CHAPTER 13

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Elara stood frozen for a moment, the silence of her apartment slowly settling around her. Then, with a long exhale, she let herself fall back against the couch, limbs boneless, heart still fluttering like a nervous bird in her chest. Her head tilted back against the cushions, her lips parted slightly as a quiet, disbelieving laugh escaped her.

She ran a hand over her face, heat rising to her cheeks as vivid memories of the night before came rushing back—his hands on her skin, his mouth whispering over her neck, the deep way he had kissed her like he was dying for her. It wasn't her first time, but it felt like the first time something inside her had awakened so completely. The way he moved in her... like he was crafted specifically to fit every corner of her desire.

"Damn," she mumbled under her breath, still flushed. Her fingers reached for her phone where it had been left charging on the side table. She unlocked it and opened her chat with Maya. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before she typed:

Elara: The just in case... might have actually happened.

The response came almost instantly.

Maya: WHAAAT?! I'm on my way. Cappuccinos and snacks incoming. I want DETAILS.

Elara let out a laugh that echoed in the quiet space. Trust Maya to respond with her usual dramatic flair. She tossed her phone gently onto the couch beside her and started to stand, her body still sore in the most intimate places. She winced slightly and walked it off, feeling the delicious ache between her legs like a secret.

As she moved to tidy the living room, something shiny caught her eye near the side of the couch. Curious, she crouched down and reached for it. Her fingers wrapped around something cold, metallic, and heavy—a watch. But not just any watch.

It gleamed even in the soft morning light filtering through the windows. Elara turned it over in her hands, taking in the sleek design, the weight, the craftsmanship. It was the kind of watch that screamed elegance and wealth, the kind of thing that probably cost more than someone's entire life savings.

"Of course," she muttered to herself with a half-smile. "You'd forget something like this."

She carefully placed it on the coffee table like it was a museum piece, afraid even the slightest scratch would offend its perfection. Her gaze flicked to the cold coffee cups on the same table, the ones they had abandoned last night in favor of heat and skin and breathless moans. Both cups were still half full. She sighed.

With a resigned grunt, she started picking up the mess from the night before. She grabbed the used condom from where it had ended up, wrapped in tissue, and dropped it into the trash can in the kitchen. Her cheeks flushed again, and she couldn't help the giggle that slipped out. That actually happened.

She made her way to the bathroom for a much-needed shower, her body humming with leftover heat. As the warm water cascaded over her skin, she let her fingers trail over the tender marks on her body—the hickeys on her collarbone, the faint red scratches on her thighs. Every inch of her tingled with remembrance.

Her mind drifted back to last night like it had a will of its own. The way he'd looked at her, like she was something sacred. The way he'd whispered her name like it was a prayer and a curse. The way he'd touched her like he already knew where she broke apart. It was maddening. She was turning into a love-struck idiot, and she didn't even care.

She lingered longer than necessary under the spray of water before finally stepping out. Wrapping a towel around herself, she padded into her bedroom, still lost in thought. She pulled on a pair of soft cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt that fell to her mid-thigh. It was comfort first today.

Back in the living room, she turned on the TV just for background noise and made her way into the kitchen. She poured herself a bowl of cereal and carried it back to the couch, the mundane contrast of the moment not lost on her. There she sat, eating cereal like she hadn't just spent the night tangled up with a man who had her questioning everything she thought she knew about desire.

Still, she smiled to herself, spoon halfway to her mouth.

Because somehow, despite the ache and the awkwardness and the rush of emotions she wasn't quite ready to name... it felt right.

The sharp knock on the door echoed just as Elara was finishing the last spoonful of cereal. She looked at the time, barely past ten. Only Maya would be this enthusiastic after a night of spicy gossip hints. She didn't even need to ask who it was.

Elara padded barefoot to the door and opened it.

Maya stood on the threshold grinning, her curls bouncing as she hoisted a drink carrier with two steaming cappuccinos and a tote bag bursting with four oversized bags of spicy potato chips. "Morning, my sultry temptress," she announced, brushing past Elara like she lived there.

Elara rolled her eyes, letting the door swing shut behind her. "You're dramatic."

"Damn right I am. Now sit." Maya plopped down onto the couch and patted the cushion beside her. "Spill it. I want every juicy detail. I brought fuel."

Elara sat, sighing deeply, her cheeks already turning pink.

Maya shoved a cappuccino into her hand. "Don't even try to play shy. You texted me 'the just in case might have happened.' That is not vague. That's code red. Emergency girl talk time. Talk."

Elara took a sip of the cappuccino, stalling. Maya gave her a pointed look. Finally, she started, voice low and hesitant at first.

"Okay, okay. So… we kissed. I mean really kissed. When he parked the car on that hilltop? The one with the city view? It was quiet and beautiful and I didn't expect it. But he kissed me like he'd been holding back forever, and it kind of… undid me. I didn't want to go back home."

Maya grinned and popped open a bag of chips. "Of course you didn't. He's got that tall, dark, broody hot thing going on. Proceed."

