My skepticism about this "client" is turning into genuine alarm.
Is he a debt collector? One of Boris's men?
"Why did you ask for me? There are girls here with years more experience."
"I’ve heard many things about you," he says, his voice dropping to a predatory whisper that makes my knees feel like they're made of wax. "I heard you had a certain... fire. I wanted to try it for myself. To see if the rumors were true."
The innuendo in his words is clear now, dripping with a dark, mocking intent. He isn't here for a massage. He’s here forme. I become more and more agitated, my movements becoming jerky, my breathing shallow. The tingling in my fingers has turned into a dull, thumping heat. My mind is a chaotic mess of fear and a shameful, desperate curiosity. I want to know who he is.
I need to get out of here.
"Rumors are just talk," I say, my voice trembling. "I'm just a girl working a shift."
I step past him to reach for more oil, and that’s when it happens.
He shifts, his hand coming out from beneath the table with a speed that makes me gasp. His large, calloused hand brushes firmly against my thigh, his fingers lingering on the skin just above the hem of my tunic. The touch is like a brand, searing through my clothes and leaving a trail of fire in its wake. It’s adeliberate, suggestive move—a claim of possession that shatters my mask into a thousand pieces.
Of course, it's just one of those stupid men who don't take no for an answer. You chose the wrong person to mess with.
The agitation in my chest turns into pure, incandescent rage.
I don't think. My stubbornness and my pride, the only things my father couldn't take from me, explode. This man thinks he can buy me? Thinks he can touch me just because he threw some money at Sofia?
I reach down, my fingers tangling in his dark golden hair, longer than it looks.
"I told you," I growl, my voice low and dangerous, the Russian heiress returning in a heartbeat. "I don't tolerate anyone harassing me at my workplace. I couldn't care less for this job, so I will kick your ass and leave you bleeding on this floor if you touch me one more time. Do you understand?"
The man doesn't flinch. Instead, for my absolute surprise, he lets out a low, dark laugh. It’s a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph.
"If you like it rough, you should have stayed back home,dorogaya," he says, the voice finally clear, no longer muffled by the table. "We would have been the perfect match."
The blood drains from my face so fast the room tilts. My hands are still tangled in his hair, but my fingers are frozen. I don't understand. I can't breathe.
No, no, no, no.
"Back home?" I whisper, the words barely audible over the roar of the blood in my ears. "What are you talking about?"
I yank his head back with everything I have. I force him up, pulling his face out of the hole, forcing him to look at me. I’m ready to scream, ready to scratch his eyes out.
He shifts, his eyes catching the amber light of the candles. Dark blue. Wild. Glinting with a terrifying amount of amusement and a possessiveness that makes my lungs seize.
"New York, Irina," he says, his voice dropping to a growl that settles deep in my marrow.
My heart stops. The world collapses into the space between us. I look at the face I tried to erase from my memory. I look at the dark blue eyes that haunted every dream I’ve had in this tropical purgatory. I look at the man I left standing at the altar.
"I want what should have been mine for six months now," he says, his hand closing over my wrist with the strength of a steel trap. "I’m done playing, I want my wife."
CHAPTER TWO
IRINA
No no no no… please no. This can’t be happening.
The air in Room 4 is 90% eucalyptus oil and 10% my impending cardiac arrest.
Mikhail doesn't move. He just watches me with those dark blue eyes, his hand still clamped around my wrist like a shackle. I can feel his pulse against my skin—steady, rhythmic, and terrifyingly calm. Mine, however, is a mess, a bird trapped in a cage of ribs that feel too small for the amount of oxygen I’m failing to pull in.
"L-Let go," I whisper. It’s meant to be a command, but it comes out as a plea. My throat is so tight I’m surprised any sound escaped at all.
