Savage Heir by Jagger Cole

14

I tellmyself it’s just part of following through with The Plan. I tell myself it’s just being responsible and thinking of my future. I tell myself it’s not “giving in,” it’s sticking to my own guns.

Truth be told, I tell myself a lot of things to try and rationalize why it is I’m standing outside the front door to Lordship Manor the very next day at 3:30 on the dot. But not a single thing I say seems to stop the throbbing, pulsing feeling deep inside.

It feels as though I’m doing something wrong just by being here—like I’m an accomplice to a crime just by standing outside of his house. But that’s worrisome. Because I shouldn’t feel tingly all over if I’m about to commit a crime.

I frown and shake my head. There’s no crime being committed here. No wrongdoing at all, actually. The fact of the matter is, sticking with tutoring is the best thing I could be doing towards my future and The Plan. And again, Patrick doesn’t own me.

Does Ilya?

I blush at the voice inside. But then I shake that away too. No, no one owns me. And I’m not here to commit some kind of scandal, for God’s sake. I’m here to tutor a smart, smug, possibly psychotic asshole who screwed around too much last semester. Full stop.

I raise my hand and knock on the door. Birds chirp in the background. The unseasonably warm fall English breeze rustles through the ponytail falling down the back of my school uniform—sans jacket for once. The knob twists, and I brace myself.

But it’s not Ilya who answers the door. It’s not Misha, the heavily tattooed guy from before who’s name I now know.

“Yes?”

The tall, broad-shouldered guy with the long sleeves rolled down has a quiet, yet bold and strong voice. His accent isn’t quite Russian—maybe Balkan of some kind. And there’s a haunting darkness to his sharp blue eyes.

They narrow a little when I don’t respond immediately. I blush and clear my throat.

“I’m here for Ilya?”

A single brow arches as his arms fold over his chest.

“Are you carrying any glasses of bourbon with you?”

His face and voice are totally deadpan. So it takes me a second to realize he’s making a joke.

I grin. “Saw that, huh?”

“I did.”

“Well…” I raise my arms wide. “No whiskeys of mass destruction on me this time.”

He smirks a strange, tight smile.

“He’s upstairs in his room.”

I swallow, nodding as he steps aside to let me in. I walk past him and start up the stairs.

“Tenley.”

I pause, glancing back. “Yes?”

“If he acts like an asshole, feel free to tell him so.”

I grin. “Thank you, I will.”

Ilya glancesat his wristwatch when he answers the door to his room.

“Okay, for the record,” I say quickly. “I was on time. I was just talking to your friend downstairs.”

He arches a brow. “Scared I’m going to invoke house rules on lateness?”

“I’m wearing two pairs of socks. Do your worst.”

His mouth curls slightly.

“Careful,” I smirk. “You might accidentally smile.”

“Har har har,” he drawls sarcastically. He steps away from the doorway. I ignore the shiver that creeps up my spine as I step into his room—right into The Wolf’s lair. But then I blink in awe.

Ilya’s room, like the rest of this palace of a home, is stunning. The walls are dark, almost charcoal-black paneled wainscoting. The floor is honey-stained wood. Matching dark-tan leather Chesterfield sofas sit across a heavy, masculine steel and dark-wood coffee table from each other, all in front of a fireplace.

I turn, blinking at the enormous, grey wood and black iron bed with the charcoal grey duvets covering it.

When I realize I’ve been staring at Ilya’s bed, I blush and quickly turn back to him.

“Up to your design standards?” he grunts.

“You have very nice tastes, Ilya.”

He arches a brow, letting his eyes drift over me. I squirm under his gaze. He closes the door and leans against it, arms crossed. I swallow, feeling my pulse quicken.

It’s not altogether a bad feeling.

“Want a drink?”

My brows knit. “I think I’m fine with just the tutoring.”

He shrugs, unmoving.

“But, I mean, don’t let me stop you.”

“I won’t.”

I swallow as he stands there, his eyes drinking me in as the heat flushes up my neck.

“Soooo…” I clear my throat. Is it hot in here?

“I thought today we could start with—”

“I got you something.”

I falter, frowning. “You what?”

