Page 53 of Shatter Me

I rush to gather my clothes from the scattered pile on his bedroom floor. The silk of my jumpsuit feels cool against my heated skin as I slip it on. My fingers fumble with the zipper until I feel Dmitri's hands brush mine away, zipping it up with characteristic efficiency.

"Let me get your wrap." He moves to the closet, all business now. The intimate breakfast moment has evaporated like morning mist.

I grab my clutch and phone, checking quickly for messages. Three from Sofia. Of course.

In the kitchen, I find the omelet already neatly wrapped in foil.

His phone buzzes again as we stand by his private elevator. The tension in his jaw tells me Nikolai's situation must be serious.

"I'll call you," he says, his hand resting briefly on my lower back.

I shrug, aiming for casual despite how my skin tingles under his touch. "If you want. I know you're busy."

His eyes narrow slightly at my tone, but another buzz from his phone draws his attention.

"The doorman will get you a taxi." He steps back, already pulling up messages on his phone.

"Thanks for breakfast." I hold up the foil package with what I hope is a breezy smile. "And... everything."

The elevator doors slide open silently. I step in, watching Dmitri's reflection in the polished steel as the doors close. His expression is unreadable.

Downstairs, the doorman has a taxi waiting. I slide into the back seat, clutching my wrapped breakfast and trying not to think about how much I want Dmitri to actually call.

"Where to, miss?" the driver asks.

I give him my address, then lean against the leather seat, watching the city blur past my window.

I stare out the taxi window, the foil-wrapped omelet growing cold in my lap. Last night feels like a dream now—how Dmitri's controlled facade cracked and the raw need in his eyes.

There was nothing hesitant about us then. There was no careful distance or measured words. Just a connection that made me forget everything else existed. I remembered how Dmitri had whispered my name against my skin and how his perfect composure shattered when I touched him just right.

Now, in the harsh morning light, we're back to our careful dance. He, the powerful Ivanov brother with his precisely ordered world, and I, the museum curator, who should know better than to get involved with a board member.

The taxi hits a pothole, and I wince, feeling the delicious ache from last night's activities. At least that's real. At least I have proof it wasn't all in my head—the marks on my hips, the burn on my inner thighs from his stubble, the tender spot on my neck where he marked me.

But that awkward goodbye in his kitchen... The way he withdrew the moment his phone buzzed, slipping back behind that perfect mask like nothing had happened between us. Like we hadn't spent hours learning every inch of each other's bodies. Like I hadn't fallen asleep in his arms, feeling safer than I had in years.

I press my forehead against the cool glass window, watching the city scroll past. The wrapped omelet sits in my lap like a reminder—he did try, in his way. He made me breakfast and insisted on the car—small gestures that hint at something more than just physical attraction.

21

DMITRI

Islam the car door harder than necessary, stalking into our downtown office building. The security guard flinches as I pass.

Fucking Lebedevs. One peaceful Saturday morning. That’s all I wanted.

The elevator opens to our executive floor where Nikolai paces by the floor-to-ceiling windows, phone pressed to his ear. His expression darkens when he sees me.

“Three of our warehouses hit simultaneously,” he says, ending his call. “Igor’s sending a message.”

I loosen my tie, the rage building. “Casualties?”

“Four injured, one critical. The sprinkler systems were sabotaged first. Millions in water damage.”

“Sloppy.” I check my watch. It’s barely ten a.m. “You said we’re taking Katarina today?”

Nikolai nods grimly. “She’s at her downtown penthouse. Light security on weekends. Igor’s been too focused on hitting us to properly protect his own.”

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