Chapter 35: Devil’s Lair: Chapter 35

I wake up smiling, and for a couple of minutes, I just lie there, eyes closed, floating in that blissful state between dreams and full wakefulness.

And what dreams they were.

My hand slips between my thighs, and I press on the sweet ache that lingers there, trying to remember the sensual scenes that played in my head all night. I only recall fragments of them now, but I know all of them featured Nikolai… his wicked smile… his deep, smooth voice… Best of all, they were the only dreams I had last night.

The nightmares that have plagued me since Mom’s death stayed away.

Smile broadening, I open my eyes and sit up. It’s bright and sunny, so I’ve probably overslept. I’m not too worried, though. Nikolai isn’t here to enforce the mealtimes, and in any case, now that I know him better, I don’t think he’ll fire me for such a minor transgression.

Still, I don’t want to take advantage, so I hop out of bed and turn on the news. They’re again reporting on the primary debates, but all I care about is the time—9:20 a.m. It also happens to be a Saturday, I realize, looking at the date. I wonder if that means I get a day off.

I should probably ask Nikolai about that the next time we talk.

A warm glow fills my chest at the thought of him calling me again and the two of us talking late into the night—almost like a dating couple. Because that’s how that videocall last night felt: like the kind of thing you do with your boyfriend while he’s away, a long-distance date of sorts. Though we spent most of the time talking about Slava, as befits our employer-tutor relationship, there’d been a definite softness in the way Nikolai looked at me and the way he spoke… an undercurrent of tenderness that makes my heart skip a beat each time I think about it.

It’s almost as if he’s starting to care for me, as if there’s something more between us than animal attraction.

I try not to think about it as I go about my day because it’s such a foolish notion. There’s no way Nikolai is developing feelings for me. Not only is it way too soon, but I’d be an idiot to imagine that a man like that would be interested in me for any reason other than proximity. I am the only available woman here; he can’t exactly hook up with Lyudmila or his sister. So what if he called me as soon as he landed yesterday? That doesn’t mean he was thinking about me during the long flight.

He could’ve just been concerned about his son.

Still, that warm glow stays with me as I sneak into the kitchen to grab myself a late breakfast—the official breakfast being over—before taking Slava for a nice long hike. And it persists through lunch despite Alina’s presence at the table reminding me of her strange warning.

“How’s your headache?” I ask when we sit down to eat, and she waves away my concern, claiming that she’s fully recovered. However, I can’t help but notice that she’s quiet and oddly distant, frequently staring off into space during the meal. It makes me wonder if she’s high again, but I decide not to ask.

Last night, the campfire and the pot lowered everybody’s inhibitions, creating a false sense of intimacy, but today, she feels like a stranger again. So does Lyudmila, who doesn’t even smile at me as she brings out the food. Maybe she’s embarrassed I saw her stoned? Either way, I hurry through the meal, and as soon as Slava is done eating, I take him to his room for our play lessons.

We build another castle and review the alphabet, and I teach him how to count to ten in English. Afterward, we play hide-and-seek and read some books, including, at Slava’s request, a story about a family of ducks. Before we begin, he proudly shows me a book in Russian that appears to be a translation of it, and I realize he’s trying to apply his knowledge of the plot and characters to better understand the English words and phrases I read out loud to him.

“You’re such a clever boy,” I tell him, and he beams at me. Though I doubt he understands exactly what I’m saying, my tone of approval is unmistakable.

I sit on the floor, my back leaning against the bed, and Slava climbs into my lap as we start the story—which turns out to be surprisingly complex for a children’s book. The duck family isn’t all happy and go-lucky; they squabble and have conflicts, and at one point, the main hero, a young duckling, runs away from home. When he returns, he finds Mama Duck gone, and he cries, thinking that he caused her to leave.

I keep an eye on Slava during this part, worried that this might bring up memories of losing his mother, but the boy’s expression remains curious and relaxed. However, when we get to the part where the young duckling has to stay with his grandfather, Slava stiffens and insists on skipping over the next three pages.

“You don’t like Grandpa Duck?” I guess, and the child shrugs, avoiding my gaze.

“Okay. We don’t have to read about him. Forget Grandpa Duck.” Smiling, I ruffle his hair and move on to a less problematic section of the book.

Alina doesn’t join us for dinner—another headache, Lyudmila tells me gruffly—so Slava and I have another relaxed meal before I go up to my room for the evening. Changing out of the formal dinner attire, I make myself comfortable on the bed and open the laptop—to do some more research, I tell myself. Not to wait for Nikolai’s call like some lovesick girlfriend. So what if he promised he’d call? Maybe he will, or maybe he won’t.

