Devil’s Lair: Molotov Obsession: Book 1 Page 3

  “I see.” His eyes are more green than amber in this light. “So how do you keep in touch with family and friends?”

  “Email, mostly,” I lie. There’s no way I can admit that I haven’t kept in touch with anyone and have no plans to do so. “I’ve been visiting public libraries and using the computers there once in a while.” Realizing my fingers are laced tightly together, I unclench my hands and force a smile to my lips. “It’s quite liberating, not being tied to a phone, you see. Extreme connectivity is both a blessing and a curse, and I’m enjoying the freedom of traveling around the country as people have done in the past, with only a paper map to guide me.”

  “A Gen Z luddite. How refreshing.”

  I flush at the gentle mockery in his tone. I know how my explanation sounds, but it’s the only thing I can come up with to justify my lack of recent social media activity and, in case he looks at my resume closely, absence of a cell phone number. In fact, it’s a good excuse for everything, so I might as well roll with it.

  “You’re right. I’m a bit of a luddite,” I say. “That’s probably why city life holds so little appeal for me, and why I found your job posting so intriguing. Living out here”—I motion at the gorgeous views outside—“and tutoring your son is the kind of job I’ve always wanted, and if you hire me, I will dedicate myself to it completely.”

  A slow, dark smile curves his lips. “Is that right?”

  “Yes.” I hold his gaze, even as my breath turns shallow and prickles of heat run over my skin. I really don’t get my reaction to this man, don’t understand how I can find him so magnetic even as he sets off all kinds of alarms in my mind. Paranoia or not, my instincts are screaming that he’s dangerous, yet my finger itches to reach out and trace the clearly defined edges of his full, soft-looking lips. Swallowing, I wrench my thoughts away from that treacherous territory and say with as much earnestness as I can manage, “I’ll be the most perfect tutor you can imagine.”

  He regards me without blinking, the silence stretching into several long seconds, and just when I feel like my nerves might snap like an overextended rubber band, he stands up and says, “Follow me.”

  * * *

  He leads me out of the office and down a long hallway until we reach another closed door. This one must not have any biometric security, since he just knocks on the door and, without waiting for an answer, goes in.

  Inside, another floor-to-ceiling window provides more breathtaking views. However, there’s nothing sleek and modern about this room. Instead, it looks like the aftermath of a toy factory explosion. Colorful chaos is everywhere I look, with piles of toys, children’s books, and LEGO pieces scattered all over the floor, and a child-sized bed covered by a Superman-themed sheet in the corner. The Superman-themed pillows and blanket from the bed are piled high in another corner, and it’s not until my host says in a commanding tone, “Slava!” that I realize there’s a little boy building a LEGO castle next to that pile.

  At his father’s voice, the boy’s head jerks up, revealing a pair of huge amber-green eyes—the same mesmerizing eyes the man next to me possesses. In general, the boy is Nikolai in miniature, his black hair falling around his ears in a straight, glossy curtain and his child-round face already showing a hint of those striking cheekbones. Even the mouth is the same, lacking only the cynical, knowing curve of his father’s lips.

  “Slava, idi syuda,” Nikolai orders, and the boy gets up and cautiously approaches us. As he stops in front of us, I notice he’s wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with a picture of Spider-Man on the front.

  Looking down at his son, Nikolai starts speaking to him in rapid-fire Russian. I have no idea what he’s saying, but it must have something to do with me because the boy keeps glancing at me, his expression both curious and fearful.

  As soon as Nikolai is done speaking, I smile at the child and kneel on the floor, so we’re on the same eye level. “Hi, Slava,” I say gently. “I’m Chloe. It’s nice to meet you.”

  The boy looks at me blankly.

  “He doesn’t speak English,” Nikolai says, his voice hard. “Alina and I have tried to teach him, but he knows we speak Russian, and he refuses to learn it from us. So that would be your job: teaching him English, along with anything else a child his age should know.”

