I closed my door. Leaned against it. Pressed my forehead to the wood and tried to breathe.
The room was dark. The fire had gone out hours ago, leaving only the faint smell of ash and cold. I didn't turn on the lights. I didn't need to see. I could see her perfectly in my mind—the way she'd looked with her head thrown back, her mouth open, her hands fisted in the sheets.
I was hard.
I'd been hard since the moment I saw them, since the moment I realized what was happening behind that door. The shame of it burned in my chest, hot and acidic, but the arousal burned hotter. I hated her. I hated my father. I hated the way my body was responding to something I should have found disgusting.
But I couldn't stop thinking about her face.
The way she'd looked when she came.
I unbuttoned my trousers. Wrapped my hand around myself. The touch was rough, almost painful, but I needed it. I needed to feel something other than the rage that was eating me alive.
I thought about her. About the sounds she'd made. About the way her body had moved beneath my father's. About the way she'd said his name—but in my fantasy, she was saying mine.
Nathan.
I came hard, biting my lip to keep from making a sound. The release was violent, almost painful, and when it was over, I stood there in the dark with my hand covered in myself and my chest heaving.
And then I punched the wall.
The drywall cracked beneath my fist—a satisfying sound, the sound of something breaking. Pain flared through my knuckles, sharp and bright, and I welcomed it. I needed it. I needed to feel something other than her.
I hit the wall again. And again. By the time I stopped, there was blood on my knuckles and a hole in the plaster and my arm was shaking from the effort.
I leaned against the wall and pressed my forehead to the cool surface.
"Monika," I said. Her name was a whisper, a threat, a promise.
She was going to be mine.
One way or another.
I called Dmitri at 3 AM.
He answered on the second ring—he always answered, no matter the hour. That was why I kept him around. That and the fact that he was too stupid to be disloyal.
"Find everything about her," I said. No greeting. No explanation. "Every ex-boyfriend. Every secret. Every weakness."
"Sir?"
"Monika. The farm girl. The one my father brought into the house." I pressed an ice pack to my knuckles—I'd raided the minibar in my suite, the one my father didn't know about. "I want a file on my desk by morning."
"By morning? That's—"
"I don't pay you to tell me what's impossible. I pay you to make the impossible happen." My voice was cold, colder than I intended, but I didn't care. "Find me something I can use."
"Yes, sir."
The line went dead. I tossed the phone onto the bed and stared at my reflection in the window.
I looked like hell. My eyes were bloodshot, my hair disheveled, my knuckles swollen and raw. There was a smear of blood on my shirt—from the wall, or from my hand, or maybe from something else entirely. I didn't remember.
She'd done this to me. Monika. The farm girl with the steady hands and the sad eyes and the mouth that had said my father's name like it was something holy.
I should have stayed away from her. From the beginning, I should have stayed away. But I couldn't. Something about her had gotten under my skin, burrowed into my chest, taken up residence in the parts of me I'd thought were dead.
She wasn't like the others. The others were easy—they wanted money or status or protection, and I gave them what they wanted and took what I wanted in return. Transactions. Clean and simple.
