Page 90 of Scarlet Thorns
But as I start the engine and head back toward the house where she’s waiting— probably cleaned up from last night, probably trying to pretend professional boundaries still exist between us— one truth echoes above all others:
I want this.
The only question is whether I’m strong enough to make it happen, or foolish enough to try.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Osip
By evening, I’ve made my decision.
I call Ilona to my office, keeping my voice neutral when I tell her we need to discuss her employment terms. Professional. Businesslike. The kind of conversation that doesn’t acknowledge the way my cock gets hard just thinking about her voice saying my name.
She appears in the doorway wearing dark jeans and a cream sweater that makes her skin look luminous.
Blyad.
She’s fucking beautiful.
“You wanted to see me?” Her voice is carefully neutral, but I catch the tremor underneath. She’s as affected by last night as I am.
“Sit.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk, putting furniture between us like a barrier. Distance. Control. The illusion that I can keep this professional when every instinct screams to drag her over that desk and fuck her again.
She settles into the leather chair with movements that are pure unconscious grace. The way she crosses her legs, the way her fingers curl around the armrests… My cock strains against expensive fabric, but I force my expression to remain stone-cold. This is business. Has to be business, even if the business happens to be the most personal thing I’ve ever proposed.
“I have an offer for you.”
Her eyebrows climb slightly. “What kind of offer?”
The words stick in my throat for a moment.
Blyad.
This could change everything.
But the memory of little Dénes chattering with his father pushes me forward. Péter’s voice echoing in my skull:
Everything you do has more meaning when you’re doing it for them.
“I want you to carry my baby.”
There.
It’s out.
The silence that follows is deafening. She stares at me like I’ve spoken in ancient Greek, her lips parting slightly as she processes what I just said.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ll get five hundred thousand upfront,” I continue, forcing my voice to remain steady. Clinical. Like I’m negotiating a business contract instead of asking her to grow my offspring inside her body. “Euros. You’ll live in this house with the best private medical treatment money can buy. Then another five hundred thousand once the baby is delivered.”
Her face cycles through shock, disbelief, and something that might be hurt. “Is this a joke?”
I don’t answer. Can’t answer. Just hold her gaze with the kind of steady intensity that’s closed deals and ended lives.
Understanding dawns in her expression like sunrise after a long night. “You’re being serious.”
Still silence from me. The weight of the offer hangs between us like a loaded weapon, and I watch her realize that everything just changed. Whatever existed between us last night— the heat, the connection, the way she surrendered to my touch— it’s been reduced to a transaction.
