Devil’s Lair: Molotov Obsession: Book 1

by Zaires, Anna

  I don’t just want to unravel the mystery she represents.

  I want to unravel her.

  I want to take her apart and understand what makes her tick.

  I want that so I can make her tick solely for me, so she can be mine alone.

  I want her the way my father must’ve once wanted my mother… a lifetime ago, before their love turned to hate.

  For one long, stomach-hollowing second, I contemplate doing the right thing. I consider walking away, or rather, letting Chloe do so. First thing tomorrow, I could give her two months’ pay, free of strings, and send her on her way… watch her drive out of here in her rundown Toyota.

  I consider it, and I dismiss it.

  It may be too soon for Chloe to occupy my bed, but it’s too late for me to do the right thing.

  It was too late the moment I laid eyes on her… maybe even the moment I was born.

  I meant what I said to her tonight.

  This is inevitable. I feel the certainty of that deep in my bones.

  She’ll come to me, drawn by the same dark, primal need that writhes under my skin.

  She’ll give herself to me, and it’ll seal her fate.

  Shutting off the cold water, I step out and towel off, then pad silently into my bedroom. The recessed lights in the headboard are lit, casting a soft glow on the white silk sheets, but the bed doesn’t feel welcoming. Not the way her bed felt, with her small, warm body in it. Not the way she felt, writhing against me, not asking but taking her pleasure from me, her lips like honey and sin, her taste like innocence and darkness combined.

  My cock hardens anew, a wave of burning lust chasing away the chill lingering from the shower. Sitting down on the bed, I pull open my nightstand drawer and look at a pair of keys on a furry pink keychain—the ones Pavel gave me last evening, right after he re-parked Chloe’s car.

  Carefully, reverently, I pick them up and bring them to my nose. The keys themselves smell like metal, but the pink fur holds a faint trace of wildflowers and spring, the fresh, delicate sweetness of her. I inhale deeply, absorbing every note, every nuance.

  Then I drop the keys back in the drawer and slide it shut.

  24

  Chloe

  Groaning, I roll over onto my back and throw an arm over my eyes to shield them from the sunlight. It took me hours to fall asleep after Nikolai left, and I feel like a total wreck. All I want to do is shut out the stupid sunlight and—

  Wait, sunlight?

  I jerk upright, squinting at the bright light streaming through the window.

  Dammit.

  Am I late to breakfast?

  I cast a frantic glance around the room, but there’s no clock. There is, however, the TV hanging from the ceiling, and I spot a remote lying on top of my nightstand. I grab it and press the power button, hoping it’s not one of those complicated home theater setups that requires a computer science degree to operate.

  The TV comes on, conveniently tuned to a news channel, and I exhale a relieved breath.

  7:48 a.m.

  If I hurry, I’ll make it downstairs in time.

  I dash to the bathroom and speed through my morning routine, then beeline for my closet. The TV is still on, the newscaster droning on about the upcoming elections as I grab one of my new pairs of jeans and a soft-looking long-sleeved shirt, another new purchase. According to the informative blue strip on the bottom of the TV screen, the temperature is in the high fifties this morning, significantly cooler than yesterday. Besides, it doesn’t hurt to cover up those still-healing scabs on my arm—I saw Nikolai eyeing them last night.

  I emerge from the closet fully dressed at 7:55 and, as a last-minute thought, grab the jewelry box with the pendant and earrings and slip it into my pocket, so I can return it to Alina. The news program is now showing a clip from last night’s presidential primary debates, in which one of the frontrunners, a popular California senator, is decimating his opponents with a barrage of cleverly worded facts and figures. I don’t really follow politics—my mom thought all politicians were the scum of the earth, and her opinions have rubbed off on me—but this guy, Tom Bransford, is prominent enough that I know who he is. At fifty-five years of age, he’s one of the youngest candidates in the presidential race, and is so good-looking and charismatic he’s been compared with John F. Kennedy. Not that he’s got anything on my employer.

