Page 8 of Toxic Attraction
The third door opens.
It's a massive bedroom. The bed, made of dark wood and leather, could easily fit four people. One entire wall is windows overlooking the grounds, where I can see armed men patrolling.
But no desk. No files. Nothing useful.
Wrong room. Keep going.
I back out, and my hands shaking so badly.
The next door opens into darkness. I fumble for a light switch, find it, and freeze.
It's a bathroom. But calling it a bathroom is like calling the ocean a puddle.
Black marble floors. Stone walls with texture that looks expensive. A shower that takes up an entire corner, all glass and rainfall fixtures. Double vanity. A tub you could drown in.
And mirrors everywhere, reflecting me back infinite times—small and pale and so obviously out of place.
This is wrong. Get out. Get out now—
But there's a built-in cabinet, and I think about Patrick's text this morning:I'm waiting.
I move to the cabinet and start opening drawers with shaking hands.
Razors. Cologne. Watches in a case—four of them, the kind that cost more than a car. Prescription bottles with Russian labels I can't read.
Nothing. Nothing Patrick would want. Nothing worth—
Footsteps.
In the corridor.
Coming closer.
Oh God oh God oh God—
My heart stops. Actually stops. And then it's racing so fast I think I might pass out, and I look around frantically for somewhere to hide but there's nowhere, just the vanity and the tub and—
The door.
I slip behind it as quietly as I can manage, pressing myself flat against the wall in the narrow space between the door and the towel rack. My breathing sounds so loud I'm sure he'll hear it, but there's nowhere else, and maybe—maybe he won't notice, maybe he'll just—
The bathroom door swings open.
It misses me by inches, and I hold my breath as he enters.
Lev Volkov.
Through the crack between the door and the frame, I can see him. He looks more menacing than in his photos, and I've spent almost every second of every day researching him.
He's taller than I expected—well over six feet—and built like he was carved from stone. Broad shoulders strain against his white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and covered in ink. Dark hair sleeked back in a neat style, sharp jaw, cheekbones that could cut glass. And a scar through his left eyebrow that should make him look damaged, but somehow makes him look more dangerous.
He's beautiful, the way a gun is beautiful. Designed to kill.
Move. Run. Slip out while his back is turned—
But I can't. My legs are frozen, and I'm trapped watching as he reaches up and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
No. No no no, he's going to—
