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Gasping for breath, I feel a rush of cold air against my skin as I stand in front of Luka. Completely disoriented, naked, and dripping wet, I reach instinctively for something to cover myself. There’s nothing.
Oh, fuck.
My cheeks burn with embarrassment. Luka looks at me briefly, a spark of something – amusement or annoyance, I can’t tell – shifting his stoic expression.
“Th-thank you,” I stutter out. The chill in his voice has done nothing to alleviate my flustered state. “I was…I was having a nightmare.”
A storm brews in Luka’s eyes, his words a knife-edge of frosty sarcasm. “Seems like you’re struggling with the basics, krasotka. Or is ‘staying alive’ too much to ask?”
“No, it’s not like that. I just…I was tired, and I thought a bath would help,” I blurt out. My hands instinctively cross over my breasts, a pitiful attempt at preserving some semblance of modesty.
His intimidating frame overwhelms the bathroom, which is spacious by any standard, his presence an oppressive force. He is sculpted like a god, his muscular body hardened from a life that shows no mercy. His raw masculinity is like a body blow, disconcerting yet undeniably electrifying.
Bare, wet, and vulnerable, I’m standing mere inches from him. His hand, battle-scarred and assertive, steadies me at my back. My heart beats like a war drum against my ribs, its rhythm frantic under his touch. My nipples peak under his heavy gaze, his eyes stripping me further bare. But there’s a frosty detachment to his stare, a chilly indifference I can’t quite decipher.
The deafening silence is only broken by the steady drips from my soaked hair, each one crashing onto the cold tiles in sync with the frenetic pounding in my chest.
“Try using an alarm clock for waking up instead of drowning yourself.” His words are as cutting as shards of glass.
A bitter laugh erupts from my throat. “Is this a joke to you?”
“No.”
There’s no amusement in his voice, no hidden smirk tugging at his mouth. “You’re a catastrophe waiting to happen.”
So, he wasn’t joking.
But something seems off.
I hug myself tighter, trying to shield my exposed body. But it does nothing to suppress the tremors racing down my spine or the burning blush creeping onto my cheeks.
“Get out,” I say, the words coming out harsher than I intended.
He looks taken aback for a second, his eyebrows pulling together as he takes in my crossed arms, my red face. His gaze lingers for a second too long on the bare skin of my thighs, the heat in his eyes visible even in the dimly lit room.
“What?” he asks, his voice dangerously low.
“The bathroom,” I clarify, refusing to meet his eyes. “Can you leave? Please…?”
There’s a silent moment where the only sound is our heavy breathing and the faint drip of the faucet. The intensity of his stare makes my heart race. Abruptly, I’m pulled against him, the cold dampness of my skin seeping into his warm clothes. His muscled arm wraps around my waist, drawing me flush against his solid body.
His voice slices through the silence, sharp and unyielding. “My house,” he growls, the tone leaving no room for arguments. “My rules. I told you this.”
“But you can’t just—” I start to retort, but the realization hits me like a punch to the gut.
It’s his room.
I’m in his world now. The world where there are no rules but Luka Ivankov’s.
His finger, rough and callused, hooks a damp strand of my hair, pushing it back with an oddly gentle precision. His other hand stays at my waist, his grip firm, as if he’s worried I might disappear if he lets go.
Our eyes lock, searing, charged with an electricity that zaps straight to my core.
I’m going to be so screwed if he kisses me now.
Suddenly, his eyes shift, going dark, darker than spilled ink, darker than a moonless night.
The predatory glint in his eyes doesn’t waver as his hand lifts. It sweeps through the humid air, unhurried, and grazes my neck in a near touch that leaves me gasping. My pulse jumps under his light contact with my throat, a panicked rabbit under his hunter’s touch.
