Filthy Promises: Chapter 12

Something’s wrong.

I can feel it the moment I walk into my office the next morning. Nothing obvious. Nothing that would trigger alarm bells for anyone else.

But I’m not anyone else.

I pause, scanning the room through narrowed eyes. My gaze lands on my desk. The crystal paperweight—the Moscow skyline trapped in glass—sits half an inch off from where I always position it.

My jaw clenches.

I move toward the desk, reaching for the bottom drawer. The lock turns smoothly.

Too smoothly.

When I pull it open, I notice immediately. The drawer isn’t fully closed, the false bottom not quite settled. Someone got careless putting it back.

“Blyat’,” I whisper.

Someone’s been in my desk. Someone’s seen what’s inside.

And there’s only one person it could possibly be.

I glance through the open door to where Rowan sits at her desk, typing away. She looks up, gives me a nervous smile, then quickly drops her eyes back to her computer screen.

Guilty as fucking sin.

I shut the drawer and lock it again, replacing the key under the paperweight. My mind races through the possibilities, each one darker than the last.

She knows. She’s seen the gun. The cash. The passport.

What else has she discovered? What else has she heard?

More importantly, what am I going to do about it?

The old Vince—the one who answered only to himself—would have a very simple solution. A problem that walks, talks, and snoops doesn’t remain a problem for long in my world.

One call to Arkady, and Rowan St. Clair would disappear without a trace.

My fingers hover over my phone. It would be so easy.

But something stops me.

Is it the way she looked in that green dress? The flush that crept up her neck when I stared at her too long? The fact that, despite what she’s seen and heard, she still came back to work today?

Or is it something else entirely—the realization that she might still be useful to me?

“Ms. St. Clair,” I call out, my voice betraying none of the rage simmering beneath the surface. “Could you come in here, please?”

I watch her through the doorway. She flinches at the sound of my voice. Her hand trembles as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

She’s terrified.

Good. She should be.

“Coming, Mr. Akopov,” she calls back, her voice impressively steady for someone who looks like she might throw up.

I sit behind my desk, folding my hands in front of me as she enters. I gesture for her to close the door.

“Lock it,” I add.

Her eyes widen, but she does as she’s told, turning the deadbolt with a soft click that seems to echo in the sudden silence.

“Sit.”

She perches on the edge of the chair across from me, knees pressed tightly together, hands folded in her lap. A perfect picture of innocence—if you don’t count the fear radiating off her in waves.

I say nothing, just stare at her. Making her wait. Making her squirm.

It’s a technique I learned from my father. The guilty confess into silence faster than they do to questions.

“Sir, I—” she begins.

I hold up my hand, stopping her. “Did you sleep well last night, Ms. St. Clair?”

She blinks, caught off guard by the question. “I… Not really.”

“Troubles on your mind?”

She swallows hard. “Just work stress. Getting used to the new position.”

A lie. But an expected one.

“I see.” I lean back in my chair, studying her face. Those green eyes that can’t quite meet mine. The nervous twitch of her lips. “Tell me, Ms. St. Clair, do you value your job here?”

“Of course.”

No hesitation there. That’s the truth, at least.

“And do you understand what ‘discretion’ means in the context of your employment with me?”

Her cheeks flush. “Yes.”

“I’m not sure you do.” I open the drawer, pull out the gun, and place it on the desk between us. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t have gone through my things.”

All color drains from her face. For a moment, I think she might faint.

“I—I can explain,” she stammers.

“Please do.” I keep my voice dangerously soft. “Explain why my newest employee feels entitled to break into my private desk and rifle through my personal belongings.”

She takes a deep, shaky breath. “I was trying to make sense of your schedule. There were inconsistencies. Things that didn’t add up.”

“So naturally, you decided a locked drawer might contain the answers?”

“I know it was wrong.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

I pick up the gun, turning it over in my hands. Her eyes follow every movement, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

“Do you know what happens to people who betray my trust, Rowan?”

Her name feels intimate on my tongue. Too intimate for this conversation, perhaps. But I want her to feel it—the personal nature of what’s happening here.

“I haven’t betrayed you,” she insists, a surprising spark of defiance in her eyes. “I haven’t told anyone what I saw. I haven’t called the police. I came back to work.”

I study her for a long moment. She’s right. She could have gone to the authorities. Could have run. Could have done any number of things that would have created problems for me.

