Unmeasured (Unmatched Book 1)

by Alyssa Turner

  Oleg sized up the older man, who looked intent on fulfilling his role as sentinel. “Right. Yes.” He walked with the man to the desk. “Oleg—” he hesitated, considering giving his mother’s name as he had when he was at school. If he gave the name Balashov, then he owned it, for better or worse. “Oleg Balashov to see Samantha Hunter.”

  “Oui. One moment please.” He dialed the intercom.

  “Yes?” A woman’s voice returned. Oleg didn’t recognize it, but it must be Marielle.

  “Good evening. Mister Oleg Balashov is here to see Ms. Hunter.”

  “No. Absolutely not,” Marielle said.

  The man picked up the handset for privacy. Oleg didn’t give a shit about Marielle’s privacy.

  “Let me speak to her.”

  “That is not permit—”

  “I am asking nicely. Give me the phone.”

  A second ticked by before Oleg grabbed it from his hand.

  “Sir!”

  Oleg put a finger up to the man and spoke to Marielle as calmly as he could. “Is she there?”

  “She is. But she doesn’t want to see you.”

  “I need to speak with her.”

  “All of you are just the same. You think you can just snap your fingers and do whatever you want. She doesn’t need your fucking games, yes? Do you hear me? I wish I’d never brought her to that hornet’s nest.” She huffed. “She’s done with you, just leave her alone.”

  Oleg gripped the phone so hard, his fingernails scraped the plastic. “Let me speak to her. She can tell me herself.”

  “She’s been through enough, thank you.” Marielle hung up.

  Oleg released a searing breath of air through his clenched teeth. He stood there for a few beats before nodding politely at the door man. “Thank you,” he said. He pulled his hand through his hair and then tugged his shirt cuffs, adjusting himself into a state of composure. Then he pressed a few large bills to the reception counter. She was safe at least. Safe and secure in her own home. But nothing would be right until she was safe and secure in his bed.

  Chapter 28

  Samantha’s call history was a parade of identical numbers all marching in formation down her screen. She hadn’t even saved Oleg as a contact yet. That was how temporary their association had been. She felt both sad and relieved about that. Relieved because that meant it should be easy to move on, and sad because she knew she’d never forget how he made her feel. The tenderness on her back and butt was nothing compared to the hollow ache in her chest.

  Monday morning insisted on making her face the world. Marielle had binge watched Project Runway with her practically all weekend. Hiding was over, and just to remind her, she tapped not so lightly on Samantha’s door. Sam heard the jangle of china and perked up.

  “Coffee, Sam. It’s almost eight,” Marielle called from the other side of the door.

  Samantha dragged herself upright and slogged over to retrieve her much-needed cup of give-a-fuck, and the equally needed smile she was sure to find on her roommate’s face.

  “Thanks.”

  Marielle tilted her head. “Have you heard from your professor?”

  Samantha cursed under her breath. She’d been staring at her missed calls and had forgotten to check her email. Grabbing her phone from the bed, she found a clipped response agreeing to see her. “Oh shit! She says she can fit me in for a nine fifteen.” She started scrambling, tossing on anything clean she could find.

  “You should definitely leave your car in the garage. No way you will make it on time during rush hour.”

  Samantha blew heartily over the coffee and took three punishing gulps. “I can’t screw this up.” Suddenly, passing her class felt like the only way to set things right. She opened her phone again and contemplated deleting the number that she’d already memorized from staring at it so long. Delete it? Block it? Samantha did neither. She tucked the phone and the number it saved away in her back pocket for safe keeping. A souvenir, she resolved. Every trip deserves a souvenir. Now it was time to get back to work on that degree and learn to find herself somewhere in the monochrome of her predestined life while Oleg got on with his.

  *

  Oleg wanted Paolo to be quiet and quit asking so many questions. From across the breakfast table, he sipped his coffee and glared at him. Ivan quietly thanked Marjorie for his plate of scrambled eggs and, of course, Paolo wasn’t deterred.

  “I just don’t understand what Karina could have said to send her running out of here like that,” Paolo said, using some different words but repeating himself for the third time.

