Two days after catching Rowan in my private desk, I’m still deciding what to do with her.
She’s a liability. A risk.
She’s also an opportunity.
I place the manila folder on her desk when she steps away for lunch. Deliberately casual, as if I’d simply forgotten it there.
Inside are shipping manifests. Cargo lists. Names of Bratva lieutenants who’ll be overseeing tomorrow’s shipment at the docks.
Nothing that would single-handedly destroy my organization if it fell into the wrong hands. But enough to ruin a few lives—including her own, if she’s stupid enough to try using it against me.
I return to my office, lock the door, and pull up the security feed on my laptop.
Waiting.
This is how I’ve survived this long. Patience. Calculation. Never leaving anything to chance.
The elevator doors open on the screen—and there she is.
Rowan St. Clair, coffee in one hand, sandwich in the other. Hair windblown, cheeks pink from the spring air outside.
She doesn’t notice the folder immediately. She sets down her lunch, takes a sip of coffee, and answers a ringing phone. “Mr. Akopov’s office,” she says, her voice crisp and professional through the speakers. “I’m afraid he’s unavailable at the moment. May I take a message?”
I smirk. I’m very much available, just choosing not to be.
She hangs up and finally spots the folder.
Her body language changes instantly. Shoulders tense. Spine straightens. Her eyes dart toward my closed door.
I lean closer to the screen. What will you do, little doe?
She picks up the folder, turning it over in her hands. From the camera angle, I can see the clear “CONFIDENTIAL” stamp across the front.
Her fingers hover at the edge, hesitating.
Open it, I silently urge her. Give me a reason to punish you.
She glances at my door again. Then, to my surprise, she doesn’t open the folder.
Instead, she places it squarely in the center of my inbox tray.
Then she straightens my other papers. Arranges her pens. Tidies the entire desk without once looking inside the folder that so clearly tempts her.
Interesting.
She sits back down, takes a bite of her sandwich, and continues working as if nothing happened.
I watch her for another fifteen minutes. She doesn’t touch the folder again. Doesn’t even glance at it.
I close the security feed and press the intercom button. “Ms. St. Clair, my office. Now.”
The door opens thirty seconds later. Rowan steps inside, notepad in hand, professional mask firmly in place.
“Close the door,” I instruct.
She does, then stands waiting, her posture perfect. But I notice the slight tremor in her hands, the pulse jumping at the base of her throat.
She’s scared, but hiding it well.
“I had a folder on your desk,” I say, watching her carefully.
“Yes, sir. I put it in your inbox.”
“Did you look inside?”
Her eyes meet mine directly. “No, sir.”
“Why not?” I rise from my chair, circling the desk to stand in front of her. “It was right there. Weren’t you curious?”
She swallows hard. “It was marked confidential. It wasn’t addressed to me.”
I move closer, invading her personal space. “The drawer was locked, too. That didn’t stop you before.”
A flush spreads across her cheeks. “I’ve learned my lesson, Mr. Akopov.”
“Have you?” I reach up, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “What lesson is that?”
Her breath catches, but she doesn’t back away. “That some things aren’t meant for me to see.”
I let my fingers trail down her cheek to her jaw. “And if I wanted you to see them?”
“Then you would show me.” Her voice is stronger now, more confident.
Smart girl.
“What if I told you I left that folder there deliberately?” I say, my thumb brushing across her lower lip. “That I was testing you?”
Her eyes widen. “Did I pass?”
I smile, slow and predatory. “For now.”
I drop my hand and step back, returning to the safety of my desk. Distance is necessary right now. The way she responds to my touch is too tempting, and I need a clear head for what comes next.
I glance at my watch. Nearly three. The Pediatric Cancer Foundation gala starts at seven, which means I need to be dressed and ready in the next hour if I want to make my pre-event meeting with the board chairman.
“What time is the car scheduled?” I ask, already loosening my tie.
Rowan consults her tablet. “Five-thirty, sir.”
“Good.”
I shrug off my suit jacket, hanging it on the back of my chair. The look of confusion on her face is delicious—uncertainty mixed with that spark of desire she tries so hard to hide.
“Is there something else you needed, Mr. Akopov?” Her voice has that tremor again. Like she’s afraid of what I might ask. Or afraid of what she might agree to.
“As a matter of fact, there is.” I start unbuttoning my dress shirt, one button at a time, maintaining eye contact. “The gala tonight is black tie. My tuxedo should have been delivered earlier.”
Her eyes dart to the garment bag hanging on the coat rack by the door, then back to me, widening as I continue unbuttoning my shirt.
“Part of your duties as my personal assistant,” I explain, enjoying the pink flush spreading across her cheeks, “involves making sure I’m properly prepared for important events. That includes helping me dress when necessary.”
I slip my shirt off my shoulders, revealing the white undershirt beneath. The temperature in the room seems to spike a hundred degrees.
“I—I don’t think that’s in my job description,” she stammers, but her eyes betray her, lingering on my chest, my arms.
“Your job description is whatever I say it is, Ms. St. Clair.” I step closer, invading her space again. “Unless you’re planning to resign?”
She wets her lips. “No, sir.”
“I didn’t think so.” I pull the undershirt over my head in one fluid motion.
Her sharp intake of breath is audible in the silence. I don’t miss how her gaze traces the lines of my torso, the scars from fights she probably can’t begin to imagine, the tattoo across my left pectoral—Cyrillic letters spelling out “strength without mercy.”
“The tuxedo,” I prompt, nodding toward the garment bag.
She doesn’t move immediately. Just stares, caught between professionalism and something much more barbaric.
“Now, Ms. St. Clair.”
That gets her moving. She retrieves the garment bag, unzips it with trembling fingers, and removes the custom Tom Ford tuxedo inside.
“Hang it up properly,” I instruct. “The shirt and tie as well.”
While she busies herself with the tuxedo, I kick off my shoes and reach for my belt buckle. Then I pause, an idea forming.
“Rowan.”
She turns at the use of her first name, the shirt and bow tie draped over her arm. Her breath catches when she sees me standing there, shirtless, fingers on my belt.
“Come here.”
She approaches like someone walking to the gallows—reluctant but resigned. When she stops in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body, I drop my hands to my sides.
“Take off my belt.”
The command hangs in the air between us. Her eyes widen, pupils dilating until there’s just a thin ring of green around the black. I watch the internal struggle play across her face—the professional assistant warring with the woman who admitted she wants me.
“That’s an order, Ms. St. Clair.”
