"You’ve had six months, Irina," Mikhail rumbles, his voice vibrating through the small space between us. He doesn't let go.If anything, his grip tightens, drawing me an inch closer to the heat radiating off his bare chest. "That’s enough of letting go."
I yank my arm back with a surge of desperate strength, and to my surprise, he lets me go. Not because I won, but because he’s already decided the game is over. He sits up fully on the massage table, the white sheet sliding dangerously low. I see the hard, tanned expanse of his thighs. I should look away. I’m a Petrov; I was raised with a sense of propriety that is currently being set on fire by the sheer, unapologetic masculinity of the man in front of me.
But I can't look away. My eyes trace the ink on his skin, the scars that tell stories of a life I tried to leave behind, and the way his dark golden hair falls over his forehead. He looks like a god of war who took a wrong turn and ended up in paradise.
Goodness.
"Put some freaking clothes on," I snap, trying hard to maintain my composure. I gesture vaguely at his lack of clothing. "Or is being a public nuisance part of the Morozov charm these days?"
Mikhail lets out a low, dry laugh as he stands up. He’s six-foot-three of pure, predatory grace. Even naked, he’s the one in control. "The only nuisance here is the wife who thought a fake passport and a bottle of coconut oil would be enough to hide from me."
"I am not your wife!" I hiss, backing toward the door. "We never signed the papers. We never finished the ceremony. You're just a man I left standing in a room full of expensive flowers."
He reaches for the knot at his hip, and with a flick of his wrist that is unnecessarily graceful for a man with shoulders that wide, the towel hits the floor with a soft, mockingthud.
What the hell?!
My gaze is currently locked onto a very specific, very safe mole on his left shoulder blade. I am staring at that mole like it holds the secrets to the universe.
"We’re going," he says, ignoring my jab. He reaches for a pile of clothes I hadn't noticed in the corner—a sharp, Italian suit that probably costs more than this entire building. He pulls on his trousers with a fluid ease that makes my mouth go dry. "Move, Irina. Unless you want me to carry you through the lobby."
"W-What?! I’m not going anywhere with you! I have a life here. I have... things I’m doing!"
"You have a boss who just sold you for the price of a mid-sized sedan," Mikhail says, sliding into a crisp white shirt. He doesn't look at me as he buttons it, but I can feel his attention fixed on me like a laser. "Your 'life' ended the second I walked through that door. Now, move."
Fuck no!
I reach for the door handle, intent on sprinting for the back exit, but Mikhail is there before my fingers can even touch the metal. He looms over me, one hand resting on the door above my head, his shadow swallowing me whole.
The scent of him wraps around me. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs, and that traitorous tingling returns to my fingertips. I want to hit him. I want to scream, I want to run, but I can’t. I bite my lips hard to stop the tears from rolling.
"Don't create a scene,dorogaya," he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. "It would be such a shame for Sofia to have to explain to the police why she allowed a kidnapping in her establishment. Especially when I’ve already paid for her silence."
"You- You're a monster!" I breathe, glaring up into those dark blue depths.
"I'm a Morozov," he corrects, his eyes flashing with something dark and possessive. "And you're mine. Let's fucking go."
He opens the door and steps back, gesturing for me to precede him. I walk out, my spine stiff, my head held high despite the fact that my knees are shaking. As we walk through the lobby, I see Sofia. She’s standing behind the desk, her face pale, her eyes fixed on the floor. She won't look at me. She won't help.
This is really happening!
Mikhail doesn't say a word. He just gives her a single, sweeping look that makes her shrink further into her chair. His posture, the set of his broad shoulders, the way he moves—it all screams power. He doesn't need to create a scene. Heisthe scene.
Fucking madman.
No one interferes. No one calls out. I am being stolen and the world is letting it happen.
"You won't get away with this," I mutter as he steers me toward the door, his hand firm on the small of my back. "The second I get a chance, I'm calling my father. He'll have your head."
I know I'm literally grasping at straws but I’ll do anything.
"Your father is the one who gave me the coordinates, Irina," Mikhail chuckles. He is lying—or maybe he isn't. With Boris Petrov, you never know.
We step out into the humid Cancun night. The strip is alive with neon lights—pinks, blues, and yellows reflecting off the wet pavement from a recent sun-shower. A black SUV is idling at the curb, its tinted windows looking like two voids in the middle of the neon chaos. A tall scary looking man stands by the door, opening it the second we approach.
"Get in," Mikhail says.
"I have rights, Mikhail! I have... I'll scream! I'll tell everyone who you are!"
