Chapter 36

KSENIA

I can feel his eyes on me. The devil is watching me and the demon inside of me wants him. Craves him. Desires him like no other man that exists. I’d almost forgotten about that too. About how it felt to be near him and how my body was created to want only his. I hate that, too, because whatever kind of mindfuck he did on me, it worked.

“I’m good here,” I lie.

The master bedroom is awesome. I saw it and I wish I wouldn’t have even looked, because it’s stunning. But I can’t do it. I can’t sleep somewhere that he’s fucked someone else. Been there, done that—more than once.

“You have a reason you don’t want to sleep there, huh?” he asks, pushing, always pushing.

This is what he does, what he’s always done. It doesn’t surprise me though that he hasn’t changed. I knew he hadn’t, wouldn’t. But the physical thing. That did shock me. He’s angrier now though than he was back then, he told me he wasn’t the same and I finally believe him.

“I do,” I say. “But it’s not your business, it’s mine.”

Again. I lie. I expect him to push, to become angrier, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets out a snort. Turning my head, I look back at him. He’s standing in the doorjamb, leaning against the side and watching me finish unpacking. It isn’t taking me long to unpack, mainly because I don’t really have much.

“You want to make dinner tonight or order in?”

“Order in? I didn’t think that was an option.”

He grunts, shaking his head once. “When I’m here, it is an option. There is no decent Russian food around here, so you’ll have to think of something else you’d want,” he explains as he curls his nose in disgust.

“Still eating mainly Russian food, I see,” I mutter.

He shrugs, giving me a wink. “Everything tastes better when it’s Russian, dusha moya. You know this.”

His words come out as a purr and his eyes flick down to my hips before they slowly drag up my body to meet my own gaze. I feel his eyes slide over my skin, as if it’s his fingers touching me.

“Grisha,” I whisper, knowing that my cheeks are bright red, I can feel the heat rise in them.

His lips curve up into a wide smile as he pushes off of the doorjamb and slowly makes his way toward me. I watch, holding my breath, waiting. I don’t know what he’s going to do next, I can’t read him at all whatsoever.

When his arm lifts, I flinch, unsure of what comes next. But instead of anything too rash or painful, he turns his hand and brushes his knuckles down the side of my cheek. I try not to give him a reaction to his touch, but I fail. I tremble.

“I should not have pushed you, should not have handled you that way,” he says, his eyes softly focused on me, but he can’t hide that intensity behind them. It’s there and it’s permanent.

Licking my dry lips, I nod my head once. “I’m not hungry,” I lie.

He shakes his head once, slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “You’re a woman, you’re thin, dusha moya. You are hungry. And judging by what lies just behind your eyes, you’re hungry for a lot more than just food.”

I gasp at his words as he leans forward. His lips touch mine, he doesn’t give me a chance to respond, instead, he continues.

“And I’ll be happy to give you both, but first, food. Finish unpacking, I’ll surprise you with dinner.”

Without another word, he releases me, turns around, and like he didn’t just deliver a sexy blow, he walks out of the room—unbothered.

GRISHA

KSENIA IS NOT the same as the girl who walked out on me, more than once. But at the same time, she is that same young girl. I don’t know how to describe it, so I decide to stop thinking about it altogether.

Grabbing the phone, I call the Italian place that I know is close and reluctantly order some dinner for us. I know that Ksenia will like it, she loves all different foods. I doubt that much about her has changed. She has always been ready to try anything new. Meanwhile, I prefer what’s comfortable.

And I always prefer food from the motherland.

I prefer Pozhaluysta. As much as I would like for them to deliver out to Santa Monica, I doubt I could get that to happen, so I will just have to wait until I’m back in West Hollywood West. Finishing the order, I tell them to leave it downstairs at reception under the name Robert.

Then, I call down to reception and tell them that I’ll be down to collect the food when it arrives. They don’t question me, again, they wouldn’t because they are Bratva.

At least in some form. Hanging the phone back up on the wall, I turn around to see Ksenia watching me.

“Did you order Italian?” she asks, her voice soft.

“I did. Grilled chicken alfredo with steamed broccoli. Bread, and a salad.”

Her eyes water immediately. I know why. That was what she always ordered when I relented and took her out to eat Italian. Sometimes she would make it at home, but she always said it tasted better at a restaurant.

“How?” she breathes.

Shaking my head, I press my lips together for a moment before I speak. “Do you think that you meant so little to me, even then, that I don’t remember every detail about you,

dusha moya?”

She sucks in a breath, her gaze flicking to the side before it comes back to meet mine. Her eyes are full of unshed tears, and she blinks rapidly, trying to blink them away but it doesn’t work, a few escape.

What I want to do is walk over to her and catch those tears. I don’t. She flinched the last time that I reached out to her, my own doing, and I don’t want to do that again until she’s a little more comfortable… like maybe later tonight. In bed.

“I don’t know what to say,” she whispers, swallowing loudly.

Smirking, I shrug a shoulder. “Do you remember my vodka?” I ask.

“For a daily drink, Jewel of Russia Ultra,” she says without even hesitating. Then her lips curve up into a smile and she shakes her head. “Some things you don’t forget, I suppose.”

I hum, nodding my head. “This is true. I only had you for two years, but I didn’t forget anything, Ksenia. Couldn’t

forget it even though I tried, quite often.” “Why?” she exhales.

Shrugging my shoulder, I walk over to the freezer and open it, taking out the bottle of mentioned Jewel of Russia Ultra vodka. I open and close a few cabinets in search of a highball glass or something I can use.

“You don’t know where the glasses are,” Ksenia mumbles.

She doesn’t say it loudly, probably assuming that I cannot hear her. Turning my head, I look over to her. My brows knit together, and I watch her for a moment. My vodka is getting warm, but I am curious as to why she has said what she has.

“Why would you think I would know where the glasses are?” I ask, my tone demanding.

She has something in her head, has had it in her head since she walked in here. She thinks this is the house of some woman I fuck, but I want to hear her say it to me, ask me. Setting the vodka bottle down on the counter, I take a step toward her.

I crowd her, I get in her face, but I don’t touch her. Dipping my chin, I look down at her. She licks her lips, and her tongue almost touches my mouth. I want that and I will have it, just not quite yet. Not until I hear her words, hear her ask me.

“Because you’ve been here before,” she says.

With a snort, I inch closer to her. Lifting my hand, I gently wrap my fingers around the back of her neck. I’m careful not to hold her too tightly as I stay close to her, waiting for her to really say it.

“I have,” I admit.

“Is she your girlfriend? Your lover? Just some girl you fuck?” she finally asks through gritted teeth.

Letting out a laugh, I shake my head. “She is not. I can honestly say, the woman who once resided in this home is not someone I have ever fucked, felt, kissed, or had any type of relations in any way whatsoever like that.”

Ksenia lets out a slowly exhaled breath, then she closes her eyes. “Why do I even care?” she whispers.

“That is a good question, dusha moya. Maybe ten years was not long enough to extinguish the flame that is quite obviously still burning brightly?”