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I want to tell him that he’s being arrogant and irresponsible. But I’m not sure he is. Grigory has an uncanny ability to draw out Clara’s submission. I don’t think there are any bounds to what he can make her do as long as he wields his dominance the right way. And I know he will. He might not have been able to temper his dominance six months ago, but during the time he’s spent in charge of Clara, he’s grown back into the competent dominant I once knew him as.
“Do you want a glass?” he asks, lifting the tumbler into the air before setting it down. “It’s a thirty-year-old Macallan.”
“I’m afraid it would go to waste on me.” I do enjoy a good glass of scotch once in a while, but I can’t taste the difference between a regular good scotch and Grigory’s thousand-dollar scotch.
“I have some fine red wine in the kitchen, if you’d prefer that instead?”
I shake my head. “It will only make me drowsy, and I’m leaving in a short while anyway.”
“You’re welcome to stay the night,” Grigory offers. “You know the couch is a good place to sleep, and I’m sure Clara would appreciate having you here.”
I consider for a moment but end up at the same conclusions as all the other times I’ve thought about this. “Both of you need to feel the transfer of ownership. Me being here will only interfere with that.” Plus, I’m not sure I’m prepared to witness the full consequences of my choice yet. It will hurt too much.
God knows I badly want to stay and protect her—make sure Grigory doesn’t cross the line and that he holds her when she breaks down, which she surely will. But I can’t be there for her anymore. Not like that. It has to be Grigory’s job, and deep down I do trust him to fulfill that role.
Grigory must be able to see the pain reflected on my face as he says, “Are you sure you want this?”
I heave a deep sigh and lean my head back, looking up into the heavy beams and the wooden insides of the ceiling. “I don’t feel sure about anything these days.” Looking back at him, I add, “But it’s the only thing that seems right at the moment.”
“This doesn’t have to be the end.”
“For now, it does.” I level him with a direct gaze. “You know as well as I do that you won’t be able to fully take control of her until I’m out of the picture.”
Grigory stares into the fireplace, his tight jaw the only thing giving away the guilt that must be stirring inside him. He’s not big on talking about emotional stuff. But he doesn’t have to say what he’s thinking. I know him well enough to see that he feels like he’s taking her from me.
“This is my decision,” I say. “I want you to have her. You can give her what she needs. I can’t.” The sound of the bathroom door drifts through the walls, and I get up.
Lifting his eyes to me, Grigory says with rare genuineness, “I’ll take care of her.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” I say, then cross the room to get Clara. As I grab the door handle, I pause to give him one last request. “Will you go easy on her tonight?”
“As easy as I need to,” he says with a grave expression, knowing it’s not what I want to hear—at least, on some level. Because I do want the truth. “But I’ll make sure to pick her up afterward,” he assures, and those words are enough.
Tonight will be hard on Clara. Grigory is going to push her to the bounds of her limits, maybe even past them. But he’ll be there for her in the end—take care of her and mend whatever hurt he causes.
He’ll mend whatever hurtIhave caused.
— CHAPTER 39 —
CLARA
Wood, leather, and scotch. Those are the scents that greet me when Markus opens the door to a huge, open room. I catch a glimpse of brown colors, leather, wood, and a crackling fireplace before lowering my gaze. It looks warm and inviting, and I want to let my eyes roam over the place to take everything in, but I don’t dare to, afraid I’ll meet Grigory’s gaze and the anger that must be simmering in it.
Pressing a hand to the small of my back, Markus guides me to stand on a large bearskin in the middle of the room. And that’s when I see him. It’s only in my peripheral vision, but the effect is profound, nonetheless.
I lift my eyes a smidgen, and the air catches in my throat when the lower part of him comes into my focus. Shiny leather shoes, one planted on the floor and one hanging over a knee, and a tumbler with amber liquor resting in a big hand on an armrest.
I don’t need to see more. It’s him all right. I feel it in the brutality crackling in the air—the authority hanging thick in the room, stirring my submissive instincts to the point where it’s hard to stand upright.
Grigory doesn’t say a word, but I feel his eyes on me like an icy wind biting into my skin, chilling me to the bone. I want to beg for forgiveness, but the words remain stuck somewhere in my restricted throat.
The large leather sofa to my left creaks as Markus settles on it, and then eerie silence descends, only broken by the crackling of the fireplace behind me.
I feel naked and exposed, all my anxiety, regret, and longing hanging on the outside for Grigory’s scrutinizing eyes to see. My hands are working furiously in front of me, fingers nipping at my skin, palms clutching each other. It’s all I can do not to crash to my knees before him. I know my fear feeds the sadist in him, but I’m helpless to hide it.
I can’t control a thing; he controls everything.
There’s the sound of Grigory taking a sip of what I assume is his favorite liquor, followed by a clank as he sets the glass on a table. Legs clad in black dress pants come into view as he rises, and his mighty figure looms over me even though he’s several feet away.
