Devil’s Lair (Molotov Obsession Duet Book 1)
Devil’s Lair: Chapter 4

Dumbstruck, I shake his hand. It’s big and strong, his lightly tanned skin warm as his long fingers wrap around mine and squeeze with carefully restrained power. A shiver ripples down my spine at the sensation, my body heating all over, and it takes everything I have not to sway toward him as my knees turn to jelly underneath me.

Get a grip, Chloe. This is a potential employer. Get a fucking grip.

With a herculean effort, I pull my hand away and reach for what remains of my composure. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Molotov.” To my relief, my voice comes out steady, my tone calm and friendly, as befits a person interviewing for a job. Taking a half-step back, I smile up at my host. “I’m sorry I’m a bit early.”

His tiger eyes gleam brighter. “No problem. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Chloe. And please, call me Nikolai.”

“Nikolai,” I repeat, my stupid heartbeat accelerating further. I don’t understand what’s happening to me, why I’m having this reaction to this man. I’ve never been one to lose my mind over a chiseled jaw and washboard abs, not even when I was a hormonal teenager. While my friends were crushing on football players and movie stars, I dated boys whose personalities I liked, whose minds attracted me more than their bodies. For me, sexual chemistry has always been something that develops over time rather than being there from the start.

Then again, I’ve never met a man who exudes such raw animal magnetism.

I didn’t know men like this existed.

Focus, Chloe. He’s most likely married.

The thought is like a splash of cold water in my face, jerking me back to the reality of my situation. What the fuck am I doing, drooling over some kid’s father? I need this job to survive. The forty-mile drive here ate more than a quarter tank of gas, and if I don’t earn some money soon, I’ll be stranded, a sitting duck for the killers coming after me.

The heat inside me cools at the thought, and when Nikolai says, “Follow me,” and walks back into the house, my nerves jangle with anxiety instead of whatever it was that came over me at the sight of him.

Inside, the house is as ultra modern as it is on the outside. All around me are floor-to-ceiling windows with stunning views, modern-art-museum-worthy decorations, and sleek furniture that looks like it came straight out of some interior designer’s showroom. Everything is done in shades of gray and white, softened in a few places by natural wood and stone accents. It’s beautiful and more than a little intimidating, just like the man in front of me, and as he leads me through an open-layout living room to a spiral wood-and-glass staircase in the back, I can’t help feeling like a mangy pigeon that’s accidentally flown into a gilded concert hall.

Tamping down on the unsettling sensation, I say, “You have a beautiful house. Have you been living here long?”

“A few months,” he replies as we go up the stairs. He glances at me. “What about you? You said in your cover letter you’re on a road trip?”

“That’s right.” Feeling on firmer ground, I explain that I graduated from Middlebury College in June and decided to see the country before diving into the working world. “But then of course, I saw your listing,” I conclude, “and it sounded too perfect to pass up, so here I am.”

“Yes, indeed,” he says softly as we stop in front of a closed door. “Here you are.”

My breath hitches again, my pulse speeding up uncontrollably. There’s something unnerving in the darkly sensual curve of his mouth, something almost… dangerous in the intensity of his stare. Maybe it’s the unusual color of his eyes, but I feel distinctly uneasy when he presses his palm to an unobtrusive panel on the wall and the door swings open in front of us, spy-movie style.

“Please,” he murmurs, motioning for me to enter, and I do so, doing my best to ignore the unsettling sensation that I’m entering a predator’s lair.

The “lair” turns out to be a large, sunlit office. Two of the walls are made entirely of glass, revealing breathtaking mountain vistas, while a sleek L-shaped desk in the middle holds several computer monitors. To the side is a small round table with two chairs, and that’s where Nikolai leads me.

Hiding a relieved exhale, I take a seat and lay my resume on the table in front of him. Clearly, I’m on edge, my nerves so frayed after the past month that I’m seeing danger everywhere. This is an interview for a tutor position, nothing more, and I need to get a hold of myself before I blow it.

