Chapter 3 - The Trap Closes
Friday morning arrived with the subtlety of a freight train.
Alina hadn't slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw those dilated green eyes tracking her across the gallery. She saw the sweat on his skin, the heavy rise of his chest, the way his power had fractured into something raw and carnal.
She expected guards to kick down her door at midnight. She expected to be dragged to the basement, tied to a chair, and made to disappear into the Chicago river. In the Vulkoff world, secrets were fatal. Seeing the Pakhan in a moment of utter vulnerability was a death sentence written in neon ink.
Yet, sunrise came and went. No guards. No screams.
Just the usual hum of the mansion waking up.
At 6:00 AM, Alina brewed the coffee with hands that shook so badly she nearly dropped the porcelain pot twice. Sloan watched her from across the kitchen, squinting through the steam of her own mug.
"You look like a ghost that crawled out of a swamp, Alina," Sloan said. "Did you catch the flu?"
"I'm fine," Alina lied, her voice tight. "Just... didn't sleep well."
"Well, snap out of it. Mr. Novak was down here five minutes ago. He didn't ask for the breakfast tray. He asked for you."
Alina dropped a spoon. It clattered against the tile floor, ringing like a bell.
"Me?"
"Specifically you. Up to the Pakhan's private quarters. Not the office. His actual rooms." Sloan’s eyes narrowed, a mixture of worry and grim realization settling over her wrinkled features. "Alina... what did you do?"
"I didn't do anything," she whispered, though the lie tasted like ash.
She walked up the grand staircase like a condemned woman walking to the gallows. The guards at the top didn't even look at her as she approached the heavy double doors of the Pakhan's private penthouse suite. One of them simply turned the brass handle and pushed the door open, gesturing for her to enter.
The interior was vast, dark, and smelled faintly of expensive cedarwood, leather, and him.
Damon Vulkoff stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the gray city wake up beneath a sheet of morning fog. He wore a crisp black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the thick, corded muscles of his forearms. He didn't turn around when she stepped inside.
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind her, sealing her fate.
"Put the tray on the table," his voice cut through the silence. Low. Heavy. Smooth as polished glass.
Alina walked forward on leaden feet, setting the silver tray down on the mahogany side table. Her fingers were trembling so violently she pulled them back instantly, burying them in the folds of her apron.
"You're shaking," he said.
He turned around.
Damon walked toward her slowly, his long strides eating up the distance between them with terrifying grace. He stopped two feet away, towering over her, looking down with those cold, calculating eyes that had broken men twice his size.
"Look at me, Alina."
She forced her chin up, meeting his gaze. She expected rage. She expected a threat. She didn't expect the quiet, smoldering heat burning beneath the surface of his expression.
"You were in the gallery on Thursday night," he said, his voice dropping into a register that made her stomach flip.
"I... I was delivering the inventory sheets, sir. I didn't mean to—"
"You saw me." It wasn't a question.
Alina swallowed hard, her throat painfully dry. "I saw nothing, Mr. Vulkoff. I swear to you. I dropped the folder and I left."
A dark, dangerous smile touched the corner of his lips. It didn't reach his eyes. It made him look even more lethal.
"Lying to me, little bird, is a very efficient way to find yourself breathing your last breath in this house," he murmured, stepping closer. The heat radiating off his body enveloped her, trapping her between his broad frame and the heavy mahogany table. "You stood there. You watched. And your pulse spiked so hard I could hear it from across the room."
Alina’s back pressed against the edge of the table. She had nowhere to run. The walls of the Vulkoff mansion were closing in, and there was no escape.
"What are you going to do to me?" she whispered, her voice cracking.
May you like
Damon reached out. His large, calloused hand grazed the side of her neck, his thumb resting right over her wildly thumping pulse point. The contact sent an electric shock straight down her spine, making her gasp softly.
"That is the question, isn't it?" he murmured, leaning down so his lips brushed the shell of her ear. "What do I do with a virgin maid who knows my most private weakness?"
