Twilight Sins (Kulikov Bratva Book 1)
Twilight Sins: Chapter 9

I wake up wrapped in Yakov.

Well, the smell of him, anyway. The other side of the bed is cold, so he obviously bailed on me a while ago. But he’s still on the sheets, the pillow, my skin—reminders of him and what we did last night everywhere.

Including in the form of a faint but persistent ache between my legs.

I roll over and bury my smile in the mattress. Last night doesn’t even feel real. I’m not sure who that was, but it can’t have been me. Luna McCarthy doesn’t do stuff like that.

His hand around my throat.

My body bathed in sweat and moonlight.

I want them to see us. I want them to watch and wish they were us.

Cue instant blush. Yep, I’m back to my old self. Blushing at the merest thought of something sexual.

But last night, at least for a little while, Yakov’s confidence rubbed off on me. I barely know him, but I trusted him. I knew I was safe.

Now, the harsh light of reality is pouring through Yakov’s insanely large windows and my stale breath and bed head are telling me it’s time to get back to the real world.

My dress is still lying on the floor where Yakov left it after he peeled it off of me. I squeeze myself back into it and look down at the damage. It’s wrinkled to all hell, but it also shrunk, if that’s even possible. Last night, it was a sexy, sophisticated little black dress. At eight in the morning, it might as well be a little black handkerchief for as much of me as it’s covering. I’m tempted to root through Yakov’s drawers and find some shorts and a t-shirt, but I’d look certifiably insane coming downstairs in his clothes.

We slept together; it was amazing—but I’m not about to waltz down and start asking questions about floral arrangements and joint bank accounts. I’m not going to be a weirdo who makes it more than what it was… no matter how much I’d be open to the idea.

I grab my purse off the nightstand and fish around inside for my phone. Kayla was probably texting me all night asking for updates. It serves her right, setting me up with a loser like Sergey. Maybe I’ll wait until I’m home to text her back. Let her suffer a little longer.

Although I may not have a choice in that department. I check every pocket and pouch in my purse, but my phone isn’t there.

I shake out the sheets and check under the bed, but it’s nowhere to be found. I don’t even remember the last time I had it. Maybe back at the restaurant?

Good. Just what this walk of shame needs: a pit stop.

I steel myself with a deep breath and open Yakov’s bedroom door. I avoid my reflection in every mirror and vaguely reflective surface I pass. There’s nothing I can do to improve the situation, so ignorance is bliss. Besides, it’s not like anyone else is going to see me, right?

Wrong!

Everywhere I turn, there is someone carrying a basket of laundry or a feather duster. Two men are standing in the entryway with gardening shears, passing a bouquet of flowers to a maid holding a waiting vase.

Maids here. Maintenance guys there. People every-fucking-where.

And every single one of them looks up as I pass. They smile and wave like they expected me to be here today. Like they aren’t surprised in the least to see a woman in a slinky black dress teetering down the hallway on high heels at the ass crack of dawn.

Maybe they actually aren’t surprised. If all of these people were in the house last night, there’s no way they didn’t hear something. Didn’t see something.

Oh, God help me.

I’m barreling through the house towards an exit—or maybe a balcony to mercifully throw myself over—when I hear his voice.

“Good morning, solnyshka.”

It’s the fifth time someone has said that to me in as many minutes—minus the Russian pet name that I don’t know the meaning of but still makes my insides go squiggly every time I hear it—but it’s the first time I’ve felt the baritone rumble of the words in my bones.

Yakov is standing in a white marble kitchen with a towel over his right shoulder and a spatula in his hand. I can’t decide what looks more delicious: him or the caramelized pancakes he’s making. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FindNøvᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“You cook,” I blurt. His brow arches and I drop my face into my hands. “This is why I don’t socialize before coffee. Or a shower.”

He slides a steaming mug across the island towards me. I lunge for it with the little bit of grace I have. Which is to say, none at all.

“I meant to say, I’m surprised you cook since you have a full household staff here first thing in the morning.”

He picks up the frying pan and flicks his wrist. Like it’s nothing at all, a thin pancake sails out of the pan, flips in mid-air, and then lands back in the pan where it sizzles in butter. “Was that supposed to be the more tactful version?”

“It’s the best I’ve got this morning, apparently.” I shrug. “Some of us don’t wake up ready to model for magazine covers and flawlessly flip pancakes.”

He looks momentarily confused. “I haven’t even showered.”

I groan. “Don’t say that. It makes it so, so much worse that you still look this good. I just paraded my walk of shame in front of everyone who works for you.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about them.”

“Why? Are they used to this kind of thing?” The question is out before I can stop myself. I immediately shake my head in shame. “Again, ignore me. Not enough coffee in my system for subtlety. Please don’t answer that. Just carry on and⁠—”

“My staff isn’t used to anything,” Yakov says, talking over me. “If they work for me, it means they’re discreet. Your secrets are safe with them.”

Is that what I am? A dirty little secret?

Lord knows Yakov has enough of them already. Like what he does for work that he can afford to fund hospitals and keep a full household staff.

But I’m not in any position to demand answers from him. So I shift to safer topics.

