Chapter 2 - The Open Door
By late afternoon, the heat inside the mansion was thick and oppressive. A summer storm was brewing over the valley, casting the dark hallways into deep, bruised shadows.
Alina carried a fresh stack of pressed linens toward the master suite on the top floor. Her mind was still spinning from the morning’s encounter. She kept reminding herself of her place. She was an orphan with no family, no money, and no voice. Damon Vulkoff was the Pakhan—the unchallenged leader of the syndicate that controlled every docks, warehouse, and politician in the city.
Crossing paths with a man like that was dangerous. Wanting his attention was suicide.
As she turned into the private corridor leading to his living quarters, she noticed something unusual. The heavy mahogany door to his private study—a room usually guarded and locked tight—was standing ajar by an inch.
She slowed her pace, her heart beginning to hammer against her ribs. She should have turned around. She should have dropped the linens off in the laundry chute and vanished back into the servants' wing.
Instead, an irresistible, magnetic pull drew her closer.
She stepped quietly up to the wooden frame, holding her breath. Through the narrow gap, she could see the soft, warm glow of a desk lamp cutting through the dim room.
And then, her breath caught entirely in her throat.
Damon was sitting in his high-backed leather chair, his dark hair disheveled, his dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back against the leather, his jaw tight with an agonizing intensity.
One of his large, scarred hands was gripped tightly around the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white. His other hand was thrust beneath his unbuckled belt, moving in a slow, heavy, rhythmic motion that made the breath hitch in his throat.
Alina’s eyes widened in absolute shock.
The legendary Pakhan—a man feared by police chiefs and rival bosses alike—was touching himself in the solitude of his office, his chest heaving, a low, guttural groan escaping his lips.
Alina felt a wave of molten heat rush straight from her head to her toes. Her knees buckled slightly, her hands trembling as she clutched the stack of towels to her chest. She had never seen a man like this before. She was twenty-one, completely innocent, a virgin who had never even been kissed.
She tried to take a step back, to flee before he caught her.
Her foot caught the brass runner of the floorboard. The floorboards let out a sharp, audible squeak.
Inside the room, the heavy motion stopped instantly.
Damon’s eyes snapped open. Dark, lethal, and burning with raw intensity, his gaze locked directly onto the gap in the door—and right into her terrified blue eyes.
Alina froze, paralyzed by pure instinct.
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Instead of hiding or pulling away, Damon didn't move to cover himself. He slowly sat up, his heavy chest rising and falling, his hand still resting against his low waistline.
"Alina," his deep voice echoed through the crack in the door, low and dangerous as thunder. "Come in here."
