Page 88 of Dangerous Beginnings

I’m stirred from my sleep by the distant sound of a door gently closing, the noise faint but unmistakable in the quiet of the night. My heart quickens with the realization that Aslanov has returned. With a mixture of apprehension and relief, I quietly get up, my movements cautious to not make a sound.

Following the subtle noise, it leads me toward his room. I feel the coolness of the marble floors beneath my feet and the hush of the mansion enveloping me. The closer I get, the more I can hear the faint sound of water, perhaps a shower running, indicating his attempt to wash away what he’s done.

I peek through the door, it’s open a small gap. The room is hot and steamy. He’s taking a shower. The water on the bottom of the shower is mixed withblood. My heart pulses.The water runs down the steamed cabin, and I’m barely able to see anything else than some of his muscular back. However, something catches my eye, scars. Deep, red, and raised scars. Black ink covers most of them, but they are undeniably there. He’s been abused by his father. My heart sinks. Just as my heart sinks even deeper when the shower turns off and his arm reaches out for a towel.

His toned and tattooed arm comes into view as he opens the door of the cabin. He’s stepping outside the shower, with only a towel wrapped around his torso. He’s bare, his chest full of tattoos. His hair is still wet and dripping down his neck. Thescent of his cologne lingers in the bathroom and fills my veins. And then his eyes set on the door, on me.

Caught in the act, I hold my breath, feeling a flush rise to my cheeks. His gaze locks onto mine, piercing and intense, like he’s trying to decipher my thoughts with just a look. I can’t help but feel exposed under his scrutiny as if he can see right through me.

For a moment, neither of us move. Then, with a slight raise of his eyebrow, he breaks the tension, his lips quivering into a half-smile.

“I didn’t mean to barge in here,” I say while turning away, feeling too embarrassed.

“Yes, you did.” His voice comes out hoarse. “Isabella, close the door and sit on the counter.”

“What?” I whisper, my heart trashes wildly in my chest.

“Shut the door,” he repeats. “And put thattight asson the counter.” My cheeks flame. “We both know you like to watch.” I want to deny it, tell him he’s crazy. Tell him he’s crazy for what he has just done. The truth is I don’t, and I don’t think I want to. I take a couple of steps and lift mytight asson the counter. Climbing on top of it, struggling just a little as it’s quite high.

Aslanov’s body heat radiates off him. I’m trying to keep my eyes on his, not on his completely baresexychest. “Good girl.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re immortal,” I state while staring at him. He’s endured so much pain and inflicted even more, yet he looks almost untouched. Besides some scars.

With a mix of nerves and anticipation coursing through me, I try to maintain composure as I perch on the counter, meeting Aslanov’s gaze head-on. His eyes, dark and intense, seem to hold a myriad of secrets, drawing me in like a moth to a flame.

As he moves closer, the heat of his body envelops me, sending shivers down my spine. I swallow hard, feeling the weight of his presence pressing in on me, both intimidating and exhilarating. He grabs my hand and places it on his chest, hisheart. It beatsrapidly.

My hand falls in my lap as he lets go and gets a comb and brushes his hair through. After he’s done, he turns back to me, and gestures for me to turn around. I do. I meet his gaze again in the mirror as he’s standing behind me.

He takes the brush and starts to comb my hair, tangled everywhere. Though his demeanor remains undeniably dominant, there is a tenderness in his touch that speaks volumes, a silent reassurance that I’m safe in his care. As he brushes my hair with slow, deliberate strokes, I can’t help but lean into his touch, a sense of contentment washing over me like a gentle tide. Once it is free of knots, he places the comb down and splits my hair into three sections. He’s braiding my hair.

“You know how to braid?” I mutter while my eyes never leave him through the mirror.

“Yes,” he replies, securing it with a hair tie, the very red one he has been wearing for days. I turn around and stop him, giving him my other hair tie. He looks amused as he slips the red one back on his wrist and takes mine.

“I used to do my sister’s hair.” His eyes are a sea of emotions as those words leave his lips. After he finishes securing it, I turn around and wrap my arms around his damp chest. It’s a tight embrace and after a couple of seconds, his arms embrace me back. His arms around me are tentative as if he’s unsure of whether he deserves this closeness. I rest my head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my cheek.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my words barely more than a breath against his skin. He stiffens slightly at my words, a flicker of emotion crossing his features before he masks it with a stoic expression.

“Don’t worry, I made him suffer.” His expression is dark and emotionless. Everything stills and so does his heartbeat. Itcalms, it beats steady. A weird heat fills me.

But I can see through the facade, see the vulnerability lurking beneath the surface of his hardened exterior. It’s clear that he’s not accustomed to this kind of intimacy, to being cared for in such a simple yet profound way.

And at that moment I wonder who prayed for him? Who has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner who needed it the most? The little boy who got damaged so badly has become this man. Forced into the most dangerous lifestyle there is. The most dangerous man in Russia, and perhaps the world, is living with a lack of love. He needed someone and no one came. I needed someone and no one came. We both needed someone.

Chapter 49

Little Demon

Isabella

It’s been two days, two days after Aslanov removed my stepfather from this earth. He’s been busy, gone most of the days and last night he came home at 3 a.m.

I can’t deny the fact that I’ve missed his voice and having dinner with him. I haven’t been able to sleep—somehow the absence of his presence keeps me awake. As the night goes on, I toss and turn, and soon the clock reads 5 a.m.

There is heavy rain ticking on the window next to the bed. The curtains are slightly open, revealing the pitch-black darkness outside. Moscow has been rainy and cold so far. My skin has become even more pale than usual—and as a ginger, that’s an accomplishment.

The heavy rain now turns into thunder, lightning striking a tree further away in the forest. I sit up straight. I hate thunderstorms. I know the chances of them hitting a house aren’t big, yet I don’t trust it. The sky lights up once more before another thunder strike is heard. I pull the blankets up to my chin. Debating what to do. Should I go over tohim?

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