The Professional (The Game Maker #1)(29)
Author: Kresley Cole

Growing closer every day.

Sometimes we spoke English, sometimes Russian. In both languages, he was sly and witty, and we often laughed to tears. Being with him was almost opposite to how it’d been with my dad. Though I’d never doubted he loved me and Mom, Bill Porter had been a quiet man. He and I used to work on his tractors, passing the time in companionable silence.

It was just as comfortable with Kovalev, only different.

Every morning, we played chess in an open-sided pavilion down by the Moskva River. Sevastyan remained in the background, usually on the phone conducting business, body tense, gaze alert for danger.

The security threat—which no one would talk to me about—obviously hadn’t lessened.

Now Sevastyan told me, “You’re easy to get along with as well.”

Was he for real? “And how would you know?”

He hiked his shoulders. “I see you with him.”

Sometimes when Paxán and I would laugh at something, I’d notice Sevastyan regarding us. At first, he’d appeared surprised. Now he would gaze at us with a satisfied look on his face.

Yet at other times I’d catch him surveying me with an expression that was far from satisfied—and it intensified more each day. I felt as if he was awaiting something. From me.

Like a hunter preparing to strike.

Even Filip had commented on it. “When you’re not looking, he watches you like a stalker.”

I’d scoffed, “A stalker would actually give me the time of day if I asked for it.”

Yet something was building in Sevastyan, like a bomb clock ticking a countdown. But a countdown to what?

“Are you settling in?” he asked.

Was he going to query me about the weather next? I stayed him with a hand on his arm. “What’s up with the small talk, Siberian?” I almost got the impression that he was trying—in his taciturn, enforcer-type way—to chat me up. When he peered down at my hand, I released him.

“Do you like it here?” he asked, his voice dropping a notch. “Enough to stay?”

We’d stopped in front of a rain-slicked window. Outside, fall rains drizzled. There hadn’t been a break in the weather since I’d gotten to Berezka. Shadows from the drops coursed over Sevastyan’s face, filling me with the mad urge to kiss each one.

Inner shake. “Why do you and Paxán and Filip get to leave, but I don’t?”

He scrubbed his hand over his chin. “Because if anything happened to you . . . We simply can’t take chances. You’re so eager to leave?”

“Well, I have to admit I was getting stir-crazy whenever Paxán had to work—I’m not used to all this free time.” Or this much energy. I’d been in desperate need of an outlet when Filip had suggested laps in the Olympic-size indoor pool. Every day, we went together. “But Filip has been doing his best to keep me occupied.”

Those muscles on the sides of Sevastyan’s jaw bulged. He took a step closer. As ever, tension brewed between us. I peered up at his eyes, only to find his gaze on my lips.

“I told you to be wary of him.”

“But not why.” Once I’d shut down my manalyzing, I’d grown comfortable with Filip. Unfortunately, I felt nothing more for him than friendship.

Why couldn’t I fall for a guy like him? He said whatever was on his mind, was easygoing, and acted like I hung the moon.

The opposite of Sevastyan.

If I were with Filip, I wouldn’t have felt the just-in-case need to brush up on the finer points of BDSM, studying everything from corporal punishment to orgasm denial to dom/sub rituals.

Sevastyan had talked about obedience and discipline; was he interested in the lifestyle, the equipment, the paraphernalia?

Punishment bars and floggers, handcuffs and canes, nipple clamps and ball gags.

Recalling the way Sevastyan had slapped my ass, I’d watched online videos featuring grown women stretched over men’s laps, spanked like they were wayward creatures in need of correction.

I’d been indignant and outraged!

I’d pictured Sevastyan forcing me across his lap for a similar chastisement; he’d once threatened to do exactly that. And as soon as I’d finished masturbating, I’d been indignant and outraged all over again!

Until I’d masturbated a second time. But that had been before I’d conceded defeat.

“What are you thinking of?” he asked me, his gaze riveted to my face.

I realized my breaths had shallowed, my cheeks heating.

He put his hand on my wrist, touching me with that live-wire grip. His brows drew together, until I could almost imagine he was about to kiss me.

Despite everything, I wanted him to—

Yuri exited Paxán’s office.

I abruptly stepped back, tucking my hair behind my ears, resisting the urge to whistle. As the man passed, I tried not to notice the AK-47 strapped to his back. Even after a week here, I was still uneasy seeing machine guns everywhere. When the brigadiers took tea breaks, they would casually lay their weapons down beside their cups.

I kept telling myself, Roll with it, roll with it.

Sevastyan gave Yuri a chin jerk in greeting. Carry on. While the brigadiers revered Paxán, they seemed to uniformly fear Sevastyan. I’d overheard them talking about “the Siberian” in hushed tones.

Once Sevastyan and I were alone again, sanity resumed. I didn’t need to be kissing a man who’d ruthlessly cut me out of his life. Didn’t need to reward his shitty treatment of me.

Jess had an m.o. for dealing with badly behaving males—she called it ABC: Always Be Crazier. I was thinking my m.o. might be kill ’em with kindness.

When Sevastyan opened his mouth to speak, I gave his arm a brisk pat. “Good talk, buddy! We should do this in another week or so.” I strode off, leaving him looking confounded.

Fifteen minutes later, Paxán and I were sitting in the pavilion at a table topped with tea, delicacies, and our chessboard. A fire in the pavilion hearth crackled nearby. As usual, Sevastyan worked some distance away, fielding phone calls, his watchful eyes scanning for a threat.

The two of us sipped and snacked, wading deeper into our game. “Do you know who is a master player?” Paxán eyed our pieces. “Aleksei.”

“Is he?” I made my tone as uninterested as possible, even as my gaze flicked over to Sevastyan.

He was embroiled in a heated conversation, had begun striding outside into the drizzle. He made his way down to the nearby boathouse—which really should be called a “yacht house” considering the sixty-foot beauty housed inside.