by Zaires, Anna
It was just a dream.
I’m safe.
They can’t get to me here.
After a couple of minutes, I feel steady enough to stand, and I walk over to the bathroom to rinse off the sweat drying on my skin. Before doing so, I flick off the lamp, as I ran out of clean clothes to sleep in but couldn’t figure out how to work the blinds on the window. There’s probably a button hidden somewhere, but I was too tired to find it last night. As soon as I got to my room, I stripped off my clothes, hand-washed my shirt and underwear in the sink so I’d have something clean to wear in the morning, and passed out the second my head hit the pillow.
Even worries about my disturbingly attractive employer couldn’t keep me awake.
Now, though, as I stand in the shower, my mind turns to him, and my heartbeat revs up, my breath quickening with a mixture of anxiety and excitement.
Nikolai wants me.
I think.
Maybe.
I could be wrong.
Or… not.
Heat pools low in my belly, my breasts tightening as I picture the darkly intent look in his eyes and replay the things he said… and how he said them. No, I’m not wrong. At least not about his attraction to me. It’s possible he was just toying with me and has no intention of acting on said attraction, but I don’t think so.
I think he intends to fuck me, and I have no idea how I feel about that.
Actually, that’s a lie. My mind might be torn, but my body is very straightforward in its feelings. The heat inside me intensifies, an aching tightness coiling deep inside my core as I imagine what it would be like if he came up to my room at this very moment and knocked on my door… then, not getting a response, opened it and walked in.
If he was sitting on the bed, waiting, when I came out of the bathroom naked.
My eyes drift shut, my hands cupping my breasts, then sliding down my body as I picture him standing up and walking toward me… reaching out to touch me. My fingers slip between my thighs, where I’m slick and aching, and I imagine it’s his hand, his cruelly sensual mouth down there. My breath hitches as the ache transforms into a heated throb, my leg muscles quivering with rising tension, and with a sudden burst of sensation, I come, my toes curling on the wet tiles as I lean against the glass wall of the stall, gasping for air.
Stunned, I open my eyes and pull my hand away, my heart racing madly in my chest.
I can’t believe what’s just happened. I’ve never been able to orgasm this way before, with only my fingers. Normally, I need a minimum of fifteen minutes with my vibrator—or for a guy to go down on me for a half hour—and even then, it’s hit or miss, depending on how stressed or tired I am. Arousal is very much a mental thing for me, which is why I’ve never gone for casual hookups.
I have to know a man to get intimate with him.
I have to like and trust him.
Or at least that’s what I’d always thought. I have no idea if I like Nikolai, and I certainly don’t trust him.
So why does the mere thought of him bring me to the brink of orgasm?
Why am I drawn to a man who makes me feel like hunted prey?
* * *
The light falling on my face pulls me out of a sound sleep, and I groan, rolling over to escape it. But it’s everywhere, bright and warm, and it dawns on me that it must be morning, even if it doesn’t feel like it.
Forcing open my heavy eyelids, I sit up and rub my face. Though I went right back to sleep after my impromptu masturbation session, I still feel tired, as if I’ve gotten only a few hours of shut-eye instead of the nine or ten I must’ve actually snoozed for. I have no idea what time it is now, but I’m pretty sure I went to bed before ten.
Must be all those sleepless weeks catching up with me.
Swinging my legs to the floor, I take in the gorgeous view outside the window. Despite the bright sunlight, traces of fog envelop the distant mountain peaks, and the whole thing looks like something out of a postcard. I’m tempted to sit and enjoy it for a minute, but I make myself get up and head into the bathroom to wash up. It’s my first morning on the job, and I don’t want to make a bad impression by showing up late. Not that I know what “late” is—we didn’t discuss my work hours or Slava’s schedule yesterday.
I’m clean from my nighttime shower, so my morning routine takes mere minutes. The shirt and underwear I hand-washed are still a little damp, but I throw them on anyway and make a mental note to talk to Pavel or someone about the laundry situation as soon as possible. Also, about my hours.