Elara smiled shyly. "So when he parked outside my apartment, I invited him in. I just... wasn't ready for the night to end. We didn't even touch the coffee. I was nervous, but also, not? It felt right. And then..."

Maya leaned in, chips forgotten. "And then what?"

Elara laughed into her hands. "I pulled out the condom. God, I still can't believe I did that."

Maya let out a delighted shriek. "Yes, queen! Initiating protection like a responsible goddess!"

Elara buried her face in her hands. "He was so shocked. He even said he thought I wasn't ready. But then I told him I was, and after that... he was all over me. Like... he just knew. Every touch. Every kiss. He knew exactly where and how. It wasn't like any other time before. It felt..."

Maya raised an eyebrow. "It felt what?"

Elara looked at her, eyes soft. "Like he saw me. Like he was making love to me, not just... you know."

Maya blinked, surprisingly silent.

Elara played with her coffee cup. "And yes, I had an orgasm."

"Girl!" Maya squealed. "You didn't just have sex. You ascended! You have officially crossed over into the land of toe-curling pleasure."

Elara chuckled, her face warm. "Stop."

Maya grinned wide, but then her eyes fell on the shiny object on the coffee table. She leaned over and picked it up, whistling. "Is this... is this what I think it is?"

Elara followed her gaze. "His watch. He must have taken it off last night and forgotten it."

Maya turned it over in her hands. "Girl, this is probably worth more than our rent for the next five years. Combined. Damn."

Elara laughed, reaching out to take it and placing it back gently.

They shared a giggle, and then Elara grew thoughtful. "He has tattoos."

"Really? I mean, I can totally see it. What kind?"

Elara hesitated. "Not the typical ones. Not just pretty ink. They feel... like they mean something. Like each one carries a story. One of them was a Medusa. It was tucked on the side of his ribcage, like... like he didn't want it easily seen."

Maya's chewing slowed. "You asked him about it?"

Elara nodded. "Yeah. I did. He looked away for a moment and said he'd tell me another time. Said it was a sad story, and he didn't want me to be sad."

Maya's face was unreadable for a moment. Then she sighed, setting the chips aside. "El, you know what a Medusa tattoo usually means, right?"

Elara frowned. "No... what?"

"Most people who get it are survivors. Victims. Rape survivors."

Elara felt her breath catch. "Oh God. Do you think...?"

Maya quickly added, "It doesn't always mean that. Some people get it because Medusa represents female rage, or vengeance, or protection. Sometimes people just think it looks cool. But... yeah. There are stories. People choose that symbol when they've seen darkness. When they want it to mean strength."

Elara looked toward the window, her heart suddenly heavy. "I hope I didn't overstep."

"You didn't. He answered. Sort of. And he said he'd tell you someday. Which means... he trusts you."

Elara nodded slowly. "Yeah. It felt like that."

Maya nudged her. "But hey. Maybe his story is different. Everyone's reason is personal. You'll find out when he's ready."

Elara smiled faintly. "I guess. It just made me want to hold him, you know?"

Maya sipped her coffee and nodded. "That's how you know it's more than lust. When you want to know the story behind their scars."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the hum of the city faint beyond the walls.

Then Maya sat up. "Okay, enough brooding. Details. Did he talk? Whisper naughty things? Growl? What are we working with here?"

Elara burst into laughter. "Maya!"

"Hey! You can't drop a bomb like 'he touched me like he knew every part of me' and expect me to move on!"

Elara covered her face with a pillow, muffling her giggles.

And so the morning wore on, filled with teasing and warmth, stories shared between sips of cappuccino and crunches of spicy chips. They talked until the coffee turned cold again, but the bond between them only deepened. Despite the nerves and uncertainty about what came next with him, Elara felt a strange and new kind of peace.

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Nikolai parked his sleek black Maserati in front of the sprawling Volkov mansion, the familiar crunch of gravel beneath the tires grounding him as his thoughts drifted back to the night before. He sat there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel loosely, exhaling a breath that felt heavier than he expected. The morning sunlight glinted off the polished chrome of the car, but inside his head, all he could think about was Elara.

After leaving her apartment, he'd driven straight to his penthouse. The sun was just beginning to rise as he showered, the hot water doing little to wash away the phantom touch of her skin or the sound of her soft moans echoing in his ears. He had changed into a white linen shirt, the top few buttons undone, paired with dark trousers and polished leather shoes—his mother's strict definition of "casual family lunch attire."

It was Sunday, after all, and Sundays meant the Volkov clan gathered under one roof—like a royal court without the crowns but with all the drama. His mother would already be waiting for him, undoubtedly curious about how his date on Friday went. What she didn't know was that Friday's date had turned into something far more intense and intimate than he had expected.

But he wasn't going to tell her that he had sex with Elara last night. God, no. The last thing he needed was his mother launching into a lecture about "rushing the poor girl" or "having no manners." And it wasn't even like that. Elara had invited him in. Elara had pulled out that condom. Elara had told him she wanted him.

Still, his mother didn't need to know those details. If only she did, maybe she'd finally understand that Elara wasn't someone who could be boxed into the stereotype of a fragile girl needing protection. No, she was bold, fearless, and honest. And that honesty had completely disarmed him.

