Page 100 of Scarlet Thorns
Without waiting for permission, he steps into my room and moves to the nightstand, setting the folder down with a deliberate motion. The casual invasion of my space should annoy me— should trigger every boundary I’ve tried to maintain since agreeing to this arrangement.
Instead, it makes me horny, because clearly I’m out of my mind.
Yup, all business again.
Not even a hint of romance.
The clinical way he’s handling this should be exactly what I want. Businesslike distance, clear expectations, no messy emotions to complicate an already impossible situation. But standing here in my pajamas, watching him own my space with that quiet authority, all I can think about is how he looked naked in moonlight, saying my name in his sleep.
“You can’t just walk into my room unannounced,” I start to protest, but the words die in my throat as he turns to face me fully.
The air between us seems to heat. My body responds to his proximity like it’s been programmed specifically for his frequency— nipples tightening beneath thin cotton, pulse racing, every nerve ending suddenly alive and hypersensitive.
He moves closer, slow and deliberate. The space between us shrinks to inches, then less than inches, until I can feel the warmth of him against my bare skin. The scent of him makes my head spin with want.
The tension stretches between us like a live wire, magnetic and undeniable. His gray eyes drop to my lips, then back to my eyes, asking a question I’m desperate to answer.
“Stop.” The word tears from my throat, taking every ounce of willpower I possess to voice it. “We need to talk.”
He freezes, those sharp eyes searching my face for something I’m not sure I want him to find. The disappointmentthat flickers across his features is so brief I almost miss it, replaced quickly by careful neutrality.
“What about?” His voice is rougher now, affected despite his attempt at control.
“The woman in the garden today.” I take a step back, needing distance to think clearly. “The blonde who threatened to tear my hair out if she ever sees me again.”
Something dangerous flickers in his expression— a flash of violence so quick and deadly I’m reminded that this man is probably capable of things I can’t even begin to imagine.
“You don’t need to worry about her anymore.”
The dismissive tone makes frustration spike through my chest.
“What do you mean? She called me a slut! She acted like she had some kind of claim on you.”
“She doesn’t.” The words come out flat, final.
“But she used to?” I press, crossing my arms over my chest and immediately regretting it when his gaze drops to follow the movement. “Who is she, Osip?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and I can see the internal struggle playing out behind his eyes. This man who radiates confidence in every situation, looks genuinely uncomfortable with this conversation.
“Anett is my ex,” he says finally, the words seeming to cost him something. “We broke up. She’s having trouble accepting that.”
“How long were you together?”
“A few months. It wasn’t serious.”
“Serious enough that she thinks she can storm into your garden and threaten your housekeeper.” I study his face, noting the way his jaw tightens at the reminder. “Serious enough that she has access to the property.”
“Hadaccess.” His voice carries an edge of steel that makes me shiver. “Security has been… updated.”
The implication hangs between us— that whatever access Anett once had has been permanently revoked. I should feel relieved, but instead I find myself wondering what other women have had keys to this fortress of a house.
“What about Galina?”
The question stops him cold. Every muscle in his powerful frame goes rigid, and something raw and devastating flickers behind his carefully constructed mask. The change is so dramatic it’s like watching a different person emerge— one carrying wounds that haven’t begun to heal.
“What about her?” His voice is suddenly hoarse.
“The pregnant woman in the photograph beside your bed.” I force myself to hold his gaze even though the pain in his eyes makes my chest ache. “Where is she now?”