  If Nikolai ran for president, the entire female population of the United States would need a change of panties after each debate.

  The time on the screen changes to 7:56, and I power off the TV. Maybe tonight I’ll have a chance to watch something, preferably a light, funny comedy. Nothing romantic, though—I need to take my mind off Nikolai and the confusing situation between us, not be reminded of it.

  I don’t want another sleepless night where my body aches with arousal and my thoughts loop in an X-rated reel, replaying his dirty promises and the dark, heated images they conjure up.

  * * *

  To my surprise, Nikolai isn’t at the table when I get down there at 7:59 on the dot. His sister is, though, and so is Slava. The child gives me a bright grin that contrasts with Alina’s much cooler smile, and I smile back at them both, even though the thought of what Alina saw last night makes me want to slink away and never show my face in this house again.

  “Good morning,” I say, taking my usual seat next to Slava. It’s tempting to avoid Alina’s gaze, but I’m determined not to give in to my embarrassment.

  So what if she caught me making out with her brother? It’s not like I’m a governess in Victorian times who was seen canoodling with the lord of the manor.

  “Good morning.” Alina’s tone is neutral, her expression carefully controlled. “Nikolai is on a call, so he won’t be joining us for breakfast.”

  “Oh, okay.” I again experience that strange mixture of disappointment and relief, as if a hard test I’ve been studying for has been rescheduled. Though I’ve tried not to think about Nikolai this morning, I must’ve been subconsciously psyching myself up for seeing him here because I feel deflated despite the easing of the tension in my shoulders.

  Slipping my hand into my pocket, I take out the little jewelry box and hand it to Alina. “Thank you for loaning me this last night.”

  Her long black lashes sweep down as she takes it from me. “No problem. Some grechka?” she asks, gesturing at a pot of dark-colored grain sitting next to her. Breakfast here appears to be a much simpler affair, with only a jar of honey and a few platters of berries, nuts, and cut fruit accompanying the main dish.

  Nodding gratefully, I hand Alina my bowl. “I’d love some, thank you.” I’m beyond happy she’s acting normally. Hopefully, it’ll continue.

  When she hands the bowl back to me, I try a spoonful of the grain she called “grechka.” It turns out to be surprisingly flavorful, with a rich, nutty taste. Mimicking what Alina is doing, I add fresh berries and walnuts into my bowl and drizzle the whole thing with honey.

  “It’s roasted buckwheat,” she explains as I dig in. “Back home, it’s usually eaten as a savory side, often mixed with some variation of pan-fried carrots, mushrooms, and onions. But I like it this way, more like oatmeal.”

  “I think it’s tastier than oatmeal.”

  Alina nods, ladling Slava his portion of the grain. “That’s why I like it for breakfast.” She tops Slava’s bowl with berries, nuts, and a generous drizzle of honey and places it in front of the boy, who immediately sticks his spoon in. Instead of eating, however, he starts chasing a blueberry around the bowl while making engine noises under his breath.

  I grin, realizing I’m finally seeing him play with his food like a normal kid. Catching his gaze, I wink and start stacking my blueberries on top of each other, like I’m building a tower. I make it only to the second level before the berries roll off each other, landing in the portion of the grain made sticky by the honey.

  I grimace, feigning dismay, and Slava giggles and starts building a berry tower of his own. It
turns out much better than mine since he uses honey as glue and props up his blueberries with cut strawberries.

  “Very good,” I say with an impressed expression. “You really are a natural-born architect.”

  He beams at me and proudly scoops up a spoonful of the grechka along with a chunk of his berry creation. Stuffing it into his mouth, he chews triumphantly while I praise him for being so clever. Encouraged, he builds another tower, and I make him laugh again by having one of my blackberries chase a blueberry that keeps rolling away from my spoon.

  “You really do like children, don’t you?” Alina murmurs when Slava and I tire of the game and resume eating. Her expression is decidedly warmer, her green gaze filled with a peculiar wistfulness as she glances at her nephew. “It’s not just a job to you.”