I need to understand what Nikolai’s expectations are, so I can meet and exceed them.
My pulse begins to race at the thought of him, and I focus on gathering my hair into a bun to distract myself from the increasingly active butterflies in my stomach. I went to bed with my hair wet, so it’s got all sorts of weird kinks in it, and in any case, it’s more professional to keep my hair off my face.
Returning to the bedroom, I make the bed, pull on my sneakers, and square my shoulders.
I can do this.
I have to do this, no matter how my new boss makes me feel.
14
Chloe
I don’t see anyone in the dining or living room downstairs, so I walk around until I find the kitchen. Walking in, I see a curvy woman with bleached blond hair cut in a short, poufy bob. Dressed in a flowery pink-and-white dress, she’s bent over a sink, washing a plate, so I clear my throat to warn her of my presence.
“Hi,” I say with a smile when she turns around, drying her hands on a towel. “You must be Lyudmila.”
She stares at me, then bobs her head. “Lyudmila, yes. You Slava teacher?” Her Russian accent is even thicker than her husband’s, and her round, rosy-cheeked face reminds me of a painted matryoshka doll, one of those that have other dolls inside, like onion layers. I’m guessing she’s in her mid-to-late thirties, though her skin is so smooth she could easily pass for ten years younger.
“Yes, hi. I’m Chloe.” Approaching, I extend my hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
She clasps my fingers cautiously and gives my hand a brief shake as I ask, “Do you know where Slava is, and if he’s already had breakfast?”
She blinks uncomprehendingly, so I repeat the question, being careful to enunciate every word.
“Ah, yes, Slava.” She points at the big window to my left, which turns out to look out over the front of the house, where I parked my car. Only the car isn’t there. I frown, then realize Pavel must’ve re-parked it yesterday, when he brought up my suitcase.
I’ll have to ask him where it is, along with my car keys. I don’t think they ever gave them back to me.
Before I can pose the question to Lyudmila, I spot my young student. He’s scampering up the driveway, with Pavel on his heels. The man-bear is carrying a huge fish on a hook, and the boy has an equally big smile on his face. The two of them must’ve done some early-morning fishing.
I steal a glance at the clock on the microwave and wince.
Nope, not early-morning. More like mid-morning.
It’s nearly ten.
My stomach growls, as if on cue, and a smile splits Lyudmila’s round face. “Eat?” she asks, and I nod, smiling back ruefully.
At least my stomach speaks a universal language.
“Is it okay if I take something?” I ask, gesturing at the refrigerator, but Lyudmila bustles over there herself and takes out a platter of what looks like stuffed crepes.
“This good?” she asks, and I nod gratefully. Picky eater I’m not, and if those crepes are anything like the delicious Russian food I had last night, I’m going to be in seventh heaven.
“Thank you,” I say, walking over to take the plate from her, but she pops it into the microwave and gestures at the counter behind the sink.
“Go. Sit. I make for you.”
I thank her again and sit down on one of the bar stools behind the counter. I don’t want to be a burden, but with the language barrier, my polite protest migh
t be misinterpreted as refusal or dislike.
“Tea? Coffee?” she asks.
“Coffee, please. With milk and sugar if you have it.”
She gets busy making it, and I look around the kitchen. It’s as modern as the rest of the house, with glossy white cabinets, gray quartz countertops, and black stainless-steel appliances. Part of the big kitchen island in the middle is occupied with a long row of potted herbs, and a wine rack with a variety of bottles hangs artfully above them.
The microwave pings after a minute, and Lyudmila brings the platter of crepes over to me, along with a clean plate, utensils, and a jar of honey.
“Wow, thank you,” I say as she plates one of the crepes for me, drizzles honey onto it, and then mimes for me to cut and eat it. “That looks amazing.”
