Page 43 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva
But I had not been thinking.
I’d reached for it reflexively. As if I needed to envelop myself in something that smelled of him, which was worse because I had been thinking about him.
And the fabric clung to me in all the wrong places. It was too soft, too worn in, the faint scent of his cologne infused deep into the cotton. Sandalwood, whiskey, and the faint smell of cigar.
His scent enveloped me like a cage I couldn’t see. The harder I tugged on the hem, the more it seemed to grip me.
“Don’t wait up, Mrs. Yezhov.” One of the maids had smiled earlier, arms full of tidy stacks of folded linens. “He’ll be late. Business, I suppose.”
Business.
Perfect.
That alone was all the reason I required to roam. To breathe. To feel as if I had space to exist without his shadow consuming me entirely. So I allowed myself to walk.
I was nearly invincible for the first time in days.
Nearly.
Until the door creaked open behind me..
The sound split through the quiet like a blade, and I stiffened, the hem of the shirt still gathered in my hands.
My gaze constricted in the mirror, my eyes growing wide as my body tensed from the inside out. I didn’t turn.
I didn’t need to, because I already knew who it was from the heavy footsteps and the familiar scent that entered the room with him.
He wasn’t supposed to be home tonight, at least that was what the maid told me. But I guessed Matvey couldn’t be predicted; he always did what he wanted anyway.
I spun around so fast I nearly slipped on the tile, and there he was, behind me, standing in the doorway like a storm ready to burst.
Dark jacket tossed over him loosely, shirt unbuttoned at the neck, that unreadable calm drawn across his features as though nothing in this scene was out of the ordinary. As though he had not just caught me prowling around his house in the dead of night…in his shirt…after what I’d done while wearing it.
I was paralyzed where I stood, my hand still grasping the hem, my throat dry and itchy. I swallowed.
He walked toward me with slow, graceful strides, his eyes wandering lazily around the room before they settled on me.
He didn’t look surprised or anything; he was barely even blinking as his eyes wandered over my bare legs, the loose cotton engulfing my shape, the pink warmth spreading up my chest.
“My shirt,kotyonok? He asked, lifting his brows very casually.
The word coiled around my spine like smoke.Kotyonok?When did he give me that nickname?
My chest flustered, and my cheeks grew even hotter, but I managed not to let it show in my expression. I frantically searched for my voice. “It was comfortable.”
He stayed quiet.
“So, I wore it,” I went on, louder so he knew it didn’t mean anything that I was wearing his shirt. “It was this or the starched washing they sent up. Talk to your maid about it if it’s a problem.”
God, I sounded ridiculous.
Matvey didn’t smile.
He simply halted a few feet ahead of me, then slowly turned his back on me. His face was blank—that risky type of blank that didn’t tell you whether he was annoyed or amused.
Then he stepped forward.
One step. Two.