  Oleg sighed. “Karina is inconsequential. Samantha ran from what happened in that room.”

  “What do you mean? Did you hurt her? I mean, really hurt her?” Paolo’s voice had grown deeper, ready for war.

  Oleg shook his head. “Not in that way. We saw each other in there, the naked truth of each other and…” He sighed again and picked up his cup to dump the rest of the dark, cooling liquid. “And then she saw that I was willing to be a fraud.” He shook his head again. “Where does that leave her? She doesn’t deserve a fraud, and good for her that she knows it.”

  “Now what? You’re not marrying that bitch so…”

  “She won’t take my calls, and I’m getting cock-blocked at her flat by Marielle.”

  “Marielle…” Ivan said.

  Oleg nodded. “I would ask about what happened between Alexander and her, but at the moment, I only care about one lost sub.”

  Ivan took a big mouthful and swallowed. “I don’t think you want to know anyway. They were fucked from the beginning.”

  Oleg only hoped that wouldn’t be the way his story ended with Samantha. Love always had a way of fucking you over in the end. He’d yet to see a time when it didn’t. Still, he had hope, and that was a hell of a lot more than he’d ever had before. He had hope, and he had sheer determination. If one didn’t work, then the other would be sure to kick in…doors if he had to. “Well, I’ve got to get back to the city to meet my uncle, and then I’ll try her flat again.

  “You could send her a text to tell her that the wedding is off at least.”

  Oleg shirked that suggestion with the kind of distaste only reserved for truly awful ideas. “What I have to say can’t be delivered by a fucking text.”

  His phone rang. The sound of sirens in the background confirmed the contact ID. “No, I haven’t spoken to her,” he said to Henri before the question could leave his lips.

  “Didn’t Paolo activate a GPS tracker on her phone?” Henri asked instead.

  “She deleted the app.”

  “Fuck. She’s really done,” Henri said.

  Oleg was reminded once again that his feelings for her ran deeper than the flimsy ties that tethered them all to a new submissive in their charge. The infatuation for coy smiles and the thrill of being their first was all bullshit compared to the way he felt for Samantha. He’d forget every single one of their names if he could have his Kitten back, if he could sit in awe of his Lionceau’s strength. So he decided. She couldn’t be done. Not with how right it had all been.

  “You could only say that if you don’t know her heart,” Oleg said into the phone.

  “Her heart? What do you know about her heart, Oleg?”

  Oleg recognized the challenge in Henri’s tone. Forever schoolyard rivals, and yet their back and forth taunts always ended up in mutual respect. Henri forced him to say it out loud. “I know it belongs to me.”

  *

  It took every ounce of her resolve, but Samantha threw away the doctor’s excuse Henri had written her before she walked into her professor’s office. She’d been contrite and honest about what really happened. She’d been ready to take her failed grade and the responsibility that went along with it. But surprisingly, her professor had shown her enough mercy to allow for a retake of her mid-term exam despite the feeble excuse of having overslept. It had been demoralizing and embarrassing, but there was no way she was going to use Henri’s note. If
she had taken responsibility in the first place, she wouldn’t be the wreck she was now. Sitting in her big, comfy chair, she licked at the spoon of chocolate ice cream and imagined Oleg using it to spank her for not owning up to the truth in the first place.

  The sound of Marielle’s raised voice called her attention away from her lecture notes. She shouldn’t have gotten up to listen, but the name Alexander had caught her ear.

  “After months of not hearing from you, the only reason you decide to call is to tell me to mind my own business? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  It was a one-sided conversation, with Samantha only privy to Marielle’s side, which quite frankly had always been all she was privy to when it came to Alexander. She stepped closer.

  “I wish someone would have warned me not to get mixed up in your mind games. It would have saved me a lot of grief.”

  Samantha got the feeling they were talking about her.

  “Tell your friend she’s off-limits. She has a brain defect. She can’t even tell when she’s in danger. I don’t have to explain to you how fucked up that is for a Dominant/submissive dynamic.”

  There was silence then, as Alexander seemed to have much to say.

