Page 78 of Sinful Games

The name felt foreign on my lips, even though it was mine now. It came out effortlessly, but my heart shattered all the same.

I spent the night stuck in the guest room.

After a very long shower, I crawled into bed, hoping sleep would offer some escape. And, I hate to admit it, but I slept like a baby.

This morning, as I opened my eyes to the unfamiliar room, a wave of unease hit me. For a moment, I wondered if I’d been kidnapped, but the truth wasn’t much better. What had once been a beautiful space now felt like a polished cage.

Last night, I found a black silk pyjama set in one of the bags. The cool fabric felt luxurious, the long sleeves offering some illusion of protection.

I couldn’t help but admit, Ilovedthe Prada.

Wrapped in that silky cocoon, I grappled with the reality of being stuck here.

What were my options? I needed to figure things out,fast.

The distant sound of utensils snapped me out of my thoughts. I splashed cold water on my face, brushed my teeth with the new toothbrush I’d found, and pulled on a black wool dress from one of the bags. It felt soft, cozy against the chill. Found some sheer tights too.

As I headed to the kitchen, soft piano music and the smell of pancakes drifted through the air, making my stomach rumble.

Then I saw him—shirtless at the stove. His muscles tensed and shifted with each movement, the play of light across his back highlighting every defined ridge. The way he moved, all smooth and confident, made me almost gasp.

I couldn’t look away. My gaze followed the curves of his back and the low-slung pants that hung just right, giving me teasing glimpses of his white boxers. He was a walking, talking temptation, making something as simple as cooking feel like a private show.

He must’ve felt my stare because he turned around slowly,a smirk tugging at his lips as he set a plate on the counter. His blue eyes locked onto mine.

Gosh, why couldn't he look like Shrek, or better yet, Lord Farquaad?

It would've made thingsso mucheasier for me.

"Slept well?" Alexsei's deep voice cut through the air, and I nodded in response, still trying to shake off the grogginess of sleep.

Determined to appear composed, I made my way to the sink, pouring myself a cup of water. As I took a sip, the cool liquid did little to calm the nerves that danced beneath my skin. Turning around, I leaned against the sink, my back to the cool surface, watching Alexsei as he skillfully seasoned the food.

He gestured toward the chair in front of him, silently inviting me to join him, and, well, hunger won over any reservations I had.

"So, do you always cook breakfast for ... women?" I tried to sound casual, but my throat felt tight, and I couldn't shake off this weird mix of feeling out of place and vulnerable.

"Only for the one who bears my name. Consider it a special treatment,wife."

Heat bloomed across my cheeks and neck. To hide it, I dove into my plate, practically inhaling the food he’d made. I was so hungry, I couldn't help but hum when the pancake hit my mouth.

As we ate, there was this weird dance between us—stolen glances and silent exchanges. The room was filled with an almost tangible tension, only broken by the clink of utensils and the soft piano music in the background. It felt like I was stuck in a strange dream where everything was just an illusion.

As I devoured my food, I could practically feel Romaniev’s eyes boring into my face. I tried to act like it was no big dealand keep eating, but his intense stare was impossible to ignore.

“Like what you see?” I finally looked up, tossing his own words back at him.

He leaned back, his intense blue eyes locked on me. “I do.”

I let out a sigh. “When can I go back to my place?”

One, two, three seconds.

Gosh, his silence was maddening.

His gaze traveled from my eyes to my lips and back again. I could practically feel him enjoying every second of this, relishing the way he was stressing me out. I was his own personal circus, performing on command, ready to entertain him whenever he felt like it.

He stayed silent, sipping his orange juice as if it were the most captivating thing in the world. His arm rested casually on the armrest, his legs spread slightly.

---