Despite the admonition, my pulse spikes again as Nikolai leans back in his chair and regards me with those unsettlingly beautiful eyes. I can feel the growing dampness of my palms, and it’s all I can do not to wipe them again on my jeans. As ridiculous as it is, I feel stripped bare by that gaze, all my secrets and fears exposed.

Stop it, Chloe. He knows nothing. You’re interviewing to be a tutor, nothing more.

“So,” I say brightly to hide my anxiety, “may I ask about the child I’d be tutoring? Is it your son or daughter?”

His face takes on an indecipherable expression. “My son. Miroslav. We call him Slava.”

“That’s a great name. Is he—”

“Tell me about yourself, Chloe.” Leaning forward, he picks up my resume but doesn’t look at it. Instead, his eyes are trained on my face, making me feel like a butterfly pinned under a microscope. “What is it about this position that intrigues you?”

“Oh, everything.” Taking a breath to steady my voice, I describe all the babysitting and tutoring I’ve done throughout the years, and then I go over my internships, including my last summer job at a special-needs camp, where I worked with children of all ages. “It was a great experience,” I conclude, “both challenging and rewarding. My favorite part of it, though, was teaching math and reading to the younger kids—which is why I think I’d be perfect for this role. Teaching is my passion, and I’d love a chance to work with a child one-on-one, to tailor the curriculum to his or her interests and abilities.”

He sets the resume down, still without bothering to look at it. “And how do you feel about living in a place that’s so removed from civilization? Where there’s nothing but wilderness for dozens of miles around and only minimal contact with the outside world?”

“That sounds…” Like a haven. “…amazing.” I beam at him, my excitement unfeigned. “I’m a big fan of the wilderness, and nature in general. In fact, my alma mater—Middlebury College—was chosen partly because of its rural location. I love hiking and fishing, and I know my way around a campfire. Living here would be a dream come true.” Especially given all the security measures I spotted on the way in—but I don’t say that, of course.

I can’t appear to be anything other than a brand-new college grad looking for adventure.

He arches his eyebrows. “You won’t miss your friends? Or family?”

“No, I—” To my dismay, my throat constricts with a sudden rush of grief. Swallowing, I try again. “I’m very independent. I’ve been traveling around the country on my own for the past month, and besides, there are always phones, videoconferencing apps, and social media.”

He cocks his head. “Yet you haven’t been posting on your social media profiles for the past month. Why’s that?”

I stare at him, my heartbeat skyrocketing. He’s looked at my social media? How? When? I have the highest privacy settings in place; he should be unable to see anything about me other than the fact that I exist and use social media like a normal person. Has he had me investigated? Hacked into my accounts somehow?

Who is this man?

“I actually don’t have a phone right now.” A trickle of sweat runs down my spine, but I succeed in keeping my tone level. “I got rid of it because I wanted to see if I could function on this road trip without all the electronics. A personal challenge of sorts.”

“I see.” His eyes are more green than amber in this light. “So how do you keep in touch with family and friends?”

“Email, mostly,” I lie. There’s no way I can admit that I haven’t kept in touch with anyone and have no plans to do so. “I’ve been visiting public libraries and using the computers there once in a while.” Realizing my fingers are laced tightly together, I unclench my hands and force a smile to my lips. “It’s quite liberating, not being tied to a phone, you see. Extreme connectivity is both a blessing and a curse, and I’m enjoying the freedom of traveling around the country as people have done in the past, with only a paper map to guide me.”

“A Gen Z luddite. How refreshing.”

I flush at the gentle mockery in his tone. I know how my explanation sounds, but it’s the only thing I can come up with to justify my lack of recent social media activity and, in case he looks at my resume closely, absence of a cell phone number. In fact, it’s a good excuse for everything, so I might as well roll with it.

“You’re right. I’m a bit of a luddite,” I say. “That’s probably why city life holds so little appeal for me, and why I found your job posting so intriguing. Living out here”—I motion at the gorgeous views outside—“and tutoring your son is the kind of job I’ve always wanted, and if you hire me, I will dedicate myself to it completely.”

