One of the French doors to his office was opened, and I held my breath as I leaned around the corner to peek inside. My long hair fell over my shoulder, and I quickly gathered it up and kept it pinned to my nape with a hand, not risking him seeing the movement and knowing I was here.
My breath caught as I saw the Russian. He was huge, with massively broad shoulders and biceps that seemed as thick as my torso, and the dark suit he wore didn’t hide the raw power he held. His hair was short and black, but with his back to me, I couldn’t see what he looked like.
I could see he held a square crystal glass in his hand, his fingers so masculine. Long and thick, and tattooed. His glass held a couple fingers of dark liquid and ice inside. I watched as some condensation held onto the glass before slowly trailing down.
But I didn’t see him actually drinking the liquor, and instead he set the glass on my father’s desk.
Without using a coaster.
I bit my lip and felt another thrill move through me. My father was so anal that even water rings on his Italian imported desk threw him into a fit. And I knew from experience. I swore I still felt the sting of his palm cracking against my cheek when I’d set my glass of orange juice on his desk and he’d found out.
I would have thought the Russian wasn’t aware of what he did, because honestly it was so minor an infraction, but when he ran a thick, tattooed finger over the rim, then lifted the glass an inch above the wood and let those droplets of water fall onto the desk, I smiled.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
This strange sensation moved through me, one I wasn’t sure I could even place a name to.
And then he turned around, and I knew what I felt.
Desire. Attraction.
Dmitry wasn’t what I’d call handsome, not classically, the kind of handsome that would have his face splashed across a magazine. He was too brutal looking, and this savage air surrounded him. He was also far too big and muscular, looking like a tank dressed in expensive material because he wanted to appear like he wasn’t a beast.
He was painfully handsome to me, though, with striking blue eyes that seemed to clash with his dark features. Dmitry might wear a suit, but I could see more tattoos creeping from under his crisp button-up shirt. I also spied dark ink snaking from the backs of his hands and disappearing under his cuffs.
I knew—just knew—his entire body was covered in dark shapes and lines.
I could hear the low buzzing coming from the pocket of his jacket and held my breath as he pulled out his cell phone. He turned partially toward me, his profile now clear.
His brows were furrowed as he stared down at what was clearly a text. And when he faced me fully, I could see that he couldn’t be more than in his late twenties, maybe only thirty years old. But despite his younger age, there was this hard-core experience that surrounded him. Yes… this man knew about death and violence. He surrounded himself with it. He no doubt relished it.
He slipped his phone back into his pocket and picked up his glass, moving over toward my father’s bookshelf, where he kept his collection of Fabergé eggs.
The Russian snorted in an almost irritated way as he reached out and touched one, lightly shifting it so it wasn’t in the same position. I covered my mouth with my hand to suppress my laughter. Oh yes. He knew exactly what he was doing by messing with my father’s things. Because the slight deviations in Marco’s perfect little life wouldn’t go unnoticed.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
My father’s angry voice was like a whip against my skin, and I snapped my head in his direction.
“You stupid fucking girl. Now you’re sneaking around in the middle of the night, eavesdropping?”
I’d been so focused on staring at Dmitry that I hadn’t even realized my father had entered his office, or that he’d spotted me. I couldn’t move, fear keeping me frozen in place as my father stormed toward me until he stood right in front of me.
I opened my mouth, not sure what I was going to say, but his palm rose, successfully having me snap my mouth closed.
Everything seemed like it was moving in slow motion, time crawling at a snail's pace. I felt my eyes widen, my heart dropping to the pit of my stomach.
I’d been hit plenty of times by my father. I knew how much it hurt, how the sting wasn’t just superficial, that it burrowed itself deep down inside of me, taking away another layer of hope I had that one day my father would look at me and tell me he loved me.