Devil’s Lair: Molotov Obsession: Book 1

by Zaires, Anna

  Pavel glowers at me. “You know how to remove scales?”

  “I do.” I’d actually rather not do it, lest I get my only clean clothes dirty, but I want to continue teaching Slava, and the best way to do that is to spend time with him, engaged in whatever activities he’s doing.

  In my experience, children learn best outside of a classroom—and so do most adults.

  “Here then.” Pavel thrusts a descaling knife at me. “Show the kid how to do it.”

  Judging by the smirk on his brick-like face, he thinks I’m bluffing—which is why it gives me great pleasure to take the knife from him and say sweetly, “Okay.”

  Taking care not to get any splatters on my shirt, I get to work, explaining to the boy the entire time what I’m doing and how. I tell him what every part of the fish is called and make him repeat the words, then let him try the descaling himself. He’s as good at it as he was at the slicing, and I realize he’s done it before.

  When Pavel told me to show him, he was just testing me.

  Hiding my annoyance, I let Slava finish the job and put the cleaned fish back into the bucket. Pavel carries it into the house, and Slava and I follow. The man-bear goes straight for the kitchen—probably to prepare the fish for lunch—and I tell him I’m taking Slava upstairs to get changed. Unlike me, the boy has fishy splatters all over his shirt.

  Pavel grunts something affirmative before disappearing into the kitchen, and I shepherd Slava into the nearest bathroom. We both thoroughly wash our hands, and then I lead Slava up to his room.

  To my surprise, Lyudmila is there when we walk in, presciently laying out a clean shirt and jeans for Slava on the bed.

  “Thank you,” I say with a smile. “He’s in dire need of a change.”

  She smiles back and says something to Slava in Russian. He walks over to her, and she helps him out of the dirty clothes. I tactfully turn my back—the boy is old enough to be shy in front of strangers. When it seems like they’re done, I turn around and find Lyudmila helping him with the buckle of his belt.

  “All good,” she announces after a moment, stepping back. “You teach now.”

  I grin at her. “Thank you, I will.” Seeing her gather Slava’s dirty clothes, I ask, “Is there a washing machine somewhere in the house? I need to do laundry.”

  She frowns, not understanding.

  “Laundry.” I point at the pile of clothes in her hands. “You know, to wash clothes?” I rub my fists together, mimicking someone doing laundry by hand.

  Her face clears. “Ah, yes. Come.”

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Slava and follow Lyudmila downstairs. She takes me past the kitchen and down a hallway to a windowless room about the size of my bedroom. There are two fancy washers and dryers—I guess to run multiple loads at once—along with an ironing board, a drying rack, laundry baskets, and other conveniences.

  “This, yes?” She points at the machines, and I nod, thanking her. Returning to my room, I gather all my clothes and bring them down. Lyudmila is gone by then, so I begin loading the washers. In a half hour, I’ll come down again to move the clothes over to the dryers, and by dinnertime, everything will be clean.

  Things really are looking up, the situation with my boss notwithstanding.

  My heart rate speeds up at the thought, the butterflies in my stomach roaring back to life. Slava and Pavel provided a much-needed distraction, but now that I’m away from them, I can’t help thinking about what happened. My mind cycles through everything, over and over, until the butterflies turn into wasps.

  I felt Nikolai’s erection against me.

  He looked like he was about to kiss me.

  He didn’t let go of me when his sister was there.

  It’s that last part that freaks me out the most, because it means I was wrong. He does intend to act on this attraction. If Alina hadn’t insisted he take the call, he would’ve kissed me, and maybe more. Maybe at this very moment, we’d be in bed together, with his powerful body driving into me as—

  I stop the fantasy before it can progress any further. Already, I feel overly warm, my breasts full and tight, my sex pulsing with a coiling ache. It must be some weird aftermath of my impromptu masturbation session last night; that’s the only explanation for why I’ve suddenly acquired the libido of a teenage boy.