Ilya steps away from his door-lean and stalks across the room. Or more like prowls, like an animal. He picks up a medium-sized matte-black box with a glossy black ribbon around it that’s been sitting on one of his bedside tables and turns to me.

“A gift,” he growls.

My brow knits. “For?”

“You.”

I roll my eyes, blushing. “Ha-ha-ha. I mean for what?”

“For taking such a dedicated and personal stand for my education,” he drawls, dripping in sarcasm.

I arch a brow. Ilya sighs as he walks over and pushes the box into my hands. “Just fucking open it, Red.”

I smile; I actually smile, with The Wolf himself giving me a present. What am I, being lured in by this little act? Letting my guard down in his very lair with the first shiny little bauble dangled in front of me?

“If this is roadkill or something, I’m leaving.”

He smirks as I sit on one of the couches and set the box on the table in front of me. I start to untie the ribbon.

“It’s something we were discussing the other day.” He shrugs. “I saw it, and immediately thought of you.”

I smile as I undo the ribbon and start to pull the top off the gorgeous black box.

“That’s actually oddly sweet of you, Ilya.”

“I have my moments.”

I grin as I tug the lid off the box, revealing gauzy cream-colored crepe paper beneath, covering something. I bite my lip as I look up at Ilya.

Okay, I’m an asshole. I’ve been looking at Ilya through the eyes of everyone else at this place—through Patrick’s eyes, and Ainsley Hendershire’s. Maybe he’s kind of a prick. And a grump, and a black cloud. But maybe it’s just that he’s not like these other students here.

I mean, neither am I.

And like Ilya, I’ve now been on the receiving end of the group-think gossip machine of Oxford Hills. And it sucks. Maybe that’s why he’s a perpetual dick; he’s just tired of all their bullshit and looking for a like-minded friend.

“This was unexpected,” I say quietly, smiling at him before I look back at the tissue paper and start to pull it away. “Really, thank you for—”

I freeze. My heart skips as a heat suddenly creeps up my back. My mouth falls open, and I stare bug-eyed at the contents of the box.

A jet-black set of lacy, gauzy, semi-see-through matching bra and thong panties. They are hands-down, the most scandalous, risqué pieces of lingerie I’ve literally ever seen, much less owned.

My face flushes with throbbing heat as I sit there utterly still, like a red-faced little statue. I’m not even sure what to say. Or where to look. All I can do is just stare at the lingerie in the box sitting on my lap.

Seconds tick by. Finally, I swallow the lump in my throat.

“Ilya…” I croak.

“Put them on.”

My eyes widen as my head snaps up to stare at him.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.”

My face sizzles.

“Ilya, I—”

“I’ve been in your panties, Tenley,” he growls with a hint of amusement, speaking about his pawing around in my panty drawer the other day. “And you needed to up your game.”

I drag my teeth over my lip, my pulse thudding in my ears.

“This is inappropriate.”

“No, this is a gift. Now put it on.”

I take a shaky breath, somehow unable to pull my eyes from his smoldering green ones.

“Is this another mind game?”

He shakes his head. “It’s a request.”

“Then I respectfully decline—”

“Perhaps it’s more of a demand,” he growls. I gasp as he suddenly leans down, his arms going to either side of me to grip the back of the couch, pinning me there. My heart pounds like a drum. The heat on my face sizzles over my skin.

“I—”

“Debate it in your pretty head all you want,” he hisses quietly. “But you will do this.”

He leans into me, forcing me to bite my lip to stop the squeak from tumbling out. His masculine scent invades my senses. His lips brush my ear, and I feel the rush of excitement throb through me.

“Put. It. On.”

Slowly, he pulls away, leaving me panting—like actually panting for air. I blush hotly as I sit there holding the box, looking up at him.

I could run. I could scream and just make enough of a scene where this becomes ridiculous and he just drops the whole thing.

So… why am I not?

I grip the box tighter. My pulse thuds as I hold his smug gaze with my own.

“Fine.”

I stand quickly and assertively, flipping my hair back. I chance a glance at him, hoping to see surprise that I’m calling his bluff. But all I see is that same intense, piercing gaze of expectancy. He’s not “surprised” that I’m going through with this. He’s pleased.

I tremble as I slip past him, my heart racing as I march across the room and slip into his bathroom.

