Page 19 of Stalk Me

But we’re in a public place, and it’s too soon to push. Control is everything in this game. I break the kiss slowly, dragging my lips along her jawline to her ear. “I’d like to see you again… outside of events like this.” My thumb strokes her pulse point. “Soon.”

She searches my face, those eyes hooded with desire, and I know she’s considering it. I’ve seen that look on many women before her, but this time, it affects me. This time, my control is fraying at the edges, and I can’t—won’t—let her go.

“Okay,” she breathes out, a surrender that undoes me.

“Good.” I press a final, hard kiss to her mouth. “But tonight, I think we’ve teased each other enough, don’t you?”

She shivers, clearly imagining the possibilities. “I... yes.”

With one last caress of her jaw, I step back, giving her space to breathe. Her chest rises and falls with quick breaths as she gathers herself. That vulnerability gets under my skin—another crack in the facade of total control.

I offer her my arm, and after a slight hesitation, she takes it. We walk back into the ballroom together, her steps a little unsteady as she leans on me. It’s a small lean, but it sends a message to everyone watching. Sofia Henley is the property of Nikolai Ivanov.

8

NIKOLAI

It’s a quiet afternoon as I stride into Sofia’s gallery, intent on surprising her with an impromptu visit. It’s been six days since I made her come at the dinner table during the Fairmont Copley Plaza gala. The front desk attendant scrambles to announce me, but I wave her off and make my way to the office in the back.

The door stands ajar. Sofia hunches over her desk, spreadsheets scattered across the polished surface. Her shoulders tremble. Even from here, I catch the shine of unshed tears in her eyes.

My jaw tightens. Someone has caused this distress.

“Sofia.”

She jerks upright, hastily wiping at her eyes. “Nikolai! I didn’t... the gallery’s closed for lunch.”

“Clearly.” I step inside, scanning the financial documents spread before her. Red numbers jump out at me as significant losses despite strong sales figures. “Your books don’t add up.”

“It’s nothing. Just a temporary cash flow issue.” She tries to gather the papers, but I catch her wrist.

“Don’t lie to me.” My hand spans her throat. “Protection payments?”

Her gasp confirms what I suspected—local gangs targeting successful businesses—how predictably tedious.

“I can handle it.”

“Can you? Because these numbers suggest otherwise.” I release her wrist to pick up a spreadsheet, studying the systematic drainage of funds. “Let me help.”

“I don’t need?—”

“This isn’t a request, Sofia.” I lay the paper down and meet her gaze. “You have two choices. Accept my help willingly or watch me solve this problem anyway. Either way, these payments stop.”

A telling flush paints her skin. The cause is irrelevant—her body betrays far more interesting truths in how her hand quivers as she reaches for her Bordeaux, each movement cataloging her fear.

“Why would you help me?”

“Because I want to.” I step closer into her personal space. “And because I protect what’s mine.”

“I don’t belong to anyone.” Sofia’s chin lifts, eyes flashing with defiance. “And I won’t be another acquisition in your collection.”

A smile tugs at my lips. Such fire beneath that polished exterior. My fingers itch to touch her, to see if her skin burns as hot as her spirit.

“Is that what you think this is?” I lean closer, drinking in the subtle catch in her breath. “That I see you as just another pretty object to display?”

“Isn’t that what rich men like you do? Collect beautiful things?”

Her words carry a bite, but I detect a slight tremor in her voice. She’s affecting confidence she doesn’t quite feel. Fascinating.

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