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My hand grips my cock, the head purple, my knuckles white.
I can’t fucking get there. I can’t fill the hole inside of me, I can’t wash away the sickness in my guts.
I stand up from the bed, pent up and shaking, clenching my phone. My cock throbs, but I’m already losing my erection, the little pleasure I could grasp slipping away in a moment.
I close the video, staring at the home screen.
No messages. No missed calls.
In despair, I hurl my phone against the wall, smashing it to pieces.
* * *
39
SABRINA
I’m laying by Krystiyan Kovalenko’s vast indoor pool, in the depths of his mansion in Rublyovka. The space is damp and cave-like, the domed roof covered in hand-painted tiles, white and blue, with images of thistles, cathedrals, stags, and birds. Images of the outside world in this deep hole in the ground.
The pool is filled with salt water so brackish that you can only see a few inches below the surface. Anything could be hiding in the dark water.
Ilsa swam laps for an hour. Now she’s laying on her back, a towel over her eyes, possibly asleep.
I don’t think she’s getting rest at night. She tries to stick by my side twenty-four seven, because she doesn’t trust Krystiyan or his men. She’s supposed to be my partner but she’s reverted to bodyguard, like she used to be for Neve. It’s her nature to try to protect the people she loves.
We’ve been living in this mansion for almost a month.
Our rooms are right next to each other. Once or twice I’ve even slept in Ilsa’s bed, when we’ve stayed up late talking, or I just needed to feel the warmth of her back against mine. We aren’t fucking, though Krystiyan thinks we are. He watches us on the security cameras. The nights I stay in Ilsa’s room, he’s pissy in the mornings.
I let him think what he wants because it helps keep him at arm’s length. He’s constantly filling my room with bath salts and pink roses, and piles of boxes and bags from Moscow’s boutiques. He asks me to dine with him almost every night. I stay late at the new lab to avoid him.
Adrik was right about one thing: Krystiyan makes my skin crawl.
He has not improved on further acquaintance.
In fact, when I hear his strutting walk echoing across the tiles, I consider rolling into the pool and holding my breath under the water until he’s gone.
Instead, I stay exactly where I am, head cushioned on a towel, eyes closed, pretending to sleep like Ilsa.
I’m hoping he’ll give up and go away.
His footsteps slow as he approaches. I feel his shadow overlaying my prone frame.
“Any more beauty sleep and I won’t be able to look at you.”
I open my eyes slowly, gazing up at Krystiyan Kovalenko.
He’s got his hands stuffed in the pockets of his trousers, face freshly shaven, dark hair combed into a careful pompadour above a high fade. Krystiyan is over-groomed for a gangster. His suits are tailored too tight, he wears pocket squares and cufflinks, diamond studs in both ears.
He’s handsome in a GQ kind of way—cleft chin, white teeth, strong Roman nose—but he’s too slick for my tastes. He definitely plucks his eyebrows.
Then there’s his personality—smarmy, manipulative, and envious. His insecurity revolts me.
When Krystiyan insists on engaging me in conversation, I’ve made it a habit to stare at him, waiting for him to get to the point.
“Your boyfriend’s back in business.” Krystiyan tosses me a small plastic baggie.
I hold it up to the light, examining the pill inside.
