Webbed Desires

Mikhail’s POV

‎The burner phone felt like a trophy in my hand that I used against her, a small victory in the game Nora and I were playing. Her shiver from my whisper still echoed in my veins, that defiant snarl of hers fueling a heat I hadn’t expected. I paced the living room, Aleksei gathering his things by the door, his impatience clear. We were running late for the mansion-lunch and business talks with my family, but my mind was on her—the way her body tensed against the wall, her breath hitching, those full lips parting just enough to make me wonder what they’d feel like under mine. She was a temptation wrapped in fire, and I was already imagining ways to stoke it.

‎Footsteps padded softly from the hall. Nora emerged, still in her baggy pyjama top and shorts, the fabric loose but hinting at the curves beneath. Her smooth legs stretched endlessly, toned and inviting, the shorts riding up just enough to tease. Her messy ponytail framed her delicate face, a few stray strands curling against her neck, begging to be brushed aside. She looked soft, vulnerable in that sleep-rumpled way, but her eyes burned with the same defiance. God, she was a vision—sultry without trying, her skin glowing in the morning light, her scent wrapping around me like a promise of sin. I wanted to pin her back against that wall, feel those legs wrap around me, taste the fight on her lips until she surrendered.

‎She held out the phone, voice flat. “Here. Done.”

‎I took it, my fingers brushing hers deliberately this time. She pulled back, but not before I caught the flicker in her eyes. “Don’t leave the penthouse until I’m back,” I said, my voice low, laced with command.

‎She crossed her arms, pushing her chest up slightly—damn her. “I have work. You already made me miss my café shift this morning.”

‎I leaned against the counter, smirking, my gaze dipping to her legs before meeting her eyes. “I own the club, Фурия. Your job’s safe. Besides, you should be more worried about impressing me after that stunt you pulled—dousing your boss in wine? Bold move.”

‎Her eyes narrowed, venom ready. “Condescending jerk. You deserved it.”

‎I opened my mouth, ready to push further, to see if I could make her flush, when the doorbell chimed. Aleksei groaned, heading to answer it. I knew who it was before the door opened—Ingrid. Trouble in a tight dress. She sauntered in, her skin-tight bodice gown clinging like a second skin, her perfume a cloying wave that hit like a punch. She didn’t glance at Aleksei, her eyes locking on Nora, who stood in her pyjamas, looking too relaxed—and far too tempting—for Ingrid’s taste. Nora’s shoulders squared, arms folding, her expression wary but unyielding.

‎Ingrid glided toward me, kissing my cheek, her gaze never leaving Nora. “Is she the cleaner?” she purred, her tone bratty, designed to sting.

‎Nora scoffed, rolling her eyes. “I don’t have time for this shit. I’m leaving for work. When you’re done with your shady business, you know where to find me.” She didn’t wait for my reply, storming to her room to change.

‎I sighed, turning to Ingrid, irritation rising. “What are you doing here? I told you to call first.”

‎Aleksei stood back, arms folded, his disgust for his cousin palpable. Ingrid slid her fingers along my arm, her voice a low whisper. “I missed you. Or am I not allowed to feel that way?”

‎I dropped her hand, stepping back. “No, you can’t. I made it clear—this is transactional. No feelings, no attachments. And I’m heading to meet my father, so you need to go.”

‎Her face flickered with hurt, then anger, quickly masked by a tight smile. “Fine. But who is she?”

‎I shoved my hands in my pockets, voice hard. “None of your business, Ingrid. What we have stays in the bedroom. Keep it that way.”

‎Nora emerged then, dressed in a plain black top, jeans, and sneakers, her hair down, vanilla scent hitting me like a wave. The jeans hugged her curves, and my eyes lingered before I caught myself. “I’m leaving,” she announced.

‎“Wait,” I said. “I’ll drop you off.”

‎She glanced at Ingrid, who huffed and stalked out, heels clicking. “Sheesh, jealous one you’ve got there,” Nora said, smirking. “How many more death glares should I expect while I’m here? A heads-up would be nice.”

‎I shook my head. “Don’t worry, I’m not the man-whore you think. Come on, Aleksei, and I will drop you.”

‎“No thanks,” she shot back. “Don’t need the staff wondering why I’m rolling up with the boss. I’ll take a cab.”

‎I raised a brow. “Take one of my cars. I may be a villain to you, but I’m not letting a woman under contract with me slave around. I was raised better.”

‎She laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “A gentleman? After forcing me into this? Keep your cars and your glitz, Mr Romanov. I don’t need your lifestyle.” She slung her bag over her shoulder, head high, and walked out, her scent trailing like a challenge.

