Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,48

a fort out of pillows and blankets and play campers and bears, where I growl as I chase him all around the house, earning us vaguely disapproving stares from Lyudmila and Pavel, who are prepping for the next meal in the kitchen. Afterward, I read him his favorite comic books, and we play with cars and trucks, our chosen vehicles racing against each other while I commentate like a NASCAR sportscaster.

The boy really is bright and funny; it’s a pleasure to teach him. Yet no matter how engaging our games are, I can’t concentrate on them, or on him, fully. A part of my mind is elsewhere, on a different pair of golden eyes. After Nikolai left, I lay awake for hours, my skin flushed and my heart racing. Each time I closed my eyes, I heard his deep, soft voice making those carnal promises, and the throbbing ache between my legs returned, making me slick and swollen and so sensitive I could barely tolerate the touch of my pajama shorts. It wasn’t until I gave in and used my fingers to reach another orgasm that I was able to drift off—and even then, my sleep was fitful, filled with hazy sex dreams interspersed with fragments of nightmares.

But not my usual nightmares.

In these, there was only one man in a mask, and he didn’t want to kill me.

He wanted to capture me.

He wanted to make me his.

Slava and I are lounging on our stomachs on his bed, flipping through a book about the ABCs, when I become aware of a tingling sensation between my shoulder blades. I cast a curious glance over my shoulder—and heat suffuses my entire body as I meet Nikolai’s gaze.

He’s leaning against the doorframe, watching us, his expression carefully veiled. I have no idea how long he’s been standing there, but I don’t remember hearing the door open, so it must’ve been a while.

“Go ahead, finish what you’re doing,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to interrupt the lesson.”

Swallowing hard, I return my attention to Slava and the book. He’s also spotted his father, but his reaction is much tamer. He’s slightly subdued as we resume naming letters and the objects that start with them, but by the time we get to P and I make oink-oink noises to go with the illustration of the piggy, he’s back to being his animated, giggling self.

Unable to help myself, I sneak another glance over my shoulder—and my heart stutters for a beat. Nikolai is not looking at me now but at his son, and there’s something soft and pained in his eyes… a strange, despairing sort of yearning.

I blink, and just that fast, his attention shifts to me, the odd expression disappearing, replaced with the familiar scorching heat. Flushing, I look away and resume the lesson, my pulse pounding unevenly. I must’ve imagined that look, or misinterpreted it somehow. It doesn’t make sense for Nikolai to yearn for a son who’s right in front of him. If he wants to be closer with the boy, all he has to do is reach out to him, smile at him, talk to him… get to know him.

He can try to actually be a dad instead of this distant authority figure that Slava doesn’t seem to know what to do with.

Then again, I’ve always found it easy to relate to children. That’s why I chose this career path. If Nikolai’s had minimal exposure to kids prior to learning of his son’s existence, maybe he’s just feeling lost and uncertain—as hard as it is to believe of a man this powerful and self-assured.

On impulse, I twist up to a sitting position facing him. “Would you like to join us? Maybe the two of us can finish going over the last few letters with Slava.”

A peculiar stillness steals over him. “The two of us?”

“Or you can do it yourself if you’d rather.” I’m beginning to feel foolish. It’s highly likely I’ve misread the whole thing, ascribing thoughts and emotions to Nikolai that reflect my own wishful thinking. Just because I’ve secretly dreamed of meeting my father and growing close to him doesn’t mean every parent-child relationship needs to adhere to a specific dynamic or—

“I’ll join you.” Nikolai pushes away from the doorframe and approaches the bed with those long, graceful strides that remind me of a jungle cat.

I scramble back as he sits down on the mattress next to me, but with Slava stretched out between me and the wall, I can’t go far.