He closed his eyes briefly, remembering the way she had clung to him, the sound of her voice whispering his name like it was a secret, sacred prayer. Damn, the way she had responded to him—it wasn't just sex. It was something else entirely.

He shut the car off and stepped out before he lost himself in that memory again.

The scent of baked herbs and roasted garlic hit him as soon as he entered the mansion. Familiar and warm. Home.

"Mama!" he called out, stepping inside the grand foyer. He followed the sound of kitchen clatter and the unmistakable murmur of bickering voices.

As expected, his mother was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, apron tied tightly around her waist, stirring something in a large pot. Her blonde hair was swept into a bun, a few strands curling stubbornly around her face. His father, Dimitri, stood beside her, chopping onions with practiced focus, though his eyes occasionally flicked toward her as if seeking silent approval. That alone told Nikolai everything he needed to know—his father had likely pissed her off last night and was now trying to make up for it by offering to help. Though by the way she had a knife in one hand and a spoon in the other, it was clear she hadn't completely forgiven him yet.

"Let me guess," Nikolai said, smirking as he entered, "Papa promised to cook last night, didn't follow through, and now he's relegated to sous-chef duties as penance."

His father scowled. "I did cook. I grilled the steaks."

"You burned them," his mother shot back without turning.

"They were well done."

"They were charcoal."

Nikolai laughed and walked over, pulling his mother into a warm hug. "For you, mama," he said, handing her a bouquet of pristine white roses and a velvet box of her favorite truffles.

Her face lit up, her earlier irritation with Dimitri vanishing like mist. "Oh, Nikolai! You remembered! White roses and hazelnut dark chocolates. My favorite."

He kissed her cheek. "Of course I remembered."

She turned to her husband, waving the roses dramatically. "You see? This is how you treat a woman. Take notes."

Dimitri grumbled something in Russian and kept chopping onions.

In the living room, Nikolai could hear Viktor and Anya arguing over something. Probably about who left the keys in the ignition or who drank the last of the orange juice. Some things never changed. Their voices rose and fell like an old, well-practiced duet.

Meanwhile, their grandparents were nestled on the velvet couch, cuddled up like a couple half their age. Nikolai smiled at the sight. His grandfather's arm was around his grandmother's shoulders, and they looked like they were in their own bubble, sipping tea and whispering to each other like school kids.

His mother pulled away from the hug and tilted her head, giving him that all-seeing, all-knowing mother look. "So," she said with a slow, suspicious smile. "Your date. How did it go?"

"It went well," he said smoothly.

"That's it?" she asked, arching a perfectly sculpted brow.

"We talked, we laughed. It was a good time."

She narrowed her eyes. "You're glowing. Are you in the honeymoon phase already?"

Before he could answer, his father chimed in. "It's necessary. I proposed to your mother after only a week of dating."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, and I only said yes because he tricked me."

"I didn't trick you. I was irresistible."

"You said if I married you, I'd never have to cook again."

"And you don't. Except on Sundays."

Nikolai chuckled and shook his head. This was the usual Sunday routine. A symphony of bickering, teasing, and underlying affection.

His mother turned back to him. "I want details, but later. For now, mix the ingredients for the dessert. And don't forget the cinnamon this time."

"That was one time," he muttered as he grabbed the mixing bowl and rolled up his sleeves.

While he measured the flour and sugar, he caught glimpses of the life around him. His father had moved on from onions to chopping mint for the lamb, muttering under his breath every now and then. His mother tasted the broth and nodded, satisfied.

From the living room, the argument between Viktor and Anya had shifted to something else entirely—some shared childhood memory about who broke the glass figurine in the study. Their voices were sharp, but their laughter echoed between barbs.

His grandparents, as always, seemed oblivious to the chaos. His grandfather tucked a blanket around his wife's shoulders, and she leaned her head on his.

It was in these moments that Nikolai felt the rare pull of contentment. As complicated as his life could get—with the family legacy, expectations, and now this burgeoning connection with Elara—there was something grounding about being here.

But still, Elara lingered in the back of his mind like a warm echo.

The way she had looked at him. The way she'd trembled beneath his touch. She wasn't like any of the women he'd known before. He'd had flings. Short, forgettable entanglements. But Elara... she was real. Raw. Unfiltered.

He finished mixing the ingredients and passed the bowl to his mother.

"Good," she said. "Now go set the table. Viktor clearly forgot."

He moved through the dining room with practiced ease, pulling out the fine china, arranging the silverware, lighting the slender taper candles. It was always a full spread on Sundays.

As he placed the last plate, he glanced out the large windows. The sky was clear. Bright. The kind of afternoon meant for long, lazy lunches that turned into wine-fueled storytelling.

And even as he soaked in the warmth of his family's banter and the scent of rosemary-laced lamb wafting through the house, his thoughts still circled back to Elara. To the way she had looked curled up next to him, tracing the tattoos on his chest. To her laugh. Her fire. Her hunger.

He couldn't wait to see her again.

And next Friday couldn't come soon enough.