Instead, she showed up at her desk this morning, on time, coffee in hand.

“Why?” I ask.

“Why what?”

“Why did you come back? Why haven’t you reported what you found?”

She hesitates, clearly struggling with how to answer. I wait.

“I need this job,” she finally says. “My mom’s medical bills… they won’t pay themselves.”

“So it’s just about the money?” I press, knowing there’s more.

Her cheeks flush again. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Not for what I need from you.”

I set the gun down, rise from my chair, and circle the desk. She tenses as I approach, but doesn’t move. Doesn’t run.

Brave little thing.

I perch on the edge of the desk, directly in front of her, close enough that our knees almost touch.

“What do you need from me?” she asks, voice barely audible.

What do I need? Loyalty. Discretion. A wife to satisfy my father’s archaic conditions. A warm body in my bed. Any or all of the above.

But none of that answers the immediate problem.

“Right now, I need to know if I can trust you.” I lean forward, forcing her to look at me. “Can I, Rowan?”

Her pulse flutters visibly at the base of her throat. “Yes.”

“Words are cheap. How do I know you won’t run to the police the moment you leave this office?”

She meets my gaze directly now, that spark of defiance growing. “Because I haven’t done it yet.”

I reach out, brush my thumb across her lower lip. She gasps, freezing in place like a startled deer. “I could make it so you never tell anyone what you saw,” I murmur. “There are ways to ensure silence. Permanent ones.”

Her eyes widen with fear, but she doesn’t pull away from my touch. “I won’t tell. I promise.”

I consider her words. Consider her. The terrified but determined woman sitting before me, trembling under my touch but still refusing to cower.

Her pulse jumps under my touch. I can practically hear her heart hammering in her chest.

“Are you afraid of me, Rowan?” I ask, leaning closer.

She nods, a tiny movement. “Yes.”

“Yet you want me.” It’s not a question. I know desire when I see it.

The flush deepens on her cheeks, spreading down her throat. “That’s not⁠—”

“Don’t lie,” I cut her off. “Not about this.”

Her breathing quickens as I trail my fingers down her neck, feeling her pulse race beneath my touch.

“Yes,” she whispers, the confession dragged out of her.

I slide my hand into her hair, gripping it just tight enough to tilt her face up to mine. Her lips part, those green eyes wide with a cocktail of fear and want.

“What would you do if I kissed you right now?” I ask, my voice rough.

I slide my fingers deeper into her hair, gripping the strands until her breath hitches. Pain and pleasure—the razor’s edge I’ve walked my entire life.

“I said, What would you do if I kissed you right now?”

She doesn’t answer with words. Her body does it for her—the way her pupils dilate, swallowing the green of her irises. The way her tongue darts out to wet her lips. The way she leans forward, almost imperceptibly, closing the distance between us.

Fuck. She’s intoxicating in her fear, her need, her surrender.

I tighten my grip on her hair, forcing her head back further, exposing the vulnerable column of her throat. I could destroy her in a dozen different ways right now. She knows it. And still, she arches into my touch.

“This is what will happen,” I breathe against her ear. “You will keep my secrets. You will be loyal only to me. And in return…” I drag my lips along the shell of her ear, feeling her shudder beneath me. “I’ll make sure you never regret it.”

I press my mouth to the pulse point on her neck, tasting her skin. She whimpers. Her hands cling to the arms of the chair like it’s the only thing keeping her from floating away.

Or from climbing into my lap.

I pull back from her neck, watching the red mark bloom where my mouth just was. A brand. A warning.

Mine.

“Tell me what you want, Rowan,” I demand, my voice barely human. I’ve never wanted anyone like this—raw and violent and consuming. I want to break her apart and rebuild her in my image.

Her breathing comes in short, desperate pants. “I—I don’t know.”

“Liar.” I twist my hand tighter in her hair until tears prick the corners of her eyes. “Tell me.”

“You,” she whispers. “I want you.”

I lean in until our lips almost touch, her breath mingling with mine. I could take her right here on my desk, make her scream my name, ruin her for any other man.

But power isn’t about taking.

It’s about making them beg you to take it.

“No,” I whisper against her mouth. “You don’t get to have me.” I release her abruptly, stepping back. “Not until you’ve earned it.”

I retreat to my desk and settle into my throne, the vast expanse of my desk like a castle wall between us. “That’ll be all, Ms. St. Clair. Close the door behind you on your way out.”