Page 12 of His Order

“You really need to stop grabbing me like you own me.” She sears me with her glare. “You can just speak without being such an assh... so rude. Don’t be rude, Pavel.”

Rude. That is one way to put it.

“I will put this rather simply. We are on the same side here, little rabbit. You feel whatever twisted tether is between us. It connects us—binds us—like we are fated as one.”

I draw my face closer to hers, and then I turn her head to the side and bring my lips right by her ear. I take the chance, and I blow into her ear, and she shudders at the coolness of my breath.

“We both want him dead. You for your brother, and me for my own reason—which you don’t need to know. If you are compliant and help me figure out how to take him out, then I will ensure that you get the chance to be the one to put a bullet in his head.”

I draw my face back and look into her eyes. I can see her thinking—contemplating.

“And let’s say I help you. Then what happens after we succeed?”

I knew she would come around. “Then you get your revenge, and I get what I want. Simply.”

“And you leave me alone?” She tips her chin from me, her eyes blazing. “You never contact me or stalk me ever again.”

That is something that I know I cannot promise her. I have taken a liking to my new little rabbit. She is sweet, and she defies me in ways that no one else does. She is addictive—my own personal supply of heroin. I can’t just let her go.

But I don’t tell her that. So, I lie.

“You have my word. I will let you go.” I offer her my hand as a show of good faith. She hesitates for a moment, but then she places her hand in mine, and we shake on it.

“I will go take that shower now.” She glowers at me, sizing me up and down like she is deciding where to make her first cut. She steps to the side, hoping to get by, but she knows that I am not so easy to bypass. Her body nearly brushes mine, and I move with intention, blocking her path. My presence alone is a barricade, a wall of flesh and bone.

She stops short. Her frustration rises as if I am the one thing standing between her and the oxygen itself. Her mouth twitches, and I know she has more to say. But instead, she tries to maneuver around me again. I watch her, amused, as she attempts to slip past my frame.

I tip her chin up with my thumb. “By the way, I can see it in your eyes that you don’t hate me, zayka. I don’t hate you either.”

She opens her mouth and closes it. Fuming. Thinking.

I turn and walk away without another word, leaving her there in the hall, dripping, shaking—naked and exposed. Before I make my way into my study, I turn back to her, “I had some clothes delivered for you. They are in the back of the closet.”

And I close the door without waiting for her response. But I do catch the quiet hiss of a curse that slips past her lips. This entire plan is a shit show of a mess, and I am way over my head, but Dimitri crossed the line when he shot the bullet that killed Francesca. He started this war, and now I’m going to end it.

Chapter 8

Anya

The steam rises around me, hot and suffocating, but I need it hotter. I need it to burn.

Flashes of all the unholy things that man did to me only minutes ago flood my mind. The way his cock had filled me—the way my pussy swallowed his dick whole.

“Fuck!” I slam my hand on the wet tiles. The burn of the water is nothing compared to the searing agony that moves within my body. “Fuck you, asshole.”

‘You feel this twisted tether between us.’

I hated how he could tell what was going on in my head. I don’t want to admit it, but it’s true. I do feel that tether. That pull that somehow always manages to reel me in when it comes to him.

I look up to the faucet and allow the water to pour over me.

I need it to scour every trace of him from my body, from my mind. I push the temperature up, feeling the sting, but it's still not enough. His memory clings to me like a persistent shadow, refusing to dissolve.

The water rushes over me in angry torrents as if to mimic his relentless force. It streams down my face, mingling with tears I refuse to acknowledge. Every drop that pelts against my skin reminds me of his touch, of the way he invaded my defenses, of the way I betrayed myself by wanting it. It's as if each spray of water whispers his name, taunting me with the weakness I showed. I turn my face up into the punishing heat, hoping it will burn away the guilt, the shame, the desire—everything he sawand took in that moment. But it won't. It can't. It only sears the surface, leaving everything else intact. Still, I try.

I drag my nails over my arms, over my thighs, over every place he touched. I brace myself against the slick tile, fingers pressing hard, breath coming too fast. Too uneven.

“Why do I like it so much?” I mutter to myself. “I need to get a hold of myself. Or I need to admit to myself that I was the one to orchestrate this whole thing. I just wanted to play him, but he is playing me instead.”

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