Page 43 of Cruel Submission

“Just an update on my patient, Mr. Laurov. Her condition is improving. I’ve reduced the dosage of anxiety pills, as the worst of the trauma appears to be over. Looks like the baby is having a positive effect on her. She needs a follow-up in about a month—“

The words stop there. Screen black.

I set the phone down exactly where I found it. Exactly the same angle. My hands are shaking.

Her.

The baby.

Anxiety pills.

I strip off my clothes with numb fingers and step under the spray. Hot water beats against my skull, but it doesn’t wash away the words repeating in my head.

Her condition is improving. The presence of the baby. Trauma appears to be over.

Is he talking about me? Has Arkady been discussing my pregnancy with doctors without telling me?

No. I’m not taking anxiety pills. Arkady doesn’t know about the baby.

The message said “patient.” Someone he’s responsible for. Someone whose mental health he’s monitoring closely enough to warrant medication adjustments.

Another woman.

The thought takes hold again. If there’s another woman, why would he sleep in his own bed? Why would he hold me last night, whisper confessions in the dark, make me believe we were building something real?

Because men like Arkady Laurov don’t follow rules. He could have a dozen women scattered across this estate, each one kept separate, none of us knowing about the others.

I tilt my face up to the water, eyes closed, trying to drown the voice in my head that keeps asking questions I don’t want answered.

The bathroom door swings inward.

My eyes snap open. Through the glass shower door, I watch Arkady fill the doorway.

He’s dressed for the gym—black shorts, fitted vest clinging to every ridge of muscle across his chest and abs. The fabric is dark with sweat. His hair curls damp at his temples. And his eyes lock onto me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

“You don’t believe in knocking, do you?” Guilt and suspicion make the words come out sharp.

His mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. “It’s my bathroom, zaychik.”

He crosses to the windowsill in three strides, picks up the phone, checks the screen. His thumb swipes once. Twice. Reading messages. Then he slides it into his pocket, no hesitation, no suspicion.

Thank God I put it back exactly right.

But he doesn’t leave.

He stands there, one hand braced on the doorframe, eyes tracking water down my body. His gaze feels physical, a touch I can feel in my nipples, between my legs, everywhere.

I should tell him to get out. Maintain some boundaries.

But the way he’s looking at me—like I’m something he needs like air—makes words impossible.

He kicks off his sneakers. Strips off his vest in one motion. His shorts hit the floor. Then he’s pulling open the shower door, stepping in, backing me against the tiles with his body.

He’s already hard. No pretense. No romance. Just need written in every taut line of muscle.

“Arkady—”

His mouth crashes over mine, swallowing whatever I might have said. The kiss is demanding, possessive, edged with something desperate. His hands frame my face, angling my head how he wants it, and I’m kissing him back before I can think better of it.