  “I lost who I was when I was with you. All I became was a vessel of your pleasure, and I knew I could never be good enough at it because you kept moving the finish line on me. You know you did!”

  Silence, and then Marielle’s voice cracked.

  “Are you actually trying to make me cry?” She took a deep breath before continuing, but her voice was still strained. “I wanted to be the best you ever had, because I have to be the best at every fucking thing. Then you just leave…without even telling me why!”

  She sucked in another gulp of air. “Oh, that’s right. No, we are not doing this. You are not going to tell me how to protect my friend, because no one was there to protect me from you!”

  A few seconds later, Samantha heard a thud as Marielle threw something across the room. Samantha knocked on her partially open door.

  “Marielle?” she asked nothing and everything at once.

  The door flung open. “I’ll be back,” she said, pushing past Samantha in a blur.

  “Are you okay?”

  Marielle whipped around with a tight, sugary smile. “Oh, that? I told you they were all trolls. I’m not thinking about him for another second. I refuse!” She snatched up her keys from the kitchen counter. “I’m going to get my nails done. Be back with some tarragon chicken from that place in the 9th.”

  “You’re going to the 9th?”

  Marielle stretched her lips into what could be described as a smile that belonged at a funeral. “I’ll be back soon.”

  *

  Their routine still fit. Even after his return from London and the tornado of a woman that had tossed everything he knew upside down, the day still ended with vodka around the bar. Even Henri had been converted from Bordeaux to Stoli for this part of their day. Though now something unsettled lingered around them. It was the something that was missing.

  “Still nothing, ey?” Henri asked. He looked weary, like the day had used his body for target practice.

  Oleg’s head hurt. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. The day hadn’t practiced on him. He’d been the target of insult after insult when Michal demanded to speak to him on speaker phone in his uncle’s office. He hadn’t even been given the respect of a face-to-face meeting, and Dimitri had stood there with a smug grin the entire time. It had taken every ounce of his self-control not to walk out. But he owned them all a lump of flesh because he’d given his word, and his word had turned out to mean shit.

  “Marielle? What are…” Ivan stood up, spotting the wild-eyed woman first.

  “Which one of you told your king to call me? Which one?”

  Oleg stood up. “Who the fuck do you think you are coming in here like this? Are you looking for a fight?”

  She pointed at Henri. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  Henri smirked. “Once your Master—”

  She raised her hand at him, and that was all Henri needed to see. He snatched her wrist as it traveled through the air. “You forget yourself, Moineau.”

  Marielle’s knees weakened. To Oleg, it looked like a reflex. The angle wouldn’t have caused her pain, though her features twisted, and her teeth were bared through painted-red lips. “Just leave her alone!”

  Henri let her go. “We’ve tried to leave you alone, and look at how you keep finding your way back here.”

  Ivan stepped forward. “Stop taunting her, Henri.”

  Henri threw up his hands and walked back to his seat. “You’ve delivered your message, Marielle. You can leave now.”

  Oleg didn’t know this woman that Alexander had spoken so much about over the last year. But she cared for Samantha, and that meant she deserved some measure of tolerance, even if she was wrong.

  Oleg reached for her hand and helped her to her feet. “I don’t think you understand how serious I am about speaking to her. You can be civil enough to let her make up her own mind after she hears what I have to say, yes?”

  She blinked at him a few times, her lips screwing in a premonition for what she was thinking of saying. Oleg decided to stop her. “She’s an adult, like you. But she isn’t you, can you see that?”

  Marielle raised an eyebrow. “Did you know that she has a brain defect?”

  “Hold on, what?” Paolo said.

  “Yes. Her brain doesn’t let her be afraid. Can you even imagine how far things could go before she even realizes it? She came home naked and in tears. So don’t act all high and mighty like you know what’s best for her.”

  Oleg took a step into her personal space. Mostly because he wanted to make sure she heard him loud and clear. “Did you imagine that you would come over here and try to shame us into thinking there is something wrong with Samantha?” He spoke softly. There wasn’t a need to raise his voice to make his point. “Samantha is perfect. Only the people who can see how perfect she is should have the right to dare presume to know what it is that she needs. I get the feeling that you don’t even have enough respect for her to ask.”