I cut a piece of the crepe and examine its contents. It looks like ricotta cheese with raisins, and when I fork the bite into my mouth, I find it both sweet and savory—and even more delicious than I expected. My stomach growls again, louder, and Lyudmila grins at the sound.
“You like?”
“Oh, yes, thank you. This is so good,” I mumble, my mouth already full with the second bite, and Lyudmila nods, satisfied.
“Good. You eat. So small.” She moves her hands in the air, as if measuring the size of my waist, and tsk-tsks disapprovingly. “Too small.”
I laugh uncomfortably and apply myself to the food as she goes back to doing the dishes. It’s funny, her blunt criticism of my figure, but also true. I’ve always been slim, but after a month of sporadic meals, I’ve become downright skinny, the muscles on my body melting away along with what little fat I had. Even the booty I’d once deemed too prominent is barely there now; I’ll probably have to do a million squats to get it back.
Which I will, once all of this is over.
If it’s ever over.
No, not if. I refuse to think that way. I’ve come this far, eluding my pursuers against all odds, and now things are looking up. For the first time since this nightmare began, I’ve slept the whole night, I have a full belly, and I’m somewhere they can’t ambush me. And in six days, I’ll have my first paycheck, and with it, more options—including leaving here, if that’s what I need to do to be safe.
If the darkness I sensed in Nikolai is anything more than a product of my imagination.
In this bright, sunlit kitchen, my fears about mafia feel overblown, irrational, as does my conclusion that he wants me. As Lyudmila pointed out, I hardly look my best, and I’m sure a man as rich and gorgeous as my employer is used to world-class beauties. The more I think about it, the more it seems my attraction to him might’ve led me to misinterpret the situation last night. The pet name, the probing questions, the low, seductive tone of his voice—it could’ve all been a case of cultural differences. I don’t know much about Russian men, but it’s possible they’re always that way with women—just as it’s possible that wealthy Russians are used to having guards due to high levels of corruption and crime in their country.
Yes, that’s probably it. With all the stress of the past month, I’ve let my imagination run wild. Why would a mafia family settle here, in this remote wilderness? New York, sure; Boston, very likely. But Idaho? That makes no sense.
Shaking my head at my foolishness, I polish off the rest of the crepes and drink the coffee Lyudmila made. Then, feeling upbeat and hopeful for the first time in weeks, I get up, bring the dishes to the sink—where Lyudmila takes them despite my protests—and head out to find my student.
I can do this.
I really can.
In fact, I’m looking forward to it.
I’m rounding the corner to the living room, walking fast, when I run smack into a large, hard body. The impact knocks the air from my lungs and nearly sends me flying, but before I can fall, strong hands close around my upper arms, hauling me against said body.
Stunned, completely out of breath, I look up at my captor—and my heartbeat goes through the stratosphere as I meet Nikolai’s tiger-bright gaze.
“Good morning, zaychik,” he murmurs, his beautiful mouth curved in a mocking smile. “Where are you off to in such a rush?”
15
Chloe
Every cell in my body ignites with heat, my pulse jumping impossibly higher. My lower body is flush against his, my thighs pressed against the hard columns of his legs and my stomach molded against his groin. I can smell his cologne, something subtle and complex, with notes of cedar and bergamot, and underneath, the clean musk of warm male skin. And it is warm. Even with us both fully dressed, I can feel his animal heat—and, to my shock, the growing hardness pressing into my belly.
“Are you okay?” he murmurs, and I realize I’m staring up at him dazedly, like a rabbit caught in a trap. Which is pretty much how I feel. His long fingers completely encircle my upper arms, his grip unbreakable. And he’s huge. Up until this moment, I hadn’t realized just how tall and muscular he is. I’m of average height for a woman, but he dwarfs me in every way—and judging by the thickness of the bulge pressed against me, he’s consistently big all over.
My skin heats another thousand degrees, and my insides contract on a sudden empty ache. “I’m… I’m fine.” Only I sound anything but fine, my choked voice betraying my agitation. I can’t think, can’t process anything except the fact that his erection is pressing against me, and for whatever reason, he’s not letting go of me.