  Taking slow, deep breaths to calm myself, I finish loading the laundry. The situation is undoubtedly tricky. An affair with my employer would be unwise on many levels, yet I’m less than certain of my ability to resist him. If I go up in flames merely thinking about him, what would it be like if he touched me? Kissed me?

  Would my self-control evaporate like water on a frying pan?

  There’s only one solution I can see, only one thing I can do to prevent this disaster.

  I have to avoid him—or at least, being alone with him—for the next six days.

  Thus resolved, I set the washers to run, and turn around—only to freeze in place.

  Standing in the doorway, golden eyes gleaming and mouth curved in a devastating smile, is the very devil who occupies my thoughts.

  “There you are,” he says softly, and as I watch, paralyzed in shock, he steps deeper into the room and shuts the door.

  16

  Chloe

  “I was looking for you,” Nikolai continues, approaching with a panther-soft stride. “Pavel said you were upstairs with Slava.”

  I swallow hard as he stops in front of me. “Yes, I just came down here for a moment to throw in some laundry. I hope that’s okay.” Despite my best efforts, my voice wavers, and it’s all I can do not to step back in an effort to put more space between us. Not that he’s overly close—at least three feet separate us—but now that I know the smell of his cologne, I can pick up the subtle cedar and bergamot notes in the air, and my memory fills in the rest, from the heat coming off his skin to the hard contours of his body pressing against me. And that big, thick bulge… My knees wobble, and I almost sway toward him but catch myself at the last moment, stiffening my legs and spine.

  A dark heat invades his gaze, and I know he’s noticed my reaction. My cheeks burn and my heart hammers faster, icy-hot prickles running over my skin.

  Why is he here?

  Why was he looking for me?

  Why did he shut that door?

  “Yes, of course, that’s not a problem.” His voice is soft and deep, that unsettling heat still in his eyes. “You’re living here now, so think of this as your home.”

  “I will, thank you.” Dammit, now I sound all husky and breathless. Pulling myself together with effort, I give him my best model-employee smile. “I was actually going to ask you something. Do I have a work schedule? That is, are there any specific times you’d like me to work with Slava? Ideally, I’d like to teach him throughout the day, as opposed to having formal lessons, but if you prefer otherwise, I’m flexible.”

  There, that’s better. I actually managed to steady my voice and sound semi-professional. Hopefully, that’ll remind him I’m here to teach his son, not melt at his smoldering stare like—well, probably like every straight woman he’s ever met.

  Another wickedly sensual smile touches his lips. “It’s up to you, zaychik. Your pupil, your methods. All I’m after are the results. The only thing I ask is that you join our family for mealtimes, so Pavel and Lyudmila don’t need to cook and clean extra.”

  “Yes, of course. What time are breakfast and lunch?” Now I feel bad that I made Lyudmila give me those crepes; as late as I woke up, I could’ve waited until the next scheduled meal.

  “We usually eat breakfast at eight and lunch at twelve-thirty. Does that work for you?”

  “Absolutely.” If there’s anything I’ve learned over the past month, it’s that food, anytime, anywhere, of any variety, works for me.

  A full stomach is something I’ll never take for granted again.

  “Good. Then I’ll see you at lunch today.” He turns to walk away, and I exhale a shaky breath, again relieved and per
versely disappointed—only to have my heart miss a beat as he stops and faces me again.

  “Almost forgot,” he says, eyes gleaming. “Your new clothes are getting delivered this afternoon. Pavel will bring them up to your room, and I’d appreciate it if you wore one of the dresses for dinner.”

  “Oh, sure. Thank you. I will.” One of the dresses? How many did he buy? And how is he getting them delivered so fast? I’m dying to ask, but I don’t want to prolong this nerve-racking encounter.

  I’m still cognizant of that closed door.

  “Good. Let me know if something doesn’t fit.” His gaze travels over my body, and the icy-hot prickles return, my breathing turning shallow as my nipples tighten in my bra. Another thin cotton bra that’s doing little to hide my reaction. My face burns with the heat of a thousand suns, and as his eyes meet mine again, I feel the shift in the atmosphere, sense the air taking on that dangerously electric charge.

