens next.

My stomach clenches at the thought of facing Nikolai again after everything, unable to picture what that might bring. I imagine it being awkward, or maybe he’ll regret it entirely and leave me feeling inadequate. Maybe it will be perfectly fine, and I’m overthinking too much.

Either way, the unknown bothers me more than I want it to, and it takes a lot more willpower to dispel the thoughts than I like.

Sitting up slowly, I run a hand through my hair as sunlight spills across the massive bedroom. Evidence of last night is everywhere if I look too closely: the towels discarded near the bedroom door, the imprint of where he slept beside me, and the lingering scent of soap and him. The kitchen has to be worse.

It feels strangely intimate, and it’s annoying how much I don’t hate it, and I wouldn’t mind seeing more of it.

Eventually, I force myself out of bed and into the shower, trying to clear my head under the steaming water, but it doesn’t help much.

Every time I close my eyes, I remember the way Nikolai looked at me afterward, with eyes softer than usual, like he was startled by his own reaction, as if he hadn’t expected any of this either.

By the time I get dressed and wander downstairs, the house is quiet, and to my surprise, the kitchen has been cleared of any evidence of the line we crossed.

I end up making coffee mostly to have something to do with my hands, and I absently eat one of the cookies while I wait. The routine helps steady me a little as it grounds me in something normal while my thoughts keep spiraling in circles.

I don’t know what we are now, and that’s the biggest problem. It’s aggravating to know I even have to ask that question.

The hours pass slowly after that, and I try to read half a book without processing any of it, then I pace around the kitchenbefore getting nosy and digging around his limited decor for anything interesting.

I know I’m going stir crazy when every sound outside catches my attention automatically, and by the time I force myself to stop looking out the window, that’s when the front door opens.

Instantly, the previous tension returns to my chest, squeezing while I brace myself.

Footsteps echo through the house, sounding unmistakably like Nikolai, and I stand from the couch before I can overthink it, smoothing nervous palms against my leggings as he steps into view.

I prepare myself with everything I want to say. Every defense I’ve been thinking up to plead for even a shred of my old life, but before I can say a word, something feels off.

His expression is harder than it was last night, and more noticeably closed off. Tension pulls his shoulders tight, and it lingers in the sharpness of his jaw, and he walks in carrying the weight of something I likely couldn’t wrap my head around.