“Do you make pancakes often?”

“Blinis.”

I raise my brows. “Excuse me?”

“They’re called blinis. My mother and grandmother taught me to make them when I was a little boy back in Russia. Like a crepe, but better.”

“I’ve been told everything is better in Russia.”

It’s a desperate throwback to our conversation last night. I want to be subtle, but I also wouldn’t mind hearing that Yakov has changed his mind. He now thinks at least one blonde, American woman with no flirt game and smudged mascara is better than any woman he has ever had.

I’m waiting for some kind of recognition from him, but there’s nothing. He just carries on cooking until my stomach lets out a long, loud growl.

“Here.” Yakov slides a plate of blinis towards me. “Eat.”

He doesn’t want me to starve. That’s a good sign, right?

I shove a bite in my mouth before I can say anything else stupid. I should eat and leave. If he wants to talk to me again, he’ll make it happen. I’m not going to throw myself at him.

Then a moan works free of my throat. “Is that Nutella?”

“And strawberries.” He nods. “It’s my little sister’s favorite filling.”

“Smart girl.” I take another bite and swallow down a groan. “Yakov… these are amazing.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but the patio door opens at the same moment.

A woman with an arm full of folded sheets walks into the kitchen and then stutters to a stop. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Kulikov. I didn’t know you two were⁠—”

“You’re fine,” Yakov says. “Come in, Hope.”

Hope smiles nervously and tips her head to me. “Good morning, ma’am.”

My mouth is full of food; otherwise, I’d say something back. I lift my hand in a wave instead.

“How’s your mother doing?” Yakov asks.

For a second, I think he’s talking to me. Then Hope answers. “Much better. Thanks for checking in,” she says. “Her lungs are healing up really well. The doctor says she is basically out of the woods now.”

Yakov nods. “Good. But let me know if you need to step away again. You know your position here is safe.”

Hope smiles at him with such earnest admiration that I can’t help but stare.

Yakov was right: I really don’t have anything to worry about where the staff is concerned. They don’t just work for Yakov; they worship him.

I mentally add a few more items to the long list of admirable qualities he has racked up over the last twelve hours: capable in the kitchen, kind to his employees, and absolutely unmatched at giving me multiple orgasms. The last one owing to the sad reality that it has never happened before last night.

“That was really sweet of you,” I whisper.

Yakov frowns. “What?”

I gesture towards the hallway where Hope just disappeared with the sheets. “I’ve never had a boss who cared about what was going on in my life outside of work. I think it’s nice.”

“If you think basic human decency is ‘nice’…” he mutters.

“It’s obvious family is important to you,” I continue, blundering ahead despite the warning signs and yellow flashing lights. “I know you have a brother and a sister. And you mentioned your mom. But you haven’t said anything about your dad. Is he around or⁠—”

“Eat more,” Yakov says suddenly.

“Oh, um… No, I’ll be okay with this one,” I lie. I’m already almost done with my first blini and I’d like an all-you-can-eat buffet of them, but I’m starting to pick up his not-so-subtle hints.

He shrugs, then drops the buttered skillet into the sink and runs cool water over it. Steam rises in front of him so I can’t read his expression.

I don’t even know what I’m hoping to read. Maybe a big sign on his forehead that says, “Last night was amazing. Let’s do it again.” I could tell him to text me, but since my phone is probably at the bottom of a moldy restaurant dumpster, I’ll most likely be getting a new number here in the next day or two.

Yakov starts cleaning the skillet. After adding “washes his own dishes” to the list of my boxes he continues to tick, I stand up and grab my purse.

“Well, Yakov, this was… fun.” That word feels small and insignificant after last night, but it’s all I’ve got. “Thanks for dinner and breakfast and everything in between.’’

Nice! That’s it. Very smooth. Nice and casual. The sex wasn’t world-shifting or anything—just filler. No big deal.

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t respond. Just keeps scrubbing the pan, his muscular forearms flexing from the effort.

“My cat probably thinks I’ve been murdered.” I laugh even though I feel like crying. I can’t cry. Don’t cry! I make a beeline for the back door. A clean getaway is the best option. “Thanks again for everything. Maybe I’ll see you around or⁠—”

I make it to the end of the island at the same time Yakov does. He’s been on the opposite side of the counter from me all morning, but now, all six feet, lots of inches of him are standing firmly between me and the exit.

“You won’t be going anywhere, solnyshka.”

My stupid heart skips a beat.

He wants a repeat of last night. That’s obviously what this is. He was trying to play hard to get and let me walk away, but he couldn’t let me leave. Not without having me one last time.

I brace myself to be picked up and ravished on the island. But… nothing happens. Yakov just stands in front of me, his expression as chiseled and unreadable as ever.

“Um, I’m sorry.” I frown. “I don’t know—What is happening right now? Is this like a game or⁠—”

“You’re in danger.” Yakov shifts in front of the door. “The only place I can protect you is here in my house. So you’re staying. Indefinitely.”

My stupid heart makes up for that one skipped beat. It’s hammering double time now. And for good reason.

Yakov is fucking crazy.

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