Page 82 of Scarlet Thorns
“Don’t be nuts, Ilona,” I mutter under my breath. “How do you know he has tattoos.”
Of course he has tattoos.
I bet he’d be magnificent. The kind of man who owns every space he enters, who commands attention without trying. In the shower, with his guard down, would he still carry himself like a king? Or would the water wash away some of that careful control?
Focus, you deranged woman!
I grab the cleaning supplies, desperate for distraction from the vivid fantasies playing in my head. But even cleaning his sink, I’m hyperaware that this is where he starts each day. Where he stands while shaving, those gray eyes focused in the mirror. Where he brushes his teeth, runs water through that thick, dark hair.
The medicine cabinet reveals an army of prescription bottles that make me pause. Sedatives. Anti-anxiety medication. Sleep aids. All prescribed to Osip Mikhailovich Sidorov.
Osip Mikhailovich.His full name rolls through my mind like something wicked. Russian patronymic, same heritage as Dad’s family. The coincidence feels strange, meaningful in ways I can’t articulate.
But why does a man who radiates control and power need medication to sleep? What keeps someone like him awake at night?
More secrets.
This house is full of them, and I’m starting to realize my employer carries more darkness than I initially understood.
Back in the bedroom, I focus on the massive bookshelf that spans an entire wall—leather-bound volumes in multiple languages, first editions that probably belong in museums. I’m running the microfiber cloth along the spines when my elbow accidentally bumps against a thick volume of Russian poetry.
The book depresses like a button.
With a soft mechanical whir, the entire bookshelf swings inward on hidden hinges, revealing a space beyond that makes my breath catch.
Holy crap.
I don’t think I’m supposed to find this.
But I can’t move. I’m frozen, unable to do anything but stare at what Osip Sidorov keeps hidden behind false walls.
The secret room is small, maybe six feet deep, lined with built-in shelving that holds an inventory of impossibilities. The first shelf stops my heart— weapons arranged in tidy rows. Handguns, knives, something that looks like it could level a small building. Not collector’s pieces. Working tools.
The second shelf explains how he can afford eight-bedroom mansions and designer everything— stacks of cash in multiple currencies, bound with rubber bands like they’re grocery receipts instead of small fortunes.
But it’s the third shelf that makes my knees weak.
Toys.
Thatkind of toys.
An entire collection of items that should make me blush and retreat, but instead flood my body with heat that pools low and desperate. Handcuffs lined with silk. Vibrators in shapes and sizes that suggest very specific intentions. Restraints that whisper promises about surrender and control.
All unopened.
Unused.
Waiting.
Images crash through my mind without permission— Osip’s hands securing those cuffs around my wrists, his voice commanding my submission while he explores every inch of my body with devices designed for pleasure. The fantasy is so clearI can almost feel the cool metal against my skin, almost hear the low rumble of his approval when I arch beneath his touch.
For fuck’s sake, Ilona.
I’m wet again. Soaking. My body responding to imagined scenarios with a desperation that should embarrass me. But standing here surrounded by evidence of Osip’s hidden appetites, all I can think about is how perfectly those handcuffs would fit, how it would feel to surrender completely to someone who knows exactly how to take control.
“What the hell is wrong with you, girl?” I whisper to myself, but my voice sounds breathy, affected.
I need to leave. Now. Need to close this shelf and pretend I never saw any of it. Need to maintain the professional boundaries that are already crumbling just from proximity to his secrets.