  “Of course not.” I smile at her. “Children are amazing. They can make us see the world as we once did… make us feel that sense of joy and wonder that the passing years steal from us. They’re the closest thing we have to a time machine—or at least a window to the past.”

  Her lashes sweep down again, concealing the look in her eyes, but there’s no missing the sudden tension bracketing her mouth. “A window to the past…” Her voice holds a strangely brittle note. “Yes, that’s exactly what Slava is.”

  And before I can ask what she means, she changes the topic to today’s cooler weather.

  25

  Nikolai

  “We have a problem,” Konstantin says in lieu of a greeting as his face—a leaner, more ascetic version of mine, with black-rimmed glasses perched high on his hawkish nose—fills my laptop screen.

  I lean closer to the camera, my pulse speeding up with anticipation. “What did you find out?”

  Konstantin frowns. “Oh, about the girl? Nothing yet. My team’s still working on it.” Oblivious to the sharp sting of disappointment he’s just delivered, he continues. “It’s my nuclear project. The Tajik government has just pulled our permits.”

  I inhale and slowly let the air out. At times like this, I want to strangle my older brother. “So what?” He has to know I don’t give two fucks about his pet projects, especially ones that verge on science fiction.

  Then again, maybe he doesn’t. Despite his genius-level IQ—or possibly because of it—Konstantin can be remarkably unaware of what’s going on around him, especially if it involves people instead of zeroes and ones.

  “So Valery thinks it’s the Leonovs,” he says, eyes gleaming behind the lenses of his glasses. “Atomprom is bidding against us, and Alexei was spotted having lunch with the head of the Energy Commission in Dushanbe.”

  Fuck. It’s all I can do to hide the flare of rage searing through me.

  I was wrong. My brother is very much aware of what he’s doing by involving me in this. If it were anyone but the Leonovs, I wouldn’t give two fucks—business is business—but there’s no way I’m letting their interference slide.

  Not after Slava.

  “Did Valery—” I begin grimly, but Konstantin is already shaking his head.

  “The Energy Commission refused to talk to him. Some bullshit about avoiding undue influence. Valery has a few ideas on how to proceed, but I figured I’d speak with you before we go down that path.”

  I take another steadying breath and force my tense shoulders to unclench. “You did the right thing.” The persuasion tactics our younger brother likes to use might draw unnecessary attention, and after the stunt the Leonovs pulled two years ago, we’re already on thin ice with the Tajik authorities.

  A more delicate touch is required, which is why Konstantin has come to me with this.

  “I’ll call the Commission head and set up a meeting,” I say. “We were in boarding school together. He’ll see me.”

  Konstantin dips his head. “I’ll meet you in Dushanbe. How soon can you be there?”

  “Tomorrow. I’ll fly out this morning.” The sooner I get this bullshit over with, the sooner I get back here.

  For the first time since I’ve left Moscow, this quiet retreat in the wilderness excites me more than any city in the world.

  26

  Chloe

  By the time we’re done with breakfast and I get Slava to myself, gray clouds replace the bright sunshine that woke me up, and the temperature drops further as a light rain begins. According to Alina, we’re supposed to get thunderstorms by noon, so I scrap the idea of taking my student on another hike.

  Instead, I let Slava choose what he wants to do indoors, and I join him in that activity—which happens to be more LEGO tower assembly. That works well for me, since it lets us practice some of the words he’s learned. When he gets bored with that, we build a fort out of pillows and blankets and play campers and bears, where I growl as I chase him all around the house, earning us vaguely disapproving stares from Lyudmila and Pavel, who are prepping for the next meal in the kitchen. Afterward, I read him his favorite comic books, and we play with cars and trucks, our chosen vehicles racing against each other while I commentate like a NASCAR sportscaster.