Ilya’sprivate bathroom is every bit as gorgeous and refined as his bedroom. But that’s not what I’m looking at in the full-length mirror next to the claw-foot tub.

I’m looking at me.

I’m staring, actually, my mouth hanging open and my eyes wide. Cause holy shit, I look hot.

The lingerie fits me perfectly—like, way, way too perfectly. I google the designer name—Aleksandra Josef—and discover that she’s one of the most exclusive, custom tailored lingerie designers in the world.

This fits me perfectly because it was made for me, specifically. I could wonder for hours how the hell Ilya has my exact measurements or how the hell he got an exclusive French designer to get this here in like a day.

But instead, I’m thinking bigger picture: that Ilya Volkov bought me risqué, ultra-sexy lingerie at all.

I tremble as I let my eyes slide over myself in the mirror. I’ve never worn anything like this. Like, ever. I’ve never been one for dressing sexy. And I’ve never had a boyfriend. So why would I have ever had something like this in my wardrobe?

For that matter, why would I now?

Because Ilya told me to, that’s why.

I flush, feeling heat smolder inside of me. My eyes slip over my reflection again as my face burns. I mean for God’s sake, I can see my nipples through this bra.

I chew on my lip. Okay, I’ve put it on. There was no mention of keeping it on. Bluff, called. I’ve worn the present I’m sure he bought just to fuck with me. Now, it’s time to take this off, and get the hell out of here. Because clearly, I’ve made a huge lapse in judgment.

I’ve told myself that I can stand toe-to-toe with The Wolf. I’ve let myself believe that I can call his bluffs and stand up to his shit.

But I was wrong. Every single time I force myself to stand against him, thinking that this is the most ludicrous he can get, Ilya ups the game. Every. Single. Time.

And I’m starting to realize, I’m running out of runway, and he’s got miles of it.

I start to undo the front clasp of the bra, when I stop. I glance up the mirror and frown at myself. No, this is what he wants. It wasn’t about me putting this on, it was about me yanking it off and bolting from his room in a panic.

That’s what Ilya Volkov, twisted psychopath extraordinaire was after: humiliating me. I groan. This entire thing is probably just his long con response to my throwing that stupid drink in his face.

So I don’t take the lingerie off. I reach for my clothes instead.

Ilya’s sittingon the couch facing me when I step out of his bathroom. My skin tingles from head to toe as his gaze slips over me. His eyes narrow.

“I thought I was clear.”

I smirk at him as I shrug. “I did what you asked.”

When his brow furrows, I turn to the side. My pulse is like a jet engine in my ears as I pull the hem of my skirt down just a bit to show the flash of black lace at my hip.

“See?”

Ilya’s gaze cuts through me as he stands to his full height. He’s wearing the short-sleeved version of the white uniform shirt, no tie, untucked, with the top few buttons undone. My eyes drop to the swirls of tattoo ink trialing down his muscled biceps and across his broad chest.

But I refocus when I see his teeth flash.

“Take off the rest and let me see.”

I shiver as my eyes bulge. “What?”

“Take. Off. The. Uniform,” he growls. “So that I can see.”

I stare at him. He stares right back. And once again, I’ve bitten off way more than I can chew. Once again, I’ve played chicken with a fucking freight train.

“Ilya—”

“Take it off, or I will.”

My heart skips. I should be terrified. I should be scared shitless of being alone, like this, wearing what I’m wearing, with a demented, “’no’ is not a word in my language” psycho like Ilya.

So why the hell does it feel like excitement pooling in my core? Why does it feel like the rush you feel as the barometer drops—the calm right before the thunderclap that heralds the start of the storm.

When I say nothing, he suddenly starts to move towards me. I feel my pulse hammering, my toes curling in my shoes as he barrels towards me—as inevitable and as unstoppable as the thunderhead rushing to the shore.

My teeth drag sharply over my lip, and my heart jumps into my throat, choking me as he looms into me. I gasp as his hand slams flat to the bathroom door behind me, pinning me to it with his large, muscled frame.

“Ilya…”

His hand reaches up, and I shiver when his forefinger rests on the very top button of my school blouse. My eyes grow wide as I look up into his swirling green pools.

