I can almost feel the friction. The rough pads of his fingers pushing through the slickness that’s already sliding down my thighs. I imagine him sliding two fingers inside me, stretching me, his thumb working against my clit in a rhythmic, mercilessgrind. I’d be a mess. I’d be sobbing, my head thrown back against the wall, my fingers clawing at his shoulders.
"Mikhail," I find myself whispering to the empty room.
The sound of his name makes my stomach flip. I imagine him watching me break. I want to see that dark, heated look in his eyes when he realizes he’s finally won, not because he bought me and forced me to marry him, but because I’m begging for him to take me. I want him to hike my legs up over his shoulders and sink into me, hard and fast, filling that deep, hollow ache that’s currently pulsing between my thighs.
I imagine the raw power of him, the way his back would arch, the way his muscles would ripple under those tattoos as he lost that terrifying control of his. I want to hear him growl my name, his breath hot against my skin, as we both go over the edge.
A sharp, heavy jolt of pleasure shoots through me. The knowledge that I’m reacting this way to a man like Mikhail is infuriating.
"Stop it," I hiss, snapping my eyes open.
I’m shaking. My heart is racing, and I’m standing naked in a dressing room, losing my mind over a man who wants to own my soul. I look in the mirror, and the woman staring back looks like a stranger. Her cheeks are a deep, bruised red, and her eyes are dark with a hunger that terrifies me.
"He’s a Morozov," I tell myself. My voice is wrecked, a low rasp. "He’s a monster. He’s one of the reasons you had to run in the first place. Don't be a fucking cliché, Irina."
But the ache between my thighs doesn't care about logic.
I grab a thick, white towel and wrap it around myself, tucking the edge tightly over my breasts. I need to get it together. I have a mission. Tomorrow, at 11:00 PM. That is the only thing that matters. Not Mikhail’s hands, not the way his suit fits his shoulders, and definitely not the way he makes my blood feel like it’s boiling.
He’s a distraction. A beautiful, lethal distraction designed to keep me from finding the truth. If I let him get inside my head, I’m never going to find the person I lost. I’m just going to be another forgotten wife, rotting in a gilded room while the world goes on without me.
I take a deep, shaky breath and step into the sauna.
The heat there is a thick, and eucalyptus and charcoal that fills my lungs and clears my head. The room is dim, lit only by a few amber lamps that cast long, flickering shadows against the cedar walls. I sit on the top bench and let the heat sink in.
I try to focus on what my plan would be once I revive a day.
Today is the first time in ten years that I’m not just reacting to someone else’s move. I’m the one making the play. I’m the one disappearing into the dark.
"Eleven o'clock," I say to the empty, steaming room.
I lean my head back against the warm wood and close my eyes.
"Just wait for me," I murmur.
I’m coming for my ghost, and God help anyone, Mikhail included, who tries to stand in my way.
The heat settles on me, a white veil that hides the world. For the first time in six months, I don't feel like a pawn. I feel like the player.
I can’t wait.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MIKHAIL
The house is too quiet, and it’s getting on my nerves.
I’ve spent the last three hours in a room with Artyom listening to him drone on about shipping lanes and the Council's latest complaints. My head is full of numbers, and my body is still tight from the morning. All I can think about is the way Irina looked in those leggings, the way her hair was damp against her neck, and the fact that she’s currently a walking secret in my house.
I walk through the foyer, my steps loud on the marble. I don’t see her.
"Where is she?" I ask a maid who’s trying to disappear into the dining room. She jumps like I’ve pulled a gun on her.
"The west wing, sir. The spa. She’s in the sauna."
I don’t wait for her to finish. I turn and head that way, my steps heavy and fast. My blood is already up. I can still feel the ghost of her pulse under my thumb from this morning. It’s an itch I can’t scratch.
I reach the entrance to the private spa suite. Maria and Lisha are standing by the heavy oak doors, looking like two nervous birds. They see me coming and immediately straighten up, but they don’t move.