  The boy really is bright and funny; it’s a pleasure to teach him. Yet no matter how engaging our games are, I can’t concentrate on them, or on him, fully. A part of my mind is elsewhere, on a different pair of golden eyes. After Nikolai left, I lay awake for hours, my skin flushed and my heart racing. Each time I closed my eyes, I heard his deep, soft voice making those carnal promises, and the throbbing ache between my legs returned, making me slick and swollen and so sensitive I could barely tolerate the touch of my pajama shorts. It wasn’t until I gave in and used my fingers to reach another orgasm that I was able to drift off—and even then, my sleep was fitful, filled with hazy sex dreams interspersed with fragments of nightmares.

  But not my usual nightmares.

  In these, there was only one man in a mask, and he didn’t want to kill me.

  He wanted to capture me.

  He wanted to make me his.

  * * *

  Slava and I are lounging on our stomachs on his bed, flipping through a book about the ABCs, when I become aware of a tingling sensation between my shoulder blades. I cast a curious glance over my shoulder—and heat suffuses my entire body as I meet Nikolai’s gaze.

  He’s leaning against the doorframe, watching us, his expression carefully veiled. I have no idea how long he’s been standing there, but I don’t remember hearing the door open, so it must’ve been a while.

  “Go ahead, finish what you’re doing,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to interrupt the lesson.”

  Swallowing hard, I return my attention to Slava and the book. He’s also spotted his father, but his reaction is much tamer. He’s slightly subdued as we resume naming letters and the objects that start with them, but by the time we get to P and I make oink-oink noises to go with the illustration of the piggy, he’s back to being his animated, giggling self.

  Unable to help myself, I sneak another glance over my shoulder—and my heart stutters for a beat. Nikolai is not looking at me now but at his son, and there’s something soft and pained in his eyes… a strange, despairing sort of yearning.

  I blink, and just that fast, his attention shifts to me, the odd expression disappearing, replaced with the familiar scorching heat. Flushing, I look away and resume the lesson, my pulse pounding unevenly. I must’ve imagined that look, or misinterpreted it somehow. It doesn’t make sense for Nikolai to yearn for a son who’s right in front of him. If he wants to be closer with the boy, all he has to do is reach out to him, smile at him, talk to him… get to know him.

  He can try to actually be a dad instead of this distant authority figure that Slava doesn’t seem to know what to do with.

  Then again, I’ve always found it easy to relate to children. That’s why I chose this career path. If Nikolai’s had minimal exposure to kids prior to learning of his son’s existence, maybe he’s just feeling lost and uncertain—as hard as it is to believe of a man this powerful and self-assured.

  On impulse, I twist up to a sitting
position facing him. “Would you like to join us? Maybe the two of us can finish going over the last few letters with Slava.”

  A peculiar stillness steals over him. “The two of us?”

  “Or you can do it yourself if you’d rather.” I’m beginning to feel foolish. It’s highly likely I’ve misread the whole thing, ascribing thoughts and emotions to Nikolai that reflect my own wishful thinking. Just because I’ve secretly dreamed of meeting my father and growing close to him doesn’t mean every parent-child relationship needs to adhere to a specific dynamic or—

  “I’ll join you.” Nikolai pushes away from the doorframe and approaches the bed with those long, graceful strides that remind me of a jungle cat.

  I scramble back as he sits down on the mattress next to me, but with Slava stretched out between me and the wall, I can’t go far. Nikolai is so close to me we’re almost touching, and my breath catches in my throat as his sensual cedar-and-bergamot scent envelops me, reminding me of last night. Vivid sexual images invade my mind, and more heat surges through me, dampening my underwear and sending my heart into overdrive. Uncomfortably aware of Slava’s wide-eyed gaze on us, I try to tamp down on my arousal, but the heat doesn’t dissipate, my pulse refusing to settle into a steadier rhythm.

  This was a bad idea. A very bad idea. I should be keeping my distance from my employer, not issuing what amounts to an invitation to cuddle on a twin-sized bed. There’s barely enough room for me and Slava. The only way for us all to fit is if—

  “Lie down, zaychik,” Nikolai says softly, a wicked half-smile curving his lips as he reaches around me to pick up the book. “So I can properly join you.”