Page 45 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

The thought makes me uneasy; it’s dangerous territory. I mean, he’s going to be Pakhan soon, his life is a world away from what I had wanted to be. Our teasing, our flirty exchanges are all well and good, but falling for him? It’s a risk I’m not sure I’m ready to take.

I pour myself a cup of coffee, its steam rising in gentle swirls. As I sip, I think about something that has been laying on my mind lately: Mikhail’s touch doesn’t make my skin recoil like it used to.

It’s strange, considering what happened to me. Even Damien’s touch took a while to get used to. Can it be my body’s way of telling me that Mikhail is different? With him, could I be safe?

I almost laugh bitterly at the thought. Trusting him feels like dancing on the edge of a knife, each step a risk of cutting deep. But the strange thing is, despite every alarm bell in my head, despite every warning of the dangers that come with a man like him, something in my core nudges me towards trust.

I’ve always been wary, careful of who I trust, especially after that night. My past has made me build walls, ones I thought were impenetrable. And yet, Mikhail, in all his intimidating glory, seems to find cracks in my defenses without even trying.

It’s unnerving. The rational part of me screams that trusting the soon-to-be leader of the Bratva is the height of foolishness. Yet, when I look past the title, past the power and potential danger, I see a man who’s been nothing but respectful.

He’s never overstepped, never laid a finger on me without my clear consent. There’s been no cruelty, no power play, no ulterior motives in his actions towards me. Even if he could do all those things, he never did.

For heaven’s sake, he held me last night, comforted me when I was at my most vulnerable. What kind of mafia leader does that? Isn’t their world filled with blood, betrayal, and brute force?

But with him, I’ve only seen layers of depth, glimpses of a man who, beneath that hard exterior, seems to possess a genuine heart.

And yet, that’s what I got—a mafia leader who cradled me through my pain. It’s all so bloody confusing. I don’t want to trust him, but there’s this growing, nagging sensation that tells me I might be able to.

Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe it’s my heart, desperate for a sense of security, playing tricks on me. But the evidence is there, isn’t it? Every gesture, every softened gaze—it’s almost as if he’s asking me to trust him.

And, terrifyingly, a part of me wonders if I already do.

I feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing up and when I turn around, there stands Mikhail, a stark contrast to the man I usually see.

He’s in a white t-shirt that hugs his well-defined chest, gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, and his hair—usually tied back in some fashion—now hangs loose over his shoulders. It’s a casual, relaxed look that I’ve never seen on him, and it’s disarmingly... human.

He looks comfortable, relaxed. Different. Yummy.

The change in attire brings out another facet of him that I haven’t seen before. Without the armor of his usual suit, he appears more approachable. I’m caught off guard by how disarmingly handsome he looks in this state of undress.

He strolls in, his gaze immediately finding mine. “Morning, Gabriette.” His voice is soft, laced with a hint of morning gravel. “How did you sleep?”

I’m taken aback by the gentleness in his tone, his genuine concern. Pausing for a moment, I search for the right words.

“Better than I thought I would,” I admit, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Thanks to you.”

He stops in his tracks for a brief second, eyebrows raised slightly. A subtle smile tugs at the corner of his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He nods and heads to the coffee machine.

As he pours himself a cup, the silence between us thickens, and for a moment, I’m lost for words.

“That’s good to hear,” he murmurs finally, his gaze fixating on the dark liquid swirling in his mug.

“You... look different.” I blurt out before I can help myself, nodding towards his clothing. The playful tone hides my genuine interest, but his sharp gaze catches it.

A corner of his mouth quirks up into a small smile. “Not used to seeing me out of a suit, are you?”

“No,” I laugh lightly, “It’s a nice change. Are you not working today?”

He smirks, leaning against the kitchen counter. Working from home today.”

There’s an undertone to his words, and I raise an eyebrow, sensing there’s more he’s not saying. An invitation, perhaps? Or a warning? With Mikhail, it’s always hard to tell.

“Really? The soon-to-be Pakhan of the New York Bratva working from home?”

His smile grows a little more genuine, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Well, I thought it might be a good day to... relax. Take things slow,” he murmurs, the double meaning not lost on me.

A warmth flushes my cheeks, and I look away, focusing on the patterns in my coffee cup. The weight of last night’s vulnerability, of being held so securely by him, wraps around me. I’m grateful, but it’s also unnerving how quickly my barriers seem to crumble in his presence.

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