Story’s eyes are wide, and her breath rasps in and out, but she’s craning her neck, looking over her shoulder. She hasn’t shut down completely.
I want to tell her it’s okay.
I won’t let anyone hurt her.
I need her to come with me to lie low for a while.
I want to say I’m sorry. So fucking sorry. Nothing surpasses my anguish at having put her in danger this way. I made her a target. It’s unforgivable.
“Where are we going?” she asks once.
I reply with what I hope is a reassuring squeeze of her hand. Her phone rings, but she doesn’t answer it.
I drive straight to my place in Ravil’s building—what the neighbors have dubbed “the Kremlin” because the entire building is filled with Russians. When I park and turn off the car, Story turns to me. Her face is pale and serious.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
Fuck.
I get out and walk around to open her door, but she’s already hopped out, her guitar strap looped over her shoulder.
I cup her face and peer down into it, stroking her cheeks with my thumbs.
She nods. “I’m okay.”
Fuck. Her mind-reading thing only makes me twenty thousand times more addicted to her.
I draw in a relieved breath and nod back. I take her hand and lead her to the bank of elevators, swiping my card that gets me to the top floor. The penthouse suite Ravil shares with his cell.
Since he had a baby boy in November, I keep waiting for Ravil to kick us all out—to move us to a different floor, so he can use the penthouse for his new family. But apparently, his new wife Lucy doesn’t mind.
The other newlyweds—Maxim and Sasha don’t seem to mind communal living either. Which, frankly, is all the better for me. It’s harder to disappear in a smaller group, and disappearing is definitely my game.
My suite has its own entrance from the elevator hallway, which is good because it’s late. Even if it weren’t, I wouldn’t subject Story to the chaos of the group right now.
I think the private entrance is supposed to make up for the fact that I don’t have a view of the lake, not that it matters to me. My floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the city.
I swipe my keycard through the lock and push the door open. The shades are drawn, and the suite is dark.
Story steps in, and I flick on a lamp, so she can see. Everything in the penthouse is expensive and tasteful, but the decorator Ravil hired got the message that I wasn’t interested in anything fancy, so she left it mostly empty. There’s a minimalist king platform bed, low to the ground, and a large overstuffed chair. The end tables and dresser are mid-century modern teak. There’s a small table with two chairs in front of the window. It’s probably all expensive—I don’t know. I don’t care about any of it. It’s a place to sleep—that’s all that matters to me.
“This is your place?” She looks up at me.
I nod.
She still seems shaken and stiff. I can’t stand it. I would do fucking anything to erase what just happened back there. What she saw me do.
Fuck!
She sets down her acoustic guitar and takes off her wine-colored woolen coat, draping it over the neck of the case. “Where’s the kitchen?”
I lift my brows and mime eating.
“No, I’m not hungry. I just think it’s weird that you don’t have one.”
I nod. I don’t know how to begin explaining that I live with seven and a half other people—six Russians, one American, and a baby named Benjamin.
She kicks off her combat boots and heads into the bathroom. She’s in a corduroy micro-mini, frayed at the edges, with a pair of pale pink tights on underneath. On top, she’s wearing a skin-tight t-shirt with a rainbow across her chest and the sleeves cut off. I think it might have belonged to a child before it became Story’s.
“Wow. This is...beautiful.” She opens the shower door and takes in the giant shower. She turns on the water and looks over her shoulder at me. “Looks like there’s room for two.”
It’s not flirty, she almost sounds… vulnerable.
She needs me. It’s my job to take care of her. I follow her in, stripping off my clothes as I walk. She drops her skirt to the floor at her feet and shimmies out of the tights. I tug the t-shirt off over her head and unhook her bra. I don’t feel the aggression I felt last time. The wild storm of lust that made me rough and crude with her. This time, the need to take care of her is too strong.
She just saw me kill three men. She saw that, and she’s still here with me. She didn’t protest me bringing her here, and she hasn’t tried to leave.
She asked me into the shower with her.
But she’s not okay. I know that in my bones, and my need to soothe her comes first.
I know I’m right, when she just turns and steps into the shower. It’s like she wants to wash off the events of the night. I finish undressing and step in behind her, shutting the door.
I don’t crowd her, but she comes to me, her fingers coasting over my hairy chest.
“Why didn’t you come tonight?” she asks.
I flinch, the question hitting me like a punch to the gut. I’d tried to tell myself I didn’t matter enough to Story. That she wouldn’t be hurt by my absence tonight, but she clearly was. I trail my fingertips down her face, tracing the water droplets over her nose, then her lips.
“Was it because of those guys?”
Fuck. I don’t want to tell her it was because I overslept. And of course, I don’t have a way of giving her the words, even if I had them. I step into her space, walking her slowly backward until she hits the soft quartz wall. My hands coast lightly down her arms. One settles on her waist, the other wraps behind her neck. I lean my forehead against hers.
“You’re sorry,” she murmurs, doing her trick of reading my mind.
I nod.
When she looks up, there are tears in her eyes. “I’m scared, Oleg.” She sucks in a sobbed breath. “I don’t know what’s happening, and you can’t tell me.”
I wrap my arms around her, and she presses her cheek to my chest, crying. I hold her until her tears subside. It doesn’t take long. She sniffs and pushes me gently back. I pick up the bar of soap and roll it in one hand, then gently begin to suds down one of her arms to her hands, where I massage each calloused fingertip. I turn her and wash her back, massaging her neck firmly, stroking down her sides, gripping her ass possessively.
She moans softly. “Yes.”
I soap the other shoulder and arm, then both her breasts, pressing my thigh between her legs and pinning her against the shower wall. I tug her head back with my hand around her wet hair. She opens her mouth. Our lips connect for a searing kiss then come apart.
“I’m on the pill,” she murmurs.
I check her face to be sure I’m getting the right memo.
“Are you clean?”
I nod. Definitely clean. I’ve only had sex twice since I got out of prison, and both times I wore a condom.
“Me too.” She reaches for my cock.
I wasn’t going to go there unless I was sure she needed it, but apparently she does.
I impale her with my erection in one swift stroke. Being inside her bare is another incredible level. But this isn’t for me. It’s for her. I need to give my lastochka what she needs.