  Mouth dry, I take a half step back, though what I really want is to lean toward him. The pull is so strong it’s like a physical force—and judging by the way his jaw flexes as he watches my retreat, I’m not alone in experiencing it.

  Run, Chloe. Get out.

  Mom’s voice is quieter this time, less urgent, but it clears away some of the haze in my brain. Gathering the withering shreds of my willpower, I take another step back and say as evenly as I can manage, “Thank you. I will.”

  His nostrils flare, and I again have the sense of being in the presence of something dangerous… something dark and savage that lurks underneath Nikolai’s urbane veneer.

  “All right,” he says softly. “Good luck with your laundry, zaychik. I’ll see you soon.”

  And opening the door, he walks out.

  17

  Nikolai

  I abstain for all of fifteen minutes after I get to my office. I check my email, pay a few invoices, fire off a reply to one of my accountants. Then, cursing under my breath, I turn up the sound on my laptop and bring up the camera feed from my son’s room.

  As expected, Chloe is there, having finished her task in the laundry. Hungrily, I watch as she plays cars and trucks with Slava, speaking to him the entire time as if he can understand her. Every once in a while, she points at something like a wheel and makes Slava repeat the English word after her, but for the most part, she just talks—and Slava listens to her raptly, as fascinated by her facial expressions and gestures as I am.

  At one point, he laughs at the way his truck overtakes her car, and she grins and ruffles his hair, her slender fingers casually sliding through his silky strands. My chest squeezes painfully, my lust for her mixing with intense jealousy. I don’t even know which of them I envy more—Slava, for experiencing her touch, or Chloe, for winning my son’s affections. All I know is I want to be there, basking in her sunny smile, hearing my son’s laugh in person instead of through the camera.

  Fuck.

  This is pathetic.

  What am I doing?

  I move to close down the feed but stop at the last second, hovering the cursor over the X. She’s opened a book and is reading to Slava now, her voice a soft, slightly husky croon that makes me want to burst into my son’s room, snatch her up, and carry her off to bed. I want to hear that voice moan my name as I drive into her tight, wet heat, to hear her plead and beg as I take her to the brink over and over before finally granting her the sweet mercy of release.

  I want to torment her nearly as much as I want to fuck her, to make her pay for making me feel this way.

  Clenching my teeth so hard I risk a toothache, I close the screen and propel myself to my feet. Despite the largely sleepless night I had, I’m brimming with restless energy. I need another hard run, or maybe a sparring session with Pavel.

  I cast a glance at the clock above my office door.

  Less than an hour before lunch.

  Pavel is likely busy preparing food, and if I go for the kind of long, hard run I need, I won’t have a chance to shower and change before it’s time to join everyone at the table.

  Exhaling a frustrated breath, I sit and open my inbox again. It’s too soon to expect anything from Konstantin—I only asked him to do a deep dive on Chloe’s missing month this morning—but I still check for his email.

  Nothing.

  Fucking hell. I really need a distraction. My fingers are itching to open up the camera feed again and watch her interact with my son. But if I do, this restlessness will only grow worse, my hunger for her more intense. Having held her this morning, I know how she feels pressed against me, how sweet and clean she smells, like wildflowers on a crisp spring morning. It took all of my strength to turn her loose, even with Alina there, and when I found her alone in the laundry room, every dark, primal instinct insisted that I take her, that I strip her naked and bend her over a washer, claiming her on the spot.

  And I would’ve done exactly that if she’d leaned toward me.

  If she’d done anything but back away, I’d be balls deep inside her instead of sitting here, wrestling with myself like a fool.

  No, fuck this.

  I launch to my feet.

  I need a hard, bloody fight, and since Pavel’s unavailable, the guards will have to do.

  * * *

  Arkash and Burev are out patrolling the compound when I get to the guards’ bunker, but Ivanko, Kirilov, and Gurenko are sitting around a campfire out front with a few of our American hires. Like the barbarians they are, they’re roasting a whole deer on a spit and trading their usual insults.

