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If I marry Anastasia now, I’ll have to deal with the pomp of aPakhan’s wedding, which hasn’t taken place since my parents got married decades ago.
I’ll have to deal with a nosy father-in-law, desperate to stay relevant.
I’ll have to deal with taking over all the business ventures included in our arrangement and folding them under the Morozov umbrella, stretching myself even thinner.
And looking at Lyla, I’m not sure if inconvenience is the only reason marrying Anastasia is becoming increasingly unappealing.
“You’re going to kill him,” Lyla states. “Your cousin.”
“We shouldn’t be discussing this.”
“Because you don’t trust me?”
“Because the more you know, the worse off you’ll be.” I pull off my undershirt, also soaked with blood, and toss it in the corner of the bathroom.
Lyla’s looking.
I’m not sure if she realizes it—or knows I can tell. But her eyes trace my abdomen, then widen when my pants fall to the floor.
Modesty has never been a consideration of mine. I kick off my boxer briefs, my cock already half hard under the phantom weight of her gaze as I walk toward the shower and turn on the water. It starts cold but becomes warm quickly, washing away the blood and sweat from my skin.
I keep waiting for Lyla to leave. But she doesn’t. She keeps coming closer, and it fills my mind with dangerous thoughts.
I should turn the faucet to cold. My body is reacting to not only her proximity. It’s also responding to the desire in her eyes. To the energy that crackled between us in the kitchen where I first saw her and has never entirely disappeared, it seems.
The water glides down my skin, washing away everything, coating the surface and swirling the drain.
And she takes another step.
There’s no barrier between the shower and the rest of the bathroom. Just a pane of glass that covers half the opening, yet shields nothing. It’s steaming up slowly, the hotter the water gets.
I’m stuck somewhere between lust and incredulity as Lyla steps into the shower. She’s fully dressed, but it doesn’t matter. Her nearness is all it takes for me to get fully hard.
She drops to her knees and memories I thought I’d successfully buried assault me.
Something about Lyla always affected me differently. A buzz in my blood and a hum under my skin. A chemical reaction that hasn’t been altered by time or distance.
Her touch is light and tentative, like a seductive whisper. Her fingers cup and trace my balls. Her mouth brushes the tip of my dick, and then her tongue darts out to taste the flared rim of the head.
I can’t contain the groan that spills out of my lips. Amped up on adrenaline, the rush of bliss is almost excruciating.
Desire—lust—is something you’re supposed to be able to control. To manage what you display at least. Just like pain or happiness. You can choose what you allow others to see.
It’s a measure of will, not a matter of truth.
The closest Lyla and I have had to an intimate moment since she and I were reunited on the sidewalk outside of her apartment was when she leaned into me in the living room.
That was mostly hopelessness. A reluctant agreement that Leo needs to know some truth about his background.
This feels nothing like that did.
I showed her more ugliness than I’ve ever chosen to display to anyone.
Everyone wants the power and prestige of being a leader, but few people comprehend all that goes along with it.
It’s lonely at the top. Especially when the decisions being made have life-or-death consequences.
There are a few men—Alex, Roman, Grigoriy—who I grew up with and trust entirely. But I don’t discuss decisions with them. I give orders.
