Page 13 of Scarlet Thorns
I strip off my suit like shedding dead skin. The day’s bullshit swirls down the drain with soap and hot water. Stanley’s accusations, Igor’s possible betrayal, Galina’s clinical permission to fuck around— all of it washes away until there’s just me and steam and silence.
The water beats against muscles gone tight from stress. I let it run hotter than comfortable, scalding away the grime of doing business with men who’d sell their mothers for the right price. I lather soap over a body that’s seen more than its share of hard living— scars across my ribs from street fights, the puckered bullet wound on my shoulder from a deal gone sideways in Vladivostok. Battle trophies from a war that never ends.
I towel off and wrap the Egyptian cotton around my waist. The mask goes on, transforming me into someone else as the leather fits like a second skin. Someone without a pregnant wife or suspicious business partners or blood on his hands.
The hallway feels different when I walk through half-naked. More honest. My bare feet sink into plush carpet, and Room Five waits at the end like a question I’m not sure I want answered.
What the fuck are you doing, dolboyob?
But my hand reaches for the handle anyway. Some magnetic pull stronger than logic or caution. The need to feel something real instead of the constant performance of being Osip Sidorov.
My pulse kicks up, that familiar pre-fight adrenaline flooding my system. Except this isn’t violence waiting for me.
I don’t know what’s waiting.
Chapter Five
Ilona
The door to Room Five closes behind me with a soft click that feels final, like sealing myself into a confession booth.
The space beyond is nothing like I imagined— warm amber lighting pools in intimate corners, casting everything in honeyed shadows. The air carries hints of sandalwood and something floral that makes me think of expensive hotels in cities I’ve never visited.
My pulse pounds as I take in the details: burgundy velvet furniture arranged for conversation rather than seduction, candles flickering on floating shelves, music so soft it might be my own heartbeat. This isn’t some sleazy hookup room. It’s elegant. Sophisticated. The kind of place where secrets are shared over aged whiskey rather than screamed in parking lots. And yet…
What the hell am I doing?
The question loops through my mind as I stand frozen just inside the entrance. A little over three hours ago, I was planning a quiet evening with Stanley, maybe ordering takeout and watching something mindless on Netflix. Now I’m wearing a lace mask in a private room, waiting for a stranger to join me in… what exactly?
Jack’s words echo back:Whatever you decide in the moment.
The weight of complete choice should feel liberating, but instead it terrifies me. I’ve spent so long letting other people set the parameters of my life— Stanley choosing our restaurants, my mother dismissing my health concerns, even my job dictatinghow I spend forty hours each week. When’s the last time I made a decision based purely on what I wanted?
I imagine how I look right now, and somehow, it’s not the way I did when I arrived here. Something’s changed in me. The mask transforms my features into something mysterious, almost ethereal. My hair falls in waves around my shoulders, and the soft lighting makes my skin look luminous rather than blotchy from crying. For a moment, I imagine what a stranger might see— not the woman who got accused of infidelity tonight, but someone worth pursuing.
The thought sends heat spiraling through my chest, followed immediately by shame.
Three hours.
It’s been three hours since I walked out on Stanley, and I’m already imagining being desired by someone else. What does that say about me? About us?
But the shame battles with something else— relief so profound it makes my knees weak. Relief that whatever happens in this room stays here, anonymous and consequence-free. Relief that for thirty minutes or an hour, I can exist without the weight of being Ilona Shiradze with all her complications and failures.
The changing room adjoins this space through a door I hadn’t noticed initially. Without overthinking it, I strip off and slip inside and immediately understand why Jack mentioned it. The space is pure luxury— marble surfaces, rainfall shower, towels thick enough to sleep on. Everything designed to help you shed more than just clothes.
I turn the water as hot as I can stand and step under the spray. The heat works its way into muscles knotted with tension, washing away the residue of Stanley’s accusations and my own self-doubt. Steam fills the air, creating a cocoon that feels separate from the real world.
When I emerge, wrapped in a robe soft as silk, I feel like someone else entirely. The pain in my pelvis has faded to a dull ache— maybe the heat helped, or maybe adrenaline is masking it. Either way, I’ll take the reprieve.
Back in the room, I settle into one of the velvet chairs and secure the mask properly. The lace sits comfortably against my skin, intricate enough to obscure my features while leaving my mouth and chin exposed. Through the eyeholes, the room takes on an even more dreamlike quality.
I close my eyes and let myself sink into the chair’s embrace. For the first time in weeks, I’m not planning anything, not trying to solve anything, not pretending everything is fine when it’s clearly falling apart. I’m just… existing. Waiting. Open to whatever comes next.
The door opens so quietly that I almost miss it.
And then, I see him— a figure that makes every nerve ending in my body snap to attention. Tall doesn’t begin to cover it; he fills the doorway like he was designed for it. His build suggests power held in careful check, all lean muscle and controlled grace. Dark hair, gray-blue eyes visible through his own mask, and a sculpted jawline framed by a neatly trimmed beard.
He wears only a towel around his waist, the fabric riding low on narrow hips, baring skin that looks like it’s seen both sun and violence. The sight sends heat flooding through me so suddenly I forget to breathe. This isn’t some soft businessman looking for a thrill. This is something else entirely— dangerous and magnetic in ways that should terrify me but don’t.