  Ivanko spots me first. “Boss.” Snatching up his M16, he jumps to his feet. “Something wrong?”

  Kirilov and Gurenko are already on their feet as well, weapons ready, just like in our Crimea days.

  “Easy, boys.” Smiling grimly, I strip off my shirt and drape it over a nearby tree branch. “Everything’s just right.” Or it will be soon.

  Three against one is exactly the type of odds I was hoping for.

  18

  Chloe

  To my relief, lunch with the Molotovs is a much more casual affair than dinner. Well, Alina is still dressed like she’s at an upscale cocktail party, but Nikolai is wearing dark jeans with a white polo shirt, and nobody chides Slava for his shorts and T-shirt as we sit down at the table—which is again laden with all sorts of mouthwatering salads, cold cuts, and sides.

  Do all Russians eat like czars, or just this family? If this is an every-meal thing, I have no idea how they’re not fat. I’m still full, having had breakfast only a couple of hours ago, but there’s no way I’m not going to gorge myself on this spread.

  Everything looks so freaking good.

  “How was your first night with us, Chloe?” Alina asks when we’ve all filled our plates. “Did you sleep well?”

  I smile at her, relieved both by the innocuous question and the friendly tone. I was afraid she might still be mad at me after this morning’s incident. “I slept very well, thank you.” And it’s true—the nightmare aside, it was the best sleep I’ve had in weeks.

  “That’s good,” Alina says, cutting into what looks like a fancy deviled egg. “I thought I heard something from your room around three, but it must’ve been my brother returning from one of his middle-of-the-night runs.” She shoots Nikolai a sidelong glance, and I busy myself with the food on my plate, grateful for the explanation.

  I must’ve screamed out loud last night. That, or Alina heard me fall out of bed.

  “I did go for a run,” Nikolai says, “so that must’ve been it.” When I look up, however, his gaze is trained on me, studying me with an unreadable expression.

  Does he suspect something?

  God, I hope he didn’t hear me scream or fall.

  Fighting the urge to squirm in my seat, I lower my gaze—and freeze, staring at his hands. He’s holding a knife in one and a fork in the other, European style, but that’s not what draws my attention.

  It’s his knuckles. They’re red and swollen, as if he’s been in a fistfight.


  My pulse spikes as I look away, then sneak another look at his hands.

  Yep. I didn’t imagine it. Nikolai’s knuckles are a mess. In general, his big, masculine hands look like they’ve seen a lot of action, with calluses on the edges of his thumbs and faded scars in a few places. Even his short, neatly groomed nails can’t hide the truth.

  These aren’t the hands of a wealthy playboy. They belong to a man intimately acquainted with either hard manual labor or violence.

  The suspicions I’d all but suppressed return, and this time, I can’t pretend they’re baseless. Something about the Molotovs unnerves me. Who are they? Why are they here? I can see a rich foreign family spending a couple of weeks in a place like this as a “nature detox,” but to actually move here? Someone as glamorous as Alina belongs in Paris or Milan or New York, not a corner of Idaho where there are more bears than people. Same goes for Nikolai, with his smooth, cosmopolitan manners and insistence on Downton Abbey attire at dinner.

  My new employers are the very epitome of the jet set—at least if one ignores Nikolai’s street brawler hands.

  I force myself to look away from those angry-looking knuckles and focus on the child next to me, who’s again eating calmly and quietly. Disconcertingly so, I realize. What four- or five-year-old doesn’t play at least a little with his food? Or demand adult attention on occasion? I know the boy can smile and laugh and play like any other child his age, so why does he turn into a kid-sized robot at mealtimes?

  Feeling my gaze on him, Slava looks up, his big golden-green eyes strikingly solemn. I smile at him brightly, but he doesn’t smile back. He just refocuses on his plate and resumes eating. I eat as well, but I continue watching him, my sense of wrongness intensifying by the second. There’s something unnatural about my student’s behavior, something deeply concerning. Maybe the boy is more traumatized by his mother’s death than he seems on the surface, or maybe something else is going on… something far worse.