He’s holding me against him as if he might never let go, his gaze growing more intent by the second. Slowly, as if drawn by a magnet, his eyes move down to my lips and—
“Kolya.” Alina’s voice is tight. “Konstantin wants to talk to you.”
Nikolai stiffens and raises his head, his fingers tightening on my arms to the point of pain. An involuntary gasp escapes my throat, and he loosens his grip—but still doesn’t release me.
“Tell him I’ll call him back,” he tells his sister. His tone is cool and even, as if we were all sitting at a table instead of him holding me like we’re about to tango. My face, on the other hand, is burning with embarrassment.
I can’t even imagine what Alina’s thinking right now.
“He wants to speak to you right away,” she insists. “He’s going into a meeting in a few minutes and will be busy afterward.”
Nikolai mutters what sounds like a Russian curse and finally releases me. Shaken, I stumble back on unsteady legs and turn to face Alina, who’s watching her brother stalk off with a narrowed stare. Then her gaze swings to me, and her full red lips tighten.
“I ran into him,” I blurt before she can accuse me of anything. “It was an accident. I would’ve fallen, but he—”
“My brother doesn’t do accidents.” Her eyes are like jade dipped in ice. “You’d do well to remember that, Chloe.”
And with that, she walks off, leaving me more shaken than before.
* * *
After a few minutes, I’ve composed myself enough to resume my search for Slava—this time, at a much more sedate walking pace. When I get to his room, however, he’s not there, so I go back downstairs to look for him.
I don’t see him or Pavel in any of the common areas, so I return to the kitchen, hoping to find Lyudmila there. But she’s also gone.
Maybe they’re all outside?
Opening the front door, I step out into the bright sunlight. It’s a gorgeous, cloudless day, the forest-scented breeze cool and refreshing on my face. Nobody’s on the driveway, but I walk out there anyway, drawing lungfuls of fresh mountain air to further calm myself.
There’s no reason to freak out.
Nothing happened.
Nikolai caught me when I would’ve fallen, that’s all.
Except… something could’ve happened if Alina hadn’t interrupted. I’m ninety percent sure Nikolai had been about to kiss me. And I definitely didn’t imagine the hard bulge pressed against me.
He does want me.
There’s no longer any doubt about that.
I take an
other deep breath, but my heart continues to pound, my palms sweating like crazy. Wiping them on my jeans, I walk around the side of the house, taking in mountain views in an effort to calm my racing thoughts.
It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Just because Nikolai is attracted to me doesn’t mean anything is going to happen between us. I’m sure he realizes how inappropriate the whole thing is. No matter what Alina said, it was an accident, us bumping into each other. I don’t know why she would imply otherwise. Maybe she thinks I was coming on to him? But no. It seemed almost as if she was warning me away from him, as if—
The sound of voices catches my attention, and as I round the corner, I see Pavel and Slava. They’re standing by a tree stump some fifty feet away, with the big fish laid on top of it. As I approach, I see the man-bear slice it open halfway, then hand the sharp-looking knife to Slava.
What the hell? Is he expecting the child to finish the job?
He is. And Slava does. By the time I get there, the boy is scooping out fish innards with his little hands and throwing them into a plastic bag Pavel is helpfully holding open for him.
Okay then. I guess they know what they’re doing. I’ve cleaned fish a few times myself—my freshman-year roommate, a fishing-and-hunting enthusiast, taught me how—so I’m not grossed out, but it is unsettling to see a four-year-old doing it.
They’re really not worried about him with knives.
Stopping in front of the stump, I put on my brightest smile. “Good morning. Mind if I join you?”
The boy grins up at me and rattles off something in Russian. Pavel, however, looks less than pleased to see me. “We’re almost done,” he growls in his thickly accented voice. “You can wait in the house if you want.”
“Oh, no, I’m fine out here. Do you need any help with that?” I gesture toward the fish.