I shouldn’t care either way.

Determined not to sit there biting my nails, I resume my research into Mom’s death. The reporter I emailed last night hasn’t replied, so I find the contact info of a few more Boston-area journalists and message them. I also research the owner of the restaurant where Mom worked, as well as the corporation behind the upscale hotel where the restaurant is located.

There has to be a reason those men killed my mom.

I find the same thing as yesterday: nothing. What I really need is a private investigator, but there’s no way I can afford one right now. Although… it doesn’t hurt to get some rate quotes. Come Tuesday, I’ll have money, and if I’m staying here—which I don’t see why I wouldn’t—I might as well use that money to get some answers.

Yes, that’s it.

That’s exactly what I’ll do.

Encouraged, I look up a few promising leads and email them for a quote. Then, feeling accomplished for the evening, I switch over to my other project: learning everything I can about Nikolai.

I’ve thought of a few more phrases I can translate into Russian, and my search turns up several tabloid photos. One is of Nikolai at a Warsaw charity gala with a tall blond beauty on his arm; another is of him at a Moscow fashion show, sitting next to a bored-looking Alina. A couple more show him vacationing at various exotic destinations, invariably with some leggy model at his side staring at him with adoration.

I was right. He’s all but drowning in gorgeous women. For all I know, he might be in bed with some stunning model at this very moment, having picked her up at some VIP nightclub last night.

The thought is like a splash of boiling water on my chest. I have no right to feel this way, but I suddenly want to rip out every hair on the head of this imaginary woman—right before I do the same to Nikolai.

Setting the laptop aside, I jump off the bed and start to pace.

Why isn’t he calling?

He said he would.

He promised.

He has to know it’s getting later here by the minute.

Is it because he’s busy with work—or with some woman? I picture her glossy red lips wrapped around his cock, her eyes peering up at him through skillfully applied fake lashes as she—

A soft chime sounds from the bed, and I lunge toward the open laptop, my pulse skyrocketing. Plopping down on my stomach, I pull the computer toward me and, with an unsteady finger, hit “Accept” on Nikolai’s videocall request.

His face fills the screen, his hotel room visible behind him, and I exhale a shaky breath, my irrational jealousy fading as I see the tender look in his tiger eyes.

“Hi, zaychik,” he murmurs, his deep voice so velvety I want to rub it against my cheek. “How was your day?”

“It was good. How was yours? I mean, your morning—or your day yesterday?” I sound out of breath, but I can’t help it. My heart is pounding in a techno beat, and every cell in my body is vibrating with excitement. As pathetic as it is, I’ve been looking forward to this call all day. Even when I wasn’t consciously thinking about it, it was lurking at the back of my mind.

He gives me a wry smile. “My morning was okay, and so was the rest of yesterday. Some meetings, some bullshit—business as usual.”

“What kind of business?” Realizing how nosy that sounds, I open my mouth to take back the question, but he’s already answering.

“Clean energy. Specifically, nuclear energy. One of our companies has developed a proprietary technology that allows for small, portable nuclear reactors that can be used to provide low-cost electricity in small villages and other remote settlements.”

“Wow. And they’re safe? Not like—what was that famous one in Ukraine?”

“Chernobyl? No, they’re nothing like that. For one thing, each reactor is only about the size of a car, so even if there was an accident, the amount of radiation released would be much less. More importantly, our engineers have added so many redundancies that an accident is next to impossible. Our moto is Safety First—unlike our rivals.’” His voice hardens on the last part.

“There are other companies doing the same thing?” I ask, fascinated by this glimpse into a world I know nothing about.

His eyes glint darkly. “One. They’re bidding against us for a huge contract with the Tajik government. Whoever wins it will dominate this nascent industry in Central Asia—which is why my brother asked me to get involved.”

“Oh?”

“The head of the Tajikistan Energy Commission was a classmate of mine at boarding school, and my brother’s hoping I’ll have better luck making our case to him.” A wry smile touches his lips. “As you’ve probably guessed, personal connections are very important in business.”

I widen my eyes exaggeratedly. “No! Really?”

He laughs. “I know. Hard to imagine, right? I have a lunch meeting with him on Monday, and then I’ll hopefully be able to fly back.”

“So you’ll be back by Tuesday?” I’m already counting down the days until my first paycheck, and now I’ll have another reason to wish I could put the next fifty hours on fast-forward.

“I should be, yes.” He pauses, then says softly, “I miss you, zaychik.”

My breath stops, literally, even as my heart hammers faster and my skin tingles with a flush. Regardless of what I thought I saw in his eyes last night—what I hoped he might feel—I never dreamed that I’d hear him say that to me tonight so casually… so openly.