“You wouldn’t…”

“Birds fly,” he growls quietly. “Fish swim.”

His thumb and forefinger pinch the top button, slowly twisting it as he leans close. His lips tease past my ear, and my eyes flutter close. His fingers twist. I gasp as the top button to my blouse pops open.

“Little rabbits flee,” he growls into my ear. His fingers drop to the next button, and he deftly pops it open as I tremble, shaking with a mix of fear and excitement.

“Wolves hunt.”

His fingers pop another button, and then another… and another. He keeps going until my blouse falls open, revealing the black lace beneath it barely covering my breasts.

Ilya’s eyes drop to hungrily devour what he sees. I feel my face blush. But I don’t stop him. I don’t slap him, or shove him away, or run.

And the horrible truth is, feeling Ilya Volkov’s eyes hungrily devouring me basically topless in sexy lingerie is one of the hottest moments of my life thus far.

His hand slips up the row of buttons on my blouse. Then he starts to push it off. My heart thumps against my chest as he pushes it off one shoulder, then crosses to push the other side off. The blouse drops to tangle at my elbows. But then I let my arms drop, letting it fall to my feet.

“Now the skirt,” he grunts thickly.

I tense. This is already far past anything I’d ever imagine I was capable of. What he’s asking is beyond—

“Now,” he hisses.

My eyes narrow as I look up into his, giving him a defiant look. His lips curl.

“As you wish.”

His hand drops to my hip. I tremble, but again, I don’t stop him. He deftly pops the button on the side of my green black and gold tartan. His fingers slip to the zipper and he tugs it down enough to loosen the whole thing.

The skirt drops to a puddle at my feet. And suddenly, I’m standing in front of him in nothing but basically see-through lingerie and knee-high socks.

Ilya pulls back slightly. His eyes are hooded and dark as they sweep hungrily over me. His teeth flash, like a beast about to devour its prey.

Wolves hunt. Little rabbits flee.

So why the fuck am I not fleeing?

I can’t move. My entire world feels hot and throbbing. My legs squeeze together, and a salacious-feeling tremble creeps over my skin. I want to hate him for making me do this. But I don’t—I can’t.

I’m too horribly turned on.

Ilya’s hand raises. I shiver, tensing as he reaches for me. But he grits his teeth, hesitating. Instead, his eyes slide up to mine. His hand follows, moving up to cup my jaw roughly. His shoulders heave—one hand flat on the door behind me, the other cupping my face.

The drop before the thunderclap.

The last click of the timer before the bomb explodes.

And then suddenly, finally, The Wolf pounces.

My choked gasp is muffled as his lips crush to mine. He doesn’t kiss me, he attacks my mouth—devouring it, conquering it. He kisses me so hard I’m sure he’s going to bruise my lips.

And yet, I kiss him right back.

I don’t pull away. I don’t slap him. I don’t scream.

I, Little Red Riding Hood, am willfully kissing the Big Bad Wolf. And I know from here on out, whatever happens, I had the chance to run.

And I didn’t.

I whimper as Ilya pins me to the wall. His lips sear to mine, his tongue demanding mine. I get lost in the kiss. Until suddenly, that last little shred of sanity in my brain comes screaming out of the closet she’s been hiding in.

I suddenly freeze: what in the ever-loving-fuck am I doing?

Suddenly, this isn’t about “jumping off the edge” or “the drop before the thunderclap” or anything poetic like that. Suddenly, I see quite clearly that this is just his trap that I’ve tripped right into.

Once again, I played chicken with a force of nature I had no business facing off with. And now, I am really going to pay for it.

With a gasp, my palms suddenly shoot out to press against his chest. I shove him back, my face burning hot. I snatch my clothes up, bolt into his bathroom, and slam and lock the door.

There’s no gazing into the mirror this time. I just yank off the lingerie and quickly slip into my regular clothes as fast as possible—as hard as that may be with how hard I’m shaking. I take a final breath before I yank the bathroom door open.

I gasp. He’s right there, leaning against the doorframe. His green eyes pierce into me. And once again, I almost fall into his trap.

But not this time.

I shove past him, grab my bag, and bolt out of his room, out of Lordship Manor, and all the way across campus until I’m locked safely behind my own bedroom door.