12. Lyla

CHAPTER 12

LYLA

ACT 1

“Get your things.”

Those were the last words he spoke to me, and I’m not sure when he’s planning on blessing me with another. I pack my bag as he watches, eyes narrowed distrustfully at me, though I’m not sure what his problem could be, given I’m the one who woke up to him inside me.

His watch is too attentive as I put my few possessions inside the canvas, but he never asks where the rest of my belongings are, and I’m relieved not to have to tell him.

He knows far too much already.

I hold my old backpack against my chest as we head out to the car. The wind whips me, cutting through my layers with wicked efficiency, but the cold doesn’t sink so deep as the silence. He hasn’t said a word to me since the rehearsal studio, and that, mixed with the postcoital adrenaline, has me nearly shaking.

Snowflakes fall, Christmas lights flash and shine, and we’re alone on the street for a half second before his car pulls up to the curb, sloshing wetly and muddying the snow.

The silver paint job sparkles despite the poor weather, and the windows are tinted so dark you couldn’t hope to see inside. I step forward to open the door for myself, and Mikhail reaches out a hand to stop me. A beat passes before a suited driver climbs out and walks around the car.

“Good evening, miss,” he says as he opens the door for me. “Sir.” He nods to Mikhail. My silent director nods to him, still without speaking, and gestures for me to get inside first.

The warm air from the cab overwhelms me as I climb in, sliding over the leather bench and taking the farther spot near the window. I rest my head on the cool glass and sink into the softness of the upholstery. Mikhail gets in behind me, and his driver closes out the last of the chill. He’s older than me, maybe Mikhail’s age, with some gray just starting to show. The air is thick and warm now, and my breathing slows down.

“Home, sir,” the driver speaks without question but waits for Mikhail to protest. He doesn’t, and we pull out into traffic.

My fists squeeze that backpack like it’s my lifeline as I watch the snow and city blur past. Christmas decorations and lit-up window displays give the strange mood in the car an overly festive backdrop.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch his leg jiggling with nervous energy. The car is filled with both his and mine. His knuckles whiten as he grips the fabric of his pants, and my brow furrows with so many questions, but I’m too afraid to look and discover I’m the source of his stress.

Why the hell is he taking me home with him? He never explained, and there’s so much pressure in going with him without some assurances. I want to ask for them, but the request catches in my throat. His thoughts are the thing I’m most interested in but also most afraid of, and I’m too fragile right now for how they would tear me apart if they were unfavorable.

My hands shake, and I don’t know if it’s the virginity I just lost or the prospect of going home with Mikhail—which I’m still not sure why he would ask. I’m so desperate to know what he’s thinking I eventually chance a look at his face and instantly regret it. He seems more uncomfortable than I do. His lips are held too firmly, and his skin is as white as a ghost.

He looks… afraid.

Why the hell would Mikhail be afraid?

I’m quickly discovering a lot I don’t know about him, and so much of what I assumed is just blatantly wrong. My image of him was that of a director too full of himself to waste his time even looking at those beneath him. The few words he’s spoken in my presence have sounded difficult.

There’s a painful grit to it, and clearly, he avoids speaking when he can. He must have a reason. Just like he must have a reason to be so uncomfortable in his own car. I open my mouth to ask, but the question dies on my tongue as I realize just how nice of a car we’re sitting in.

Mikhail has more money than I realize, I decide as I take in the emblems and special details. The car heads uptown into the ritzier districts as fast as the traffic will allow. I should have known since he sent me enough gifts. He dresses like a moody print model, and that doesn’t come cheaply, but the reality of how far apart we are is cemented for me.

He pulls his phone out of his breast pocket and starts texting. The coldness of the action shocks me. Do most girls get cuddles after their first time? A rawness sets in, and I just want him to touch me. Mikhail doesn’t strike me as someone who gets awkward after sex. No. That’s all me and my stupid red cheeks.

My thighs hurt as a reminder of what just happened, and my cheeks burn. I could ask him why he found me sleeping and considered it an invitation to fuck me, but I’m too chicken to face the fact I loved it, that I came with him. Just thinking about it makes me full of want again. The second I heard his voice, the world clicked into place for me.

The safety I felt in his arms confuses me most of all. I relaxed with him, let my guard down, and believed that with Mikhail there, Carter couldn’t touch me. My pussy was needy, and he fixed my problem. I needed a place to stay, and he’s bringing me home. He must live somewhere nice, and I came around his cock. Clearly, I’m getting a lot out of whatever this deal is, so why does it have to be more complicated than that? I tell myself it’s not and that it will be fine.

I chance another look at his hand. His knuckles are blotched white and red now, gripping so tightly he’s wrinkled his designer pants.

Something is wrong.

Warmth travels from my chest up to my neck. It’s a mix of desperation—an emotional one to get close to him and the physical need to rub my legs together. I’m craving more sex already, and I’m not sure how to process these feelings since they are entirely new to me.

The one person who ever tried to touch me before Mikhail was the man I considered a father.

That experience left me feeling so unclean and guilty even now. What would my mother say ? I cried many nights, taking long showers and scrubbing my skin in a fruitless attempt to erase that night. One hand on my breast, and for two years, sex has been the last thing on my mind.

Mikhail awakened something inside me. Even before I knew it was him, I was dreaming about him. In my dreams, we were back at the barre, and he was barking orders. He’s the most confusing man in the world. I feel wanted and rejected at the same time, but I can’t stop myself from wondering what he’s thinking. I want to know what’s on his mind. I want to soothe his soul. I want to hold his hand and give him what he needs the same way he makes my desires a reality.

I can’t change the fact that I feel like he needs me. It might be stupid. Maybe he doesn’t at all. Or perhaps he’s just as lonely as I am. Maybe I can fix it.

I’m just about to reach out to him and make sure he’s okay when the car slows to a stop outside one of the most famous tourist attractions in this city. I glance through the window for the first time, finding the iconic stone edifice in front of us.

He lives here?