‎Aleksei opened his mouth, but I cut him off with a glare. “Not a word.”

‎He grinned, following me to the garage. Nora was a storm, and I was already too close to the eye.

************

‎The Romanov mansion loomed like a fortress, all stone and secrets, its sprawling grounds a testament to my family’s power. Inside, the air was heavy with old money and expectations. My father, Maxim, waited in the study, his stern face a mask of control. My mother, Katarina, hovered nearby, her warmth a faint counter to his ice. Olga, my grandmother, sat like a queen, her sharp eyes cutting through the room. Aleksei stood at my side, my trusted shadow, his presence grounding me.

‎Maxim dove straight in, his voice a blade. “The warehouse theft, Mikhail. You let thieves slip through. Fix it, or you’ll look weak.”

‎I leaned back, smirking. “Taken care of, Father. Message sent.”

‎He raised a brow but didn’t press. I kept Nora’s deal to myself—Maxim didn’t need to know about her fire, not yet. We moved to business: warehouse security upgrades, rival crews testing boundaries, and the upcoming gala my parents were hosting. “Tighten everything,” He said. “No more weak spots.”

‎Mom shifted, her voice soft but pointed. “The gala’s in two weeks. You need a date, Mikhail. Someone suitable.”

‎Olga jumped in, her tone sharp. “He needs a wife, not just a date. You’re 24, Mikhail. Time to settle.”

‎I groaned, rubbing my temples. “Not this again, Babushka.”

‎Mom’s eyes twinkled. “I could matchmake. Plenty of women would kill to be on your arm.”

‎My mind flashed to Nora—her defiance, her refusal to bend. She’d rather spit in my face than be my date. The thought almost made me laugh, but then it shifted. I pictured her in a gown, not her usual jeans and sneakers, but something breathtaking. A deep emerald silk, clinging to her curves like liquid night, the fabric caught the gala’s chandelier light, accentuating the fire in her dark eyes. The bodice dipped low enough to tease the swell of her breasts, the skirt slit high on one thigh, revealing those smooth, toned legs with every step. Her wavy hair swept up in a loose chignon, a few tendrils curling against her neck, begging to be traced by my fingers. She’d glide through the crowd, her vanilla scent trailing, her presence a siren’s call—fierce, untamed, her glare daring me to claim her while promising to burn me if I tried. The image was so vivid, her sultry elegance commanding the room, that my pulse quickened, a heat pooling low in my gut, my thoughts racing with reckless desire.

‎“I’ll handle it, Mother,” I said, voice flat, shoving the vision down. “No need for your lists.”

‎Olga turned to Aleksei, smirking. “And you, boy? No wife? What, you swing the other way?”

‎Aleksei choked on his whiskey, spraying it across the table. I burst out laughing, the tension shattering. “Babushka!” Mom scolded, but her lips twitched.

‎“I’m fine, thank you,” Aleksei sputtered, wiping his chin. “Just... busy.”

‎Olga cackled. “Busy doesn’t keep you warm at night.”

‎The talk shifted to Andrei, my half-brother. “He’s coming back from college for the gala,” Mom said. “Be good to have him home.”

‎I nodded, face blank. Andrei’s world—tech, studies, clean hands—was a universe apart. I envied it, protected it, but kept my distance. The gala loomed, another stage for the Romanov name. Nora’s image flickered again—her in that emerald gown, standing out against the glittering crowd, her fire untamed. A pipe dream. She’d never agree, but I'd find ways to make her. The vision gripped me, her elegance and defiance a siren’s call.

‎We wrapped up, Maxim’s final orders ringing in my ears. “Don’t screw this up, Mikhail. The family’s watching.”

‎I gritted, standing. “When have I ever?”

‎Aleksei snorted as we left, the mansion’s weight lifting as we stepped into the cool air. Back at the penthouse, Nora’s absence was a void, but that gown vision wouldn’t quit. On impulse, I grabbed my phone and dialed Vivienne, the city’s top designer stylist, known for dressing the elite. “Vivienne,” I said, voice smooth, “I need a gown for a gala. Emerald silk, fitted to kill, low bodice, thigh slit. Elegant but bold. For a woman with dark eyes and a presence that could burn a room down.”

‎“For you?” she teased, her voice warm. “Or a mystery lady?”

‎I smirked, Nora’s imagined silhouette vivid—silk hugging her curves, her glare daring me. “A challenge. Make it unforgettable.”

‎As I hung up, Aleksei raised a brow. “A gown? For whom?”

‎I didn’t answer, my mind on Nora. Six months. I’d break her—or she’d break me. Either way, that gala was going to be a spectacle.