  “I see.” I keep my gaze on the boy, smiling at him warmly even as more alarms go off in my mind. There’s something odd in the way Nikolai talks to and about the child. It’s as if his son is a stranger to him. And if Alina—who I assume is his wife and the mother of the child—knows English as well as my host, why doesn’t Slava speak at least a few words? Why would he refuse to learn the language from his parents?

  In general, why doesn’t Nikolai pick up the boy and hug him? Or playfully ruffle his hair?

  Where’s the warm ease with which parents usually communicate with their children?

  “Slava,” I say to the boy softly, “I’m Chloe.” I point at myself. “Chloe.”

  He regards me with his father’s unblinking stare for several long moments. Then his mouth moves, shaping the syllables. “Klo-ee.”

  I beam at him. “That’s right. Chloe.” I tap my chest. “And you’re Slava.” I point at him. “Miroslav, right?”

  He nods solemnly. “Slava.”

  “Do you like comic books, Slava?” I gently touch the picture on his T-shirt. “This is Spider-Man, isn’t it?”

  His eyes brighten. “Da, Spider-Man.” He pronounces it with a Russian accent. “Ti znayesh o nyom?”

  I glance up at Nikolai, only to find him watching me with a dark, indecipherable expression. A tingle of unwelcome awareness zips down my spine, my breath hitching at a sudden feeling of vulnerability. On my knees is not where I want to be with this man.

  It feels a lot like baring my throat to a beautiful, wild wolf.

  “My son is asking if you know about Spider-Man,” he says after a tension-filled moment. “I assume the answer is yes.”

  With effort, I tear my gaze away from him and focus on the boy. “Yes, I know about Spider-Man,” I say, smiling. “I loved Spider-Man when I was your age. Also Superman and Batman and Wonder Woman and Aquaman.”

  The child’s face brightens more with every superhero I name, and when I get to Aquaman, a mischievous grin appears on his face. “Aquaman?” He wrinkles his small nose. “Nyet, nye Aquaman.”

  “No Aquaman?” I widen my eyes exaggeratedly. “Why not? What’s wrong with Aquaman?”

  That draws a giggle. “Nye Aquaman.”

  “Okay, you win. Not Aquaman.” I let out a sad sigh. “Poor Aquaman. So few kids like him.”

  The boy giggles again and runs over to a pile of comic books next to the bed. Grabbing one, he brings it back and points at the picture on the front. “Superman samiy sil’niy,” he declares.

  “Superman is the best?” I guess. “Your favorite?”

  “He said he’s the strongest,” Nikolai says evenly, then switches over to Russian, his voice taking on the same commanding tone.

  The boy’s face falls, and he lowers the book, his posture dejected.

  “Let’s go back to my office,” Nikolai says to me, and without another word to his son, he heads for the door.

  5

  Nikolai

  As I step out of the room, I can hear her saying goodbye to my son, her voice sweet and bright, and the painful thudding in my chest intensifies, anger mixing with the strongest lust I’ve ever felt.

  Six months.

  Six months, and I haven’t gotten so much as a smile out of the boy. Alina has, though, and now so has this girl, this total stranger.

  Slava laughed with her.

  He showed her his favorite book.

  He let her touch his shirt.

  And the entire time I watched her with my son, all I could think about was how she’d look spread out naked underneath me, her sun-streaked hair freed from the tight bun confining it and her big brown eyes trained on me as I bury myself in her silky flesh, over
and over again.

  If I needed further proof that I’m unfit to be a father, here it is, in spades.

  “Sit, please,” I tell Chloe when we’re back in my office. Despite my best efforts, my voice is tight, the roiling cauldron of emotions inside me too powerful to be contained. I want to grab the girl and fuck her on the spot, and at the same time, I want to shake her and demand she tell me how she worked her magic on Slava so quickly… why my son responded to her within minutes while I’ve been unable to get more than a few words out of him for months.

  She sits down in the same chair as before, perching on the edge of the seat as delicately as a butterfly on a flower. Her eyes are locked inquisitively on my face, her expression perfectly composed, and if not for her small hands knotting together on the table, I would’ve thought she’s as cool as she appears. But she’s nervous, this pretty mystery of a girl, nervous and more than a little desperate.

