Page 22 of Cruel Submission

The sound is sharp and intrusive, disrupting the intimacy of the moment. Arkady’s whole body tenses against mine, and I see the exact second his mind shifts from lover to boss.

“Arkady,” I say quickly.

But he’s already sitting up, reaching for his discarded pants. He checks the screen and his face transforms, all the softness draining away, replaced by something hard and unreadable.

“Arkady?” My voice sounds small. “What is it?”

He doesn’t answer. Just stares at the phone like it’s delivered a death sentence. Then he’s on his feet, pulling on his clothes with jerky movements.

“I have to go.”

“Go where?” I sit up, pulling the throw blanket from the nearby armchair to cover myself. “What’s happening?”

He buttons his shirt wrong, curses, starts over. “I just have to go.”

The familiar pattern makes my stomach twist. This is how it always is with him. Disappearing without explanation. Leaving me in the dark.

“Arkady, please.” I stand, wrapping the blanket around myself. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

He looks at me then, and the expression on his face is agony. “I can’t. Not right now.”

“You mean you won’t.”

His jaw works. “Mirabel—”

“No.” The word comes out sharp. “You don’t get to do this. Not after—” I gesture at the rug, at the evidence of what we just did. “Not after that.”

Something flashes across his face—guilt, maybe, or frustration. But when he speaks, his voice is flat. “I’ll be back. We’ll talk then.”

“That’s what you always say.”

“Because it’s true.” He crosses to me, cups my face in both hands. “Whatever you need to tell me, it can wait. This can’t.”

“How do you know?” I demand. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Because I know that as long as you are under my roof, I can protect you from whatever it might be.” His thumbs stroke my cheekbones. “And I promise you, zaychik, we will deal with it. But first I have to—”

He stops, shakes his head. Kisses my forehead once, hard.

“I have to go.”

And then he’s striding toward the door, leaving me standing there wrapped in a blanket in the middle of his library.

“Arkady, wait—”

But he’s already gone. I hear his footsteps echoing through the house, then the sound of the front door, his car engine.

Then nothing.

I sink down onto the rug where we just made love, the Persian silk soft against my bare legs. The room still smells like him—cologne and sweat and sex. Evidence of his presence everywhere except where it matters.

He’s gone again.

And I have no idea where. No idea when he’ll be back. No idea what crisis just pulled him away from me.

Again.

The secrets between us feel heavier now. Mine about the kidnapping, about hearing Gavriil’s name, and the word Dubai. His about wherever he just disappeared to.