Like a boyfriend.

He’s looking at me, patiently waiting for my response, so as soon as my breathing resumes, I force myself to speak. “I… I miss you too. And Slava. He misses you. We both miss you. He really does.” I know I’m not making any sense, but I can’t help it. I’ve never had trouble expressing my feelings with the guys I’ve dated, but I’ve never dated anyone like Nikolai before—not that we’re dating. Or are we? Maybe he just misses me in the friend sense? Or son’s tutor sense?

God, I have no idea what’s happening.

The corners of his sensuous lips twitch with suppressed amusement, and I once again have the unnerving suspicion that he’s looking straight into my brain and seeing the confusion there. “Tell me more, zaychik,” he murmurs, leaning closer to the camera. “What has my son been up to today?”

Slava, that’s it. I grab on to the topic like a drowning man latching on to a buoy, and launch into a detailed description of everything Slava and I have done and learned. Nikolai listens raptly, his gaze filled with that special softness he reserves for his son. However, when I get to the book Slava and I read last—the story about the ducklings—and I laughingly mention Slava’s apparent dislike for Grandpa Duck, all traces of softness disappear from Nikolai’s expression, his eyes taking on a hard, sharp gleam.

“Did he say anything?” he demands. “Explain it in any way?”

“No, I… I didn’t ask.” I draw back at the look on his face, an expression so dark and cold it sends a chill through my body. This is a side of Nikolai I’ve never seen, and suddenly, my earlier concerns about mafia don’t seem quite as foolish.

I can picture this man ordering a hit—even pulling the trigger himself.

In the next moment, however, his features smooth out, the chilling look disappearing as he asks me to continue, and I’m again left wondering if my unruly imagination played a trick on me. Maybe I read too much into that brief change of expression… or maybe I just got a peek into some Molotov family drama. It could simply be that Nikolai doesn’t get along with Slava’s grandfather—assuming there is one on his mother’s side.

There’s still a lot I don’t know about this family.

Deciding to remedy that, I finish my report on Slava’s progress by going over what I taught him at dinner, and then I carefully—very carefully, lest I step on any landmines—ask Nikolai to tell me about his brothers.

Thankfully, my request doesn’t upset him. “I’m the second oldest,” he tells me. “Valery is four years my junior, and Konstantin—the genius of the family—is two years older than me. He runs all of our tech ventures, while Valery oversees the entire organization.”

“Which you used to do, right?” I ask, recalling what Alina told me.

“That’s right.” He doesn’t look surprised that I know. “But it’s hard to do remotely, so I asked Valery to step in while I’m away.”

“Why are you away?” I ask, unable to resist the question that’s been on my mind for so long. “What brought you to this corner of the world?”

He smiles at my blatant curiosity. “I know. It’s odd, right?”

“Extremely odd.” So odd, in fact, that I’ve concocted a crazy mafia story in my head, but I’m keeping my mouth shut about that.

He leans back in his chair, the smile fading until only a trace of the sensual curve remains. “It’s a long story, zaychik, and it’s getting late. You should go to sleep.”

“It’s okay, I’m not tired.” And even if I were, I’d deny it because I’m dying to hear this story, whatever length it may be. Sitting up straighter, I arrange the computer more comfortably on my lap and give him my best puppy eyes, fluttering lashes and all. “Please, Nikolai… tell me. Pretty, pretty please.”

I meant it as a joke, a light flirtation at best, but his face goes taut, his gaze darkening as he leans toward the camera. “I like hearing my name on your lips.” His voice is a low, honeyed purr. “And I really, really like it when you beg.”

My mouth goes Sahara dry, my heartbeat uneven as fire streaks through my veins and centers low in my core. With him so far away and our video chats staying mostly on safe topics, I’ve somehow let myself forget about the sexual tension that smolders between us, ready to ignite into a conflagration at the slightest spark. I’ve convinced myself that I imagined that feeling of being hunted prey… that alarming, yet strangely exciting awareness that I’m at the mercy of this dangerously alluring man.

“Is that—” I swallow, uncertain if I should venture there. “Is that your thing? Women begging?”

The dark heat in his eyes intensifies. “My thing, zaychik, is you. I want you in every way possible… sweetly and roughly… on your knees, and on your back, and on top, riding me… I want to eat your pussy for dessert after each meal and pour my cum down your throat every morning. I want to fuck you so hard you scream, and then I want to cuddle you for hours. Most of all, I want to drown you in pleasure… so much pleasure you won’t mind the occasional bite of pain… In fact, you’ll beg for it.”

