Page 75 of The Lazarov Bratva

Kristof’s attention is on me in an instant. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, sir. The floor is warm. I just didn’t expect it.”

His lips twist slightly and a soft, dry laugh escapes him. “Your entire room down there was heated, but heated floors up here are a surprise?”

“Yes, Sir,” I shoot back. “After those cold stairs, a girl can be surprised. Besides, central heating and heated floors are two different things.”

He tugs sharply on the chain, a slight warning against my tone, but the smile doesn’t leave his lips. I like it when he smirks. The muscles of his throat pull and make his neck and jaw more defined.

“This is the lounge. I don’t spend much time here, but if there’s anything you think it needs, let me know and I will get it for you.”

As he points out the various things about the room, such as the wall cabinet filled with liquor and the floor-to-ceiling windows that lead out to an extravagant garden filled with trees stretching sky-high, I’m distracted by one thing.

“You’d let me decorate?”

“Of course,” Kristof replies, suggesting it should be obvious. “You are allowed to decorate your home.”

My home.

I take in the large maple table in the center flanked by ten high-back chairs, the large ceramic vases in each corner filled to the brim with bright, colorful flowers, and the iron chandelier above lit with synthetic candles. In all my years, I had never given much thought to how Kristof lived. He presents himself as the man doing the dirty work, a little grimy but a far cry from luxury.

Clearly, I’ve been wrong.

“The kitchen is through there.” Kristof points through a doorway, and I glimpse a few black countertops, then he tugs on the chain and guides me back out into the hall. Heated floors give way to a thick carpet that leads the way up a spiral staircase to the upper floor. Here, the peach paint on the walls and cream carpet give a much homier vibe. Hallways stretch in all directions, and Kristof points down the one to the right of the stairs.

“The library is down there. There’s a study, an art room, and a dancing studio. Should you decide to pole dance again.”

My cheeks warm immediately. “Why do you have a dance studio, Sir?”

“It came with the house,” Kristof replies as we take a left at the stairs. “Plus, Nastja can dance. Thought it would be handy for her to have that here.”

Ahh, his siblings. That makes sense.

Down the left, we pass two closed white doors, and Kristof opens the third, then indicates for me to pass him and head inside. I do just that, expecting him to follow, but as I step onto a thick, deep red carpet and glance over the massive dark oak four-poster bed draped in emerald silk sheets, he doesn’t follow me. He lingers outside, and the chain trails from his fingers as I step further inside.

The door to the closet and the dresser near the large window are both dark oak, as is the dressing table that sits opposite the door. I glimpse my reflection in the crystal clear display, and warmth flushes down my naked body, mirroring the pink blush I can see sweeping over my skin.

I wear his marks all over my body and look nothing like I’m familiar with. It’s like my shell has fallen away and this is who I am, naked and honest. Pride warms my heart. I turn back to Kristof, and he smiles tightly once more.

“This is your bedroom. This will be your space and only your space. I will not enter unless you invite me in.”

I can’t keep the surprise from my face. For a man who revels in control, why is he laying a boundary on the threshold?

“Why?” I ask, clasping my hands together across my abdomen. “I want you with me.”

“Believe me.” He barks out a laugh. “It was a challenging decision, but you need space for your thoughts. My bedroom is the next door down, and you are welcome there as often as I can have you, but if you need time here, then I will respect it.”

My lips part and I’m at a loss for words. For two weeks, maybe longer, he’s been in control of every aspect of my life, and now he stands there, telling me that he thinks I need some space for myself. Immediately, I’m alarmed.

Has he tired of me? Have I done something?

I must look worried because Kristof’s face immediately darkens and he tsks softly.

“Make no mistake,” he says. “Nothing has changed. You still belong to me. I just want you to have a piece of this house that is completely yours.”

Emotion crawls up my throat, mingling with the static fuzz of relief in my chest, and I nod. Turning my attention back to the room, the urge to throw myself into Kristof’s arms rises when I spot the stack of books on the nightstand. I press my fingertips to my mouth, and when I turn back to the door, Kristof is a foot away, pinning me in place with those silver eyes.

“This is your safe space. I say that with the understanding that this entire place is safe, but here, this is where you can decompress.”

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