Page 44 of Anton

THORA

The next day, I’m halfway through mashing potatoes when my mind wanders back to Anton and everything we did.

Watching him lose control and give in to his hunger for me felt far too good. Having his hands all over my body felt even better.

I press my thighs together as every filthy detail plays through my mind. Jealousy twists in my stomach when I imagine how many women he must have had across the country, maybe even around the world.

My own experience with men has been underwhelming, to say the least. I’ve had a couple of boyfriends, but the sex was always forgettable. The kind you fake your way through while pretending it was better than it really was.

But what happened with Anton? That was on an entirely different planet.

“Who are you cooking all this for?”

I glance over my shoulder and find Greer leaning against the doorway, studying the crowded counters.

“The shelter.”

“Again?” Her eyes narrow with far too much suspicion.

“Yeah. They asked for more food.”

She nods, apparently accepting my carefully constructed lie. I can’t exactly tell her the truth. If she finds out I spent last night tangled up with Anton Marinov, she’ll lose her absolute mind.

I turn back to the containers covering nearly every available surface. I’ve been cooking since seven this morning and somehow it’s already past four, but at least it’s for a good cause. Now I need to figure out how I’m supposed to transport all of it.

“All right. I’ll leave you to it.” Greer gives me one last searching look before walking away, her brown curls bouncing down her back.

Relief settles over me once she’s gone. That woman can practically smell a secret, and the last thing I need is her discovering mine.

Once the potatoes are ready, I spoon them into a large container and tuck it into the box with the rest of the meals.

“Would you like me to carry that to your car, Ms. Whitlock?” one of my father’s men asks.

“That would be great. Thank you.”

While he takes the box outside, I wash my hands and go upstairs to change. The moment I walk into my closet, I stop in front of my clothes, a groan slipping out.

What the hell am I supposed to wear?

After changing my mind several times, I choose a simple white tank with fitted jeans, then pull on my favorite knee-high boots.

Good enough.

I brush through my hair, swipe on some mascara and lipstick, and then give myself a once-over in the mirror before deciding I don’t look terrible.

My SUV is already running when I make it downstairs. I step outside, pull the door shut behind me, and get on the road, trying not to dwell on where I’m headed. Or what might be waiting for me when I arrive.

His place isn’t hard to find in the daylight. I remember the way perfectly.

Getting inside, though, is another story. I’m not even sure his men will recognize me from last night, but I’m not above begging if that’s what it takes. If they tell Anton I’m here, he’ll probably order them to send me away, which is exactly why surprising him is the better option.

As I pull up to the security booth, one of his guards marches out, his expression already arranged into his finest glare.

“What do you want?” His thick Russian accent makes the words sound even less welcoming.

“Uh, I’m Anton’s…”

Friend feels like a dangerous stretch, but I go with it anyway.