  I don’t know why that is, but I’m going to find out.

  “What did you think of my son?” I ask, my tone smoothing out as I lean back in my chair. Now that we’re away from Slava, the strange tightness I often get in my ribcage around him is easing, the irrational anger and jealousy fading until it’s only a faint pulse at the back of my mind.

  So what if the boy likes this stranger better?

  That means she might actually be able to do the job I’m about to hire her for.

  I don’t know when exactly I reached this decision, at what point I decided my fascination with Chloe Emmons justifies the danger she might pose to my family. Maybe it was when she was glibly lying about why she stopped using social media, or as she was fearlessly holding my gaze after vowing to devote herself to the job. Or maybe it was when I came out of the house and those soft brown eyes landed on me for the first time, making every hair on my body stand on end with scorching awareness.

  Attraction is too weak a word to describe the pull I feel toward her. My hands are literally twitching with the urge to touch her, to trail my fingers over her finely molded jaw and see if her bronzed skin is as baby soft as it appears. In pictures, she was bright and pretty, her radiance shining off the page. In person, she’s all that and more, her smile full of unselfconscious warmth, her unflinching gaze speaking of both vulnerability and strength.

  And underneath it all is desperation. I can see it, feel it… smell it. Fear, hopelessness—it has a scent, like blood. And like blood, it calls to the darkest parts of me, to the beast that I’ve been keeping carefully leashed. Worse yet, this inconvenient attraction isn’t one-sided.

  Chloe Emmons is drawn to me.

  Masked by her bright, friendly smile is a purely feminine interest, a response as primal as my reaction to her. When I shook her hand, I felt a tremor run over her skin, saw her lips part on a shallow exhale as her delicate fingers twitched in my grip.

  No, the girl is not indifferent to me at all, and that makes her fair game.

  “I thought Slava was very bright,” she answers, and my gaze falls to the tempting shape of her mouth. Her upper lip is a bit fuller than the lower, giving the impression of a slight overbite when she’s not smiling. “I’m not sure why he refuses to learn English from you, but I’m confident I’ll be able to teach him,” she continues as I ponder if that small imperfection makes her features more or less appealing. More, I decide as she explains the teaching methods she intends to use. Definitely more, because all I can think about is how much I want to taste the plush softness of those lips and feel them on my body.

  With effort, I refocus on her words.

  “—and so we’ll start with the—”

  “What’s your take on corporal discipline for children?” I interrupt, leaning forward. I’ve heard enough to know that she’s capable of doing the job. There’s only one other thing I need to know now. “Do you believe in spanking and such?”

  She gives me an appalled look. “Of course not! That’s the last thing—No, I would never condone that.” Her eyes narrow fiercely as she leans in, slender hands balling into fists on the table. “Do you?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  She visibly relaxes, and I conceal a satisfied smile. For a second there, she looked like she was going to punch me with those tiny fists. And that reaction wasn’t faked; every muscle in her body tensed at once, as if she’d been about to launch herself into battle. The mere possibility of my son getting spanked made her forget whatever is behind her desperation and ready to rip into me like a mama bear.

  That’s not the reaction of a woman who’d ever hurt a child. Whatever danger Chloe Emmons poses, it’s not one of violent tendencies—at least none that would be directed at Slava.

  The jury is still out about the true cause of her mother’s death.

  It’s probably yet another sign that I’m unfit to be a parent, but a part of me is looking forward to the trouble she might bring. It’s quiet here, in this remote corner of Idaho—beautiful and way too fucking quiet. The life I left behind is nothing like the one I’ve been leading for the past six months, and I can’t deny that I miss the adrenaline rush of being at the helm of one of the most powerful families in Russia.

  This girl with her intriguing lies and porn-doll mouth won’t replace that for me, but one way or another, she’ll provide some entertainment.

  Leaning back, I lace my fingers over my ribcage and smile at her. “So, Chloe… when can you begin?”

