He’s discarded his jacket and tie. His white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal the dark ink of the serpents on his forearms. He’s holding a glass of whiskey, the ice clinking softly as he watches me.
My heart stops. I don't know how long he’s been there. I don't know how much he heard over the roar of the water.
"Long shower?" he asks. His voice is a low, dangerous rumble that makes the fine hairs on my neck stand up.
Shit.
"I needed to wash the scent of you car off my skin," I say, my chin lifting. I walk toward the bed, trying to appear nonchalant, but my legs feel like they’re made of lead. "Checking your property for defects, Mikhail? Or did you just come in to watch me sleep?"
"I was wondering who you were talking to," he says.
He doesn't move, but the atmosphere in the room shifts instantly. The air becomes heavy, charged with a predatory intent that makes my skin tingle.
"I wasn't talking to anyone," I lie. "I was talking to myself. It’s a habit you develop when you're surrounded by people who treat you like furniture."
Mikhail sets his glass down on the dresser with a deliberate, slow motion. He starts toward me, his gait steady and confident. He doesn't look like a man who’s guessing. He looks like a man who’s already found the leak and is coming to plug it.
"The water was running, Irina. But not high enough to drown out the conversation." He stops a foot away, his presence overwhelming. "Who was on the phone?"
"You're hearing things," I snap. "Maybe the whiskey is finally getting to your brain. Or maybe you're just so paranoid you think every breath I take is a conspiracy."
"I’m rumoured to be a mad man, Irina, not a fool." He reaches out, his hand closing around my upper arm. His grip is firm, possessive, and radiating that staggered heat that always makes my body betray me. "I found you in Cancun because I know how you move. I know how you think. And right now, you're thinking about a secret you’re desperate to keep."
"Everyone has secrets, Mikhail. Even the perfect little Morozovs." I step into his space, my heart hammering against my ribs. I can see the pulse jumping in his neck, the dark blueof his eyes turning into a midnight storm. "What bothers you more? That I still have things you can't own, or that the call might have been to someone who actually knows how to treat a woman?"
Mikhail’s eyes darken. The air between us vanishes.
"A lover?" he asks, his voice dropping to a growl that settles deep in my belly. "Is that what you're suggesting? That you spent your six months of 'freedom' in the arms of some beach-bum in Mexico?"
"Maybe," I provoke him, a reckless, sassy spark lighting up my eyes. I refuse to let him see the fear. I want him angry. I want him distracted from the truth of the call. "He was gentle, Mikhail. He didn't speak in threats. He didn't look at me like a business contract. He looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered."
I’m lying through my teeth, of course. The only man I spoke to in Cancun was Mateo, and he looked at me like I was a ticking time bomb but seeing the muscle jump in Mikhail’s jaw is worth the lie.
"Gentle," Mikhail repeats the word like it’s an insult.
Before I can even draw my next breath, he moves. He’s faster than any man his size has a right to be. His hand shifts from my arm to my waist, and with a single, brutal tug, he pins me down against the mattress.
I let out a sharp gasp as the world tilts. He’s on top of me, his weight a crushing, intoxicating pressure that pins my hips to the bed. His hands are on either side of my head, his face inches from mine. The sexual tension is a physical weight, a high-voltage current that hums between our bodies, making my skin feel like it’s on fire.
"You think you’re being clever," he hisses, his eyes boring into mine. "You think you can use another man to keep me at bay? You think I’ll let another man touch what belongs to me and walk away?"
"I don't belong to you!" I shout, my hands coming up to push against his shoulders. My fingers sink into the expensive silk of his shirt, feeling the rock-hard muscle beneath. My body is screaming at me to fight him and screaming at me to pull him closer. The conflict is making me dizzy. "I’m not a territory you can mark, Mikhail!"
"You are exactly that," he rumbles. He shifts, his knee sliding between my thighs, forcing them apart. The intimacy of the gesture makes my breath hitch, a heavy, wet heat pooling between my legs. "If there is another man, Irina—if he even so much as looked at you the way I’m looking at you now—he is a dead man walking. I will hunt him down. I will take his life with my own hands, and I will make sure you watch while I do it."
"You're a psycho," I whisper, my eyes fixed on his mouth.
He’s so close. If he leans down just an inch, he’ll be tasting the lie on my lips.
"I’m a man who protects his own," he corrects. His hand leaves the bed to cup my jaw, his thumb dragging across my lower lip, forcing it down. The touch is electric, a promise of violence and pleasure that makes my head swim. "You want to talk about secrets? You want to talk about 'gentle' men? You haven't seen a second of what I’m capable of when someone tries to steal what’s mine."
"You don't even like me," I provoke him, my voice trembling with a mixture of rage and a hunger I can't suppress. "You just hate that I won. You hate that I’m the only thing in this world you couldn't control."
"I don’t hate you, Irina." Mikhail leans in, his voice dropping to a rough, quiet level that makes the air in the room feel suddenly too thin. He stays close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. "But don't confuse that for being done with you. That guy you're holding onto? He isn't coming to save you. He can’t. You're here now. With me"
He pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes. The possessiveness in his gaze is terrifying. It’s total. It’s absolute. He looks at me like he wants to devour my soul and lock the pieces in a safe.
"Who was on the phone?" he asks again, the threat in his voice sharpened to a razor's edge.
