Page 62 of Unveiled

I blink back hot tears, my voice a shaky whisper. “Yeah. I like this.” I smile. “You’re doing great. Just like you did the other night.”

He strokes his hand down the length of my back, leaving atrail of goosebumps. “I like that too.” He sounds almost surprised.

The moment feels fragile, like a dream I’m afraid to wake from. I blink back the tears and sit up.

We have work to do.

“Let’s do this.”

“Yeah,” he says in a husky whisper. “Let’s go. But we can come back to this whenever you want.”

I can’t help it. I lean in and kiss his prickly, stubbled cheek before I sit back in my seat and let him come and open my door for me.

Then I remember we’re going to my home and how I hate that he’s here with me.

When Semyon looks around my apartment, I feel something tighten in my stomach. It's not the first time he's been here, but I wonder if he's forgotten?—

"You did a beautiful job here, Anya. I remember what it was like growing up, and I can see that you put your touch everywhere."

I could be hormonal, but I think that might be one of the nicest things anybody's ever said to me. There are very few people in this world who know your history—your siblings, your parents, a childhood friend. But Semyon… he's one of them. He knows. It's one of the reasons why I've never been able to trust him.

"Thank you," I say, turning my back to him so he doesn’t see the tears shining in my eyes. What is wrong with me? I’m an emotional basket case.

"I remember every detail of this place, and I can see how hard you’ve worked."

I don’t even know if Semyon has a clue what he's saying to me or how it's making me feel. He's so detached, so clinical.

I don’t think he sees things the way other people do, and hell, if that isn’t one of the things I love most about him.

“His phone is in my bedroom.”

Semyon frowns and shoves his hands in his pockets but doesn’t respond. He trails behind me, taking in every detail as if staking the place.

When I get to the room, I open my top drawer filled with what my mother would’ve called my "unmentionables." I pull it open and rifle through the soft satin and lace in shades of pink, white, and black… one of the few things that didnotbelong to my mother. These are allmine.

I like wearing sexy underwear and bras; they make me feel pretty, special—almost like I have a little secret no one else knows. Ophelia’s family owns a clothing business, and whenever they discounted items, she’d bring me in. I’d pick out something here and there, and her father would exchange them for loaves of bread and muffins instead.

"It’s right—" That’s when I see Semyon staring. I freeze mid-sentence and give him a curious look. "What?"

"I take it back," he says in a rough whisper.

"Take what back?"

"I told you not to bring your clothes back. That drawer… Fucking empty it. I want to see you in every one of those when we get home."

I stare at him, my hand embedded in the drawer of silk and satin undergarments.

Is he serious?

"All right…"

“Do you have the phone?” he asks, his voice tight. He looks around my childish bedroom, which hasn’t changed much since he knew me. I still have the rickety bookshelf with my favorite books, the faded pink duvet, and the secondhand furniture my mother painted white. A room frozen in time.

“It’s in here,” I say, wondering why he’s suddenly gone rigid, his look murderous. “What’s the matter?”

My pulse quickens with the intensity of his gaze.

“What’s the matter?” he growls. “If you don’t get me out of here, I’m going to—” He bites his words off and shakes his head. “I’ve wanted you for so goddamn long. I’ve held myself back, Anya, and I don’t know how much restraint I have left in me.”

---