  6

  Chloe

  I almost jump up and shout, “Now! This minute. This second.” Only that would betray my desperation and ruin the whole thing, so I stay in my seat and say with some semblance of composure, “Whatever works best for you. I’m available right away.”

  Nikolai’s eyes glint dark gold. “Excellent. I’d like you to start today. I assume you’re okay with the salary stated in the ad?”

  “Yes, thank you. It’s adequate.” By which I mean it’s more money than I could’ve hoped to earn anywhere else, but all the interview books tell you not to appear too eager and to negotiate. I don’t have the balls to do the latter, but I can attempt the former. Striving for a casual tone, I ask, “How often will I be paid?”

  “Weekly. We’ll count today as your first day, so you’ll get the first paycheck next Tuesday. Does that work?”

  I nod, too excited to speak. One week—or rather, six and a half days—from now, I’ll have money. Actual, real, substantial money, the kind that would provide me with food and gas for months if I have to run again.

  “Excellent.” He rises to his feet. “Come, I’ll show you to your room.”

  I follow him, doing my best not to notice the way his designer jeans hug his muscled thighs and how his well-fitted shirt stretches over his powerful shoulders. The last thing I need is to lust after my employer, a man who’s most likely married to a woman I have yet to meet. Which, come to think of it, is strange.

  Why wasn’t Slava’s mother involved in this hiring decision?

  Catching up to Nikolai, I clear my throat to get his attention. “Will I get to meet Alina soon?” I ask when his gaze lands on me. “Or is she away?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “She’s—”

  “Right here.” A stunning young woman steps out of the room we were about to enter. Tall and slim, she’s wearing a red dress that could’ve come straight from a runway in Paris. On her feet is an elegant pair of nude-colored heels, and her long, straight, jet-black hair frames a strikingly beautiful face. Her full lips are painted red to match her dress, and a skillful application of black eyeliner emphasizes the cat-like tilt of her jade-green eyes.

  Extending a perfectly groomed hand toward me, she says smoothly, “Alina Molotova. I take it the interview went well?” Like her husband, she speaks flawless American English, with only her pronunciation of her name betraying her foreign origins.

  Recovering from the shock of her appearance, I shake her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Molotova.” I say her name the way she did, with an “a” at the end; I remember
from my Russian Lit course that Russian surnames are gendered. “I’m—”

  “Chloe Emmons, I know. And please, call me Alina.” She smiles, revealing a tiny gap between her front teeth—an imperfection that only enhances her striking beauty.

  “Thank you, Alina.” I smile back, even as an unpleasant ache tightens my chest.

  Nikolai’s wife is beyond gorgeous, and for some reason, I hate that fact.

  Strangely, Nikolai doesn’t look pleased with her either. “What are you doing here?” His tone is hard, his dark eyebrows knitting together in a frown.

  Alina’s smile turns catlike. “I was preparing Chloe’s room, of course. What else?”

  His response in Russian is swift and sharp, but she just laughs—a pretty, bell-like sound—and says to me, “Welcome to the household, Chloe.”

  With that, she walks away, her stride as graceful as a model’s on a catwalk.

  Exhaling a breath, I turn back to Nikolai, only to see him entering the room. I follow him in and find myself in a spacious, ultra-modern bedroom with a floor-to-ceiling window showcasing more breathtaking views.

  “Wow.” I walk over to the window and stare out at the snow-capped peaks of distant mountains veiled by a blueish haze. “This is… just wow.”

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he says, and my pulse jumps as I realize he’s come up to stand next to me, his gaze on the magnificent vista outside. In profile, he’s even more stunning, his features as hard and perfect as if they’d been carved from the cliff we’re perched on, his powerful body as much a force of nature as the unforgiving wilderness around us.

  Dangerous.

  The word whispers across my mind, and this time, I can’t convince myself it’s simply paranoia. He’s dangerous, this mysterious employer of mine. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but I can feel it. A month ago, the blinders I’d worn my whole life—the ones all normal people wear—were violently ripped away, and I can’t unsee the darkness in the world, can’t pretend it isn’t there. And I see the darkness in Nikolai.