Page 14 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
The doors open.
If my office is a kingdom, the penthouse is a fortress. It’s two stories of glass and steel, with 360-degree views of the city. The storm is a living thing up here, a raging white beast that batters the 20-foot-high windows, but inside, it’s utterly silent. The air is warm. A fire is already burning in a massive, modern fireplace.
"You can't go anywhere else," I say, my voice gentle. I am done being the bastard. For now. "The city is closed, Talia. The building is frozen. This is the only safe, warm place for miles. You are here with me."
She looks around, overwhelmed. The space is minimalist, masculine—black leather, dark wood, polished chrome. It is the opposite of her, all soft curves and hidden warmth.
"I... I don't have clothes. I don't have..."
"I have everything you need." I walk to a panel by the door and press a button. A section of the wall slides away, revealing a fully stocked kitchen. "Are you hungry?"
"I... no. I don't..."
"You're lying." I know she hasn't eaten. "You will eat. Then you will shower. You will be warm." I walk to her, stopping a foot away. I can see the battle in her eyes—the pride, the fear, the exhaustion. And something else. A flicker of desire she's trying to kill.
"Why are you doing this?" she whispers.
"Because you are cold, and I have a fire." I gesture to the sprawling sofa. "Sit. I'll make you something."
I leave her there and move to the kitchen. I am not a man who cooks, but I can assemble. I take out cheese, cured meats, bread, olives. I pour two glasses of a deep, dark red wine. I am a predator,da, but I know the value of a well-set trap. You do not chase down a frightened doe. You let her come to you.
I bring the tray to the low table in front of the fire. She’s still standing where I left her, looking like a ghost in my stark, modern world.
"Sit, Talia." My voice is soft, a command wrapped in velvet.
She obeys. She sinks into the sofa, her legs tucking under her. I hand her a glass of wine. Her fingers brush mine, and she recoils as if burned.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. The only sounds are the crackle of the fire and the muffled shriek of the wind. She’s nibbling on a piece of bread, her eyes on the fire.
"Last night," I say, breaking the quiet.
She freezes, the bread halfway to her mouth.
"You said no."
She lowers her hand. "I did."
"Why?"
She looks at me, and her eyes are... I’ve never seen anything like them. So old, so tired, and so achingly young. "Why do youthink?" she asks, her voice brittle. "You're...you. You're Anton Ismailov. You own this building. You own... everything. I'm...me. I'm a temp with a broken boot and two classes left for a degree I'll never finish."
"You'll finish it," I say.
"That's not the point. The point is, men like you don't...seewomen like me. Not really. We're disposable. You wanted to... to play. To... what, get off on a poor, stupid girl? And then what? You fire me today? You send me away with a... a bonus?" Her eyes flick to her purse, where I know the envelope I gave her is tucked away. "I can't be... disposable, Anton. It's the one thing I can't be. I've been disposable my entire life."
The confession hangs in the air, raw and bleeding. This is the truth, the one she's been hiding behind her pride. She's not afraid of me. She's afraid of beingabandonedby me.
I put my glass down. I move from the chair to the sofa, sitting beside her. She tenses, but doesn't move away.
"I told you last night," I say, my voice low, "that I am no boy. I do not play games. And I warned you that the next time, I would not be so generous."
"I remember," she whispers, her gaze fixed on the fire.
"I lied."
Her head snaps toward me. "What?"
"I lied. I will be generous." I reach out, my hand going to her jaw, my thumb stroking the soft skin. "I will give youeverything. But you are right about one thing. Men like me... we don'tseewomen like you. But I do. And now that I have, I will not let you go."