Oh. My. God.

I stare at him, my breaths short and shallow, my clit throbbing and my nipples pebble hard. My body feels like one of his nuclear reactors in meltdown, the heat under my skin so scorching I might spontaneously combust. Or come. If I put any pressure on my clit right now, I could definitely come.

I wet my lips, trying to ignore the pulsing ache between my legs. “So… you are into stuff. Like, kinky stuff.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I cringe at how juvenile and vanilla I sound. And I’m not vanilla. At least I don’t think I am. My sexual fantasies have always had a darker tinge to them, and I’ve had a boyfriend tie me up once or twice—and another time, spank me. None of that turned me on, but then again, my boyfriend wasn’t really into it. It felt awkward and forced with him… childish, somehow.

I have a feeling it’ll be nothing of the sort with Nikolai.

The man doesn’t know the meaning of childish and awkward.

Sure enough, his lips curve in another darkly sensual smile. In a voice like heated silk, he murmurs, “Chloe, zaychik… I’m into everything—as long as it’s with you.”

This time, it’s my heart that goes into meltdown mode. Because it sounds a lot like… “Are you saying you don’t want to see other women?” I blurt, and immediately want to kick myself for once again sounding like I’m in high school. He’s just flirting, not making any kind of exclusivity commitment. We haven’t even—

“I don’t,” he says softly, bringing my thoughts to a screeching halt. “I don’t want anyone but you. I haven’t since the moment we met.”

“Oh.” I stare at him, unable to come up with anything else to say.

This is big.

Huge, really.

There’s no possible misunderstanding here, no chance that I’m being a foolish romantic.

Nikolai is telling me that he wants me and no one else… that essentially, we are exclusive.

“Does this scare you?” he asks, disconcertingly astute. “Is this too much for you?”

It is. Way too much. And yet… “No,” I say, gathering my courage. “It’s not. And I—I don’t want to see anyone else either.”

His nostrils flare. “Good. Once you’re mine, I won’t deal kindly with any man who tries to steal you.”

A startled laugh escapes my throat, but Nikolai doesn’t smile in response. His gaze remains fixed on me, his expression darkly intent, and to my shock, I realize that he means it, that it’s not a joke at all.

I attempt to make it into one anyway. “Possessive much?”

“With you,” he says, his gaze unwavering, “very much.”

My heart stutters to a halt again. “Why me?” I ask when I recover my voice. “Is it because I’m the only woman here, within arm’s reach? Is it a convenience thing or…” I trail off as amusement brightens the dark gold of his eyes, highlighting the flecks of forest green.

“If I were so inclined,” he says gently, “I could have a different woman flown in every week—and I often did before you came. There’s no lack of candidates willing to make the trip, believe me, zaychik.”

Oh, I believe him. Even before I came across those tabloid photos, I knew he must have a stable of gorgeous women at his beck and call. How could he not, with his looks, wealth, and sex appeal?

The wonder is not that women are willing to fly in, it’s that they’re not camped out in the woods.

“Why then?” I ask unsteadily. “Why me?”

He cocks his head. “Do you believe in fate, zaychik?”

“Fate? Like God or destiny?”

“Or predestination. All of us being connected, like threads in a tapestry that was woven long before our births.”

I stare at him, bemused. “I don’t know. I’ve never given it much thought.”

His lips curve in a faint smile. “I have. And I think at some point in the weaving of this tapestry, your thread was joined to mine. Our paths were bound to intersect, our meeting date set long before I saw you. Everything that had happened in our lives had brought us to that point, to that place and time… all the good things and the bad.” His voice roughens. “Especially the bad.”

Like my mom’s death. If not for that, I would’ve never been on this road trip, never seen the job listing, never met him. Not that it means this is fated. But Nikolai seems to believe that, and I have to admit that we wouldn’t be here today without the violent upheaval in my life. And, it sounds like, without some upheaval in his.

“What bad things happened to you?” I ask softly. “Or is that the long story you keep promising me?”

His smile takes on a rueful edge. “More or less. Unfortunately, zaychik, you need to go to sleep, and I have to go meet my brother. How about I call you tomorrow around the same time, and we’ll talk some more?”

“Oh, sure. I didn’t mean to hold you up.”

“You didn’t.” That tender look is in his eyes again, making my heart pound in an erratic, joyous rhythm. “If I could, I’d talk to you all day.”

“Me too,” I admit with a shy smile.

His answering smile is dazzling. “Until tomorrow then. Sleep well, zaychik.”

And as he disconnects the call, I push the computer off my lap and do a dance around the room, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.