Cruel Paradise (Oryolov Bratva Book 1)

I almost knock over an old lady in my rush to get to Bane. It doesn’t even matter at this point; I’m already an hour late. I glance at the dinged-up watch on my wrist and cringe.

Scratch that: one hour and seventeen minutes late.

“Sorry!” I yell at the old lady who I’m pretty sure flips me the bird as I run toward the silver skyscraper.

By the time I get through security and into the elevators, I’m sweating through my light blue blouse. Because of course I just had to wear silk today. Another great decision.

I’m on a freaking roll.

And since I am not allowed to catch a break today, the elevator makes eleven slow stops before it finally hits my floor. “Excuse me!” I gasp, shoving my way out of the elevator and racing down the corridor towards my desk.

Maybe he won’t notice?

Ha. Right.

I’m not at my desk three seconds before the doors of Ruslan’s office open. He stands in the threshold, his gaze directed squarely at me.

“Ms. Carson.” He sounds pissed. “My office. Now.”

He leaves the door open and disappears inside. A steady stream of Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck plays in my head as I follow him inside and shut the door.

I start talking before I’m even at his desk. “I am so sorry. I know I’ve said it before, but this will not happen again and—”

He holds up a hand and I fall silent in the face of that very large, very intimidating, very callused, very, very capable palm.

“Was there an emergency of some sort?”

“Um… no. Not exactly.”

“An accident?”

“No.”

“Are you hurt in any way?”

“No.”

This little interrogation is not helping my sweat glands calm down.

“What about the kids?”

“Safe and in school.”

He nods. “Then I’d like your explanation as to why you’re one hour and twenty-seven minutes late.”

I take a deep breath and barrel ahead. “I thought I put my phone on the charger last night, but the plug fell out because the wall thingie is broken loose. So it died on me while I was asleep and my alarm didn’t go off. By the time Josh woke me up, Ben was gone, so I had to get the kids to school first, which made me miss my train. So I caught the second train into the city which was delayed by seven minutes due to some ‘technical difficulties,’ because of course it was.” I am very aware of the fact that I’m ranting now, but I can’t seem to stop myself. “And then I nearly took down an old lady as I ran to the building. And of course, there were, like, a hundred people in the elevator on the way up here. Do you know how slow that elevator is? Can someone look into that? And why is it always so crowded? You would think that a building with so many elevators wouldn’t have a crowding issue, but well, anyway…” I glance up at him and notice that raised brow. “Um… here I am.”

I’m winded by the time I finish. And now, I’m definitely sweating through my shirt.

Ruslan is silent, staring at me with that inscrutable expression of his.

“I really am sorry, Mr. Oryolov. I promise you, it won’t—”

“Sit down.”

He doesn’t leave me a lot of room to decline. I plonk myself down on a chair and wait for him to fire me.

But instead of reading me the Riot Act, Ruslan just walks across the office toward the door I came through.

My knee starts jumping as I stare unseeingly at the view in front of me. He’s gonna fire me. Or worse, he’s gonna bend me over the desk, make me forget all about being late, and then fire me, just to make that pink slip even pinker.

Would he really do that? After everything we’ve been through?

Of course, “everything we’ve been through” in this case just means a lot of sex. An insane amount of sex, if I’m being honest. Which may not be as significant to him as it has been for me.

Serves you right for catching feelings, dummy.

“Idiot,” I mutter to myself. “Complete fucking idiot.”

I freeze the moment I hear his wingtips on the laminate flooring. His shadow falls across me and I’m seized with the very real fear that I’m about to lose my income.

Please God, no.

“Here.”

I stare at the glass of water he’s offering me. “Water?”

“It’s to drink. Or throw on yourself—whichever you need more. Can’t say I’ll complain either way.”

I accept the glass with a shaky hand. I end up guzzling most of it. Apparently, running a marathon in heels and then working yourself into a frenzied panic can really dehydrate a girl. “Thank you.”

He takes the glass from my hands when I’m done and then drags the chair next to mine forward so that it’s right in front of me. Sitting down, he pulls out a small face towel from who the hell knows where.

Just when I think he’s going to offer it to me, he reaches out to pat it gently against the side of my face himself. I flinch the moment he touches me. He’s not even really touching me; the washcloth is firmly between us. And yet it feels so intimate that a tiny gasp escapes my lips.

He must hear it, because he freezes, then drops his hand and hands me the towel instead. “You’re sweating.”

A few of the butterflies in my stomach go berserk. “Right. Thank you.”

He nods as I try to hide my embarrassment with the damp cloth. I pass it over my face twice before I feel brave enough to drop my arm and peek out at him again.

“I really am sorry—”

“Emma.”

His voice is firm, but surprisingly gentle.

Oh, God, is he being so nice because he’s trying to cushion the blow? Is this the end?

“You don’t have to apologize.”

Because I’m fired?

“You’ve been a stellar employee for a very long time. You’re allowed to be late to work once in a while.”

My mouth drops open. “I’m… what?”

He actually cracks a smile. And by “smile,” I mean one corner of his mouth twitches up and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“You have a lot going on. It stands to reason that you would be late once in a while. That being said, getting a second alarm wouldn’t hurt.”

I know I’m gaping at him, but I just can’t help it. This reaction is such a departure from what I was expecting.

I smile self-consciously. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He gestures towards the door. “Work awaits.”

It’s a more abrupt dismissal than I expected, especially considering the last few minutes of gut-churning tension, but I get up and leave all the same. He has a point: we’ve got a full day ahead and I need to catch up quickly.

I spend the rest of the morning sitting behind my desk doing exactly that. Ruslan doesn’t call me into his office once. Not to work or play. When he needs me to do something, he either sends me a text or uses the intercom.

The relief I felt when I was in his office dwindles slowly throughout the rest of the afternoon and the blind panic starts to creep back in. Maybe he wasn’t as okay with my tardiness or my chaotic life as he let on. Maybe he isn’t interested in being that understanding all the time.

What if firing me still isn’t off the table? What if I lose this job and all the benefits? The income? It would be a devastating blow to lose all that money.

Who am I kidding? It’d be a devastating blow to lose all that sex, too.

But as I scroll through my personal banking page on my laptop later in the afternoon, I realize that my nest egg has gone from nonexistent to fairly sizable in just a matter of weeks. Ruslan’s weekly allowances have been coming in and building up steadily. Even if I were to lose this job, I’d be able to manage for a bit.

I’d be okay.

The kids would be okay.

I exhale slowly. I’ve been drowning for so long that I forgot what it feels like to breathe.

Now, thanks to Ruslan, I can.