Page 60 of Bought By the Ruthless Pakhan

He asked it so low only I could hear.

Please.

How was I supposed to answer that?

I took a deep breath, wringing the hem of my shirt, and smiled at Ivan—polite and distant. "Of course. He has a room here."

Ivan's face went tight, the line of his jaw like a drawn bowstring. He stepped forward, his tall frame instantly cagingme in, that cold cedar scent rushing over me, pressing down until I could barely breathe.

I tilted my head back. Didn't retreat.

"Mr. Volkov, you need to leave."

Ivan looked down at me, his lashes casting deep shadows below his eyes. The gray-blue depths looked heavy, like rain that hadn't fallen all night.

After a long moment, he laughed softly, a sound laced with bitterness, scraping against my heart.

He turned and left. Didn't look back.

The door pulled open. Cold autumn wind rushed in, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and dirt, filling me with it. My shoulders trembled slightly, but I still didn't call him back.

The door closed slowly in the wind, hitting the frame with a low, muffled thud.

I stood in the entryway without moving. Light spilled in from the living room, cutting a slanted bright line across the floor.

His footsteps faded outside, carried off by the wind, bit by bit dissolving into the night until I couldn't hear them anymore.

I knew we were two lines. Maybe we'd crossed at some point by accident, but that was just fate playing a cruel joke. After the intersection, the lines would drift farther and farther apart, never coming close again.

Chris walked over, asking softly. "Anna, you okay?"

I steadied myself, locked the door, shutting out that cold wind laced with cedar completely.

"I'm fine." I forced a smile. "Sorry you'll have to share a bed with Alex for a while."

Chris shrugged. "My honor."

For days after, Ivan didn't appear. No calls, no texts, no figure suddenly showing up at the school gate. After that door closed, he vanished from our lives as if he'd never broken in at all, withdrawing completely.

Maybe he really had given up.

I went back to my old routine. Dropping Alex off at school during the day, going to my employer's house to teach, picking him up in the evening and making dinner. Everything looked the same as before.

But at night, everything was different.

Damn it, my body was like he'd woken it up. That need twisted through me every night, restless.

Outside, the streetlight threw shadows of the sycamore leaves onto the ceiling, long and slanted, swaying like a slow-moving hand. I closed my eyes, and the images floated up from inside my head—his hands, his breath, his voice in my ear.

I rolled over, my fingers sliding down without permission. Along my side, following the texture of my skin, inch by inch downward.

I recalled the movements he taught me that night, fumbling, searching.

A tingling pleasure shot up my nerves. I trembled, and outside the wind dragged sycamore leaves across the window glass, a rustling sound like someone's low panting.

I bit my lip, teeth sinking into the soft flesh, trying to swallow the broken whimpers in my throat.

But all I could see was him—the way he looked down at me, those gray-blue eyes glowing in the dark like fire-tempered water.