Page 174 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

ALEKS

I wake up feeling like something is off.

My mattress feels different. The light is all wrong. I normally sleep in pitch darkness, but there’s sunlight streaming in.

That’s when I sit up and realize that I’m not in my room at all.

“Blyat’.”

When was the last time I spent the night after fucking? I try to remember, but it’s getting harder and harder to remember any night with a woman at all.

As if none of them existed before her.

Olivia sighs in her sleep. I turn to look at her.

It’s nice seeing her like this. When her eyes are open, her guard is up. She’s trying to control everything around her. Always checking over her shoulder for monsters in the shadows.

But in sleep, there’s an abandonment that’s endearing. A vulnerability.

Her eyelashes flutter and her hair is strewn all around her pillow, curtaining her face. I barely restrain myself from reaching over to sweep it from her eyes.

I can’t stop looking at her, though. Even though I know I ought to.

I am not this kind of man, the one who sits awake and stares at the woman in the bed next to him and writes sonnets about the shape of her fucking nostrils or whatever.

My cock is rising slowly, but I halt that desire in its tracks. It’s one thing to fall asleep with a woman; it’s another thing to wake up with her.

Some lines cannot be crossed.

So I slip out of bed, making sure not to jostle the mattress too much. She tosses and moans slightly, but it’s clear she’s not going to wake up anytime soon.

The sheet slips down a little and I catch the curve of her breast and a tiny peek of her nipple. She looks delicious. It’s all I can do not to wake her up by sticking my cock between those luscious pink lips.

“Blyat’,” I curse again.

I grab my shit off the floor, including my phone. I’ve got two missed calls from Demyan and a bunch of text messages.

Hey bro, where are you? We need to talk.

Aleks? Seriously… where are you?

If you don’t call me back in five fucking minutes I can’t be held responsible for my actions.

I check the time on the last message—twenty-five minutes ago. “Fuck me,” I growl under my breath as I step into the bathroom quickly and push the door shut.

I dial Demyan’s number. He answers immediately.

“Yo,” he says, his tone devoid of any real concern.

“What’s happening?”

“Huh? Oh, nothing. Just got worried when I didn’t hear from you this morning. You’re usually up at the crack of dawn.”

“What time is it?”

“Let’s see… 9:40.”

Fucking hell. I can’t remember the last time I slept so late. Or so soundly.

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