  Marielle looked confused, and he was certain in that moment she also looked envious.

  “She doesn’t know what she wants.”

  Oleg shook his head. “Again, you speak for her when you are really speaking for yourself.” He gestured at the door. “I think you’re done, yes?”

  “Fuck all of you,” she said. “If you come to our flat again, I’ll call the police.”

  She turned on her heel and left.

  Chapter 29

  The tick, tick, tick of the wall clock in Professor Milieu’s office poked at Samantha from every side. She watched as her ethics professor paged through a pile of papers on her crowded desk. Samantha tapped her foot, hoping there would be a passing grade to take to the administrative offices for a manual override. Professor Milieu’s gaze shifted left to right over the papers, scanning her scribbled comments with a pinched brow. Samantha’s patience was wearing thin. If she passed, Samantha promised herself she would go right to the fabric shop and finally buy the yards of silken brocade she’d been coveting. If she passed, she’d reward herself. Why did she think she needed someone else to tell her she was a good girl? She didn’t need Oleg’s approval.

  Or she didn’t want to need it.

  That wasn’t the same thing.

  Samantha shook her head and brought her thoughts back from where they constantly wanted to drift. Professor Milieu placed three papers on the table. “Your essay was enlightening.”

  That sounded promising, but the look on her face hinted otherwise. “How do you mean?”

  “You have an interesting take on where the onus lies on issues of protectorate neglect. Do you truly believe that a government tasked with the safety and development of another should, if necessary, forsake any prior obligations in lieu of the interests of their protectorate?”

  “Only a government p
repared to fulfill its protectorate role in totality should attempt to take on another government’s vulnerabilities. If not, that government and its people are led into a false sense of security. Better let them struggle with the full understanding of their predicament than to paralyze them with pseudo stewardship.”

  Her professor nodded in slow absorption. “It is a lofty idea, and arguably a noble one.” She pushed the papers toward Sam. “Unfortunately, it is not rooted in law.”

  Samantha took in the handwritten 6/20 jotted at the top of her essay.

  “Mademoiselle, this essay showcased your intelligence, and for the first time, I saw passion in your stance. But as an attorney, it will not be your place to rewrite the law, only to apply it in support of your position. I don’t believe you failed to understand the limitations of your argument, only that you simply ignored them.” She took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “At this rate, I must advise that you drop this course and try again fresh next semester.”

  The lines, Samantha. You forgot to stay within the lines.

  Samantha felt a tear creep into the corner of her eye. She hadn’t really given two craps about that class a month ago. Had she passed her mid-term, it would have been a sign that she was on the right track, headed to a life with rules made for following.

  “Thank you for the opportunity to take the exam late,” she said and collected the papers.

  Her professor nodded in return and opened her laptop without another glance, a clear signal that she was dismissed.

  On her regular walk to the train station, she kept her head down as she passed the fabric shop, purposely avoiding the temptation to go in. Head tucked and her phone chirping with the mindless comfort of blasting candy, she slogged along, ignoring her thoughts and the world around her.

  With classes not yet back in session, the platform was a ghostly desolate place, missing the swarms of students that normally jockeyed for position in an autonomous dance. She walked to the end of the platform and checked for any sign of the train approaching from around the bend. Nothing. She dipped her head again, trying to escape once again into candy-smashing territory. Without thinking, she toed the edge of the platform and rocked back and forth on the balls of her flats, tempting the wind to blow her onto the tracks. It was a lazy sort of game, swapping favor between the solid concrete and the drop off to the rails. The gamble was low, and she didn’t even spend a moment imagining that she might actually fall. She’d safely step onto the train, and make the predictable trip home. She rocked and rocked, her body instinctively searching for stimulation, even if the input was set to a low and harmless current. All the color had drained from the world since running from Oleg’s house in Anet and the dark fairytale she’d left there. That story had no ending, at least none she could endure. As Samantha leaned forward again, she teetered ever so slightly more.