A slow, dark smile curves his lips. “Is that right?”

“Yes.” I hold his gaze, even as my breath turns shallow and prickles of heat run over my skin. I really don’t get my reaction to this man, don’t understand how I can replace him so magnetic even as he sets off all kinds of alarms in my mind. Paranoia or not, my instincts are screaming that he’s dangerous, yet my finger itches to reach out and trace the clearly defined edges of his full, soft-looking lips. Swallowing, I wrench my thoughts away from that treacherous territory and say with as much earnestness as I can manage, “I’ll be the most perfect tutor you can imagine.”

He regards me without blinking, the silence stretching into several long seconds, and just when I feel like my nerves might snap like an overextended rubber band, he stands up and says, “Follow me.”

He leads me out of the office and down a long hallway until we reach another closed door. This one must not have any biometric security, since he just knocks on the door and, without waiting for an answer, goes in.

Inside, another floor-to-ceiling window provides more breathtaking views. However, there’s nothing sleek and modern about this room. Instead, it looks like the aftermath of a toy factory explosion. Colorful chaos is everywhere I look, with piles of toys, children’s books, and LEGO pieces scattered all over the floor, and a child-sized bed covered by a Superman-themed sheet in the corner. The Superman-themed pillows and blanket from the bed are piled high in another corner, and it’s not until my host says in a commanding tone, “Slava!” that I realize there’s a little boy building a LEGO castle next to that pile.

At his father’s voice, the boy’s head jerks up, revealing a pair of huge amber-green eyes—the same mesmerizing eyes the man next to me possesses. In general, the boy is Nikolai in miniature, his black hair falling around his ears in a straight, glossy curtain and his child-round face already showing a hint of those striking cheekbones. Even the mouth is the same, lacking only the cynical, knowing curve of his father’s lips.

“Slava, idi syuda,” Nikolai orders, and the boy gets up and cautiously approaches us. As he stops in front of us, I notice he’s wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with a picture of Spider-Man on the front.

Looking down at his son, Nikolai starts speaking to him in rapid-fire Russian. I have no idea what he’s saying, but it must have something to do with me because the boy keeps glancing at me, his expression both curious and fearful.

As soon as Nikolai is done speaking, I smile at the child and kneel on the floor, so we’re on the same eye level. “Hi, Slava,” I say gently. “I’m Chloe. It’s nice to meet you.”

The boy looks at me blankly.

“He doesn’t speak English,” Nikolai says, his voice hard. “Alina and I have tried to teach him, but he knows we speak Russian, and he refuses to learn it from us. So that would be your job: teaching him English, along with anything else a child his age should know.”

“I see.” I keep my gaze on the boy, smiling at him warmly even as more alarms go off in my mind. There’s something odd in the way Nikolai talks to and about the child. It’s as if his son is a stranger to him. And if Alina—who I assume is his wife and the mother of the child—knows English as well as my host, why doesn’t Slava speak at least a few words? Why would he refuse to learn the language from his parents?

In general, why doesn’t Nikolai pick up the boy and hug him? Or playfully ruffle his hair?

Where’s the warm ease with which parents usually communicate with their children?

“Slava,” I say to the boy softly, “I’m Chloe.” I point at myself. “Chloe.”

He regards me with his father’s unblinking stare for several long moments. Then his mouth moves, shaping the syllables. “Klo-ee.”

I beam at him. “That’s right. Chloe.” I tap my chest. “And you’re Slava.” I point at him. “Miroslav, right?”

He nods solemnly. “Slava.”

“Do you like comic books, Slava?” I gently touch the picture on his T-shirt. “This is Spider-Man, isn’t it?”

His eyes brighten. “Da, Spider-Man.” He pronounces it with a Russian accent. “Ti znayesh o nyom?”

I glance up at Nikolai, only to replace him watching me with a dark, indecipherable expression. A tingle of unwelcome awareness zips down my spine, my breath hitching at a sudden feeling of vulnerability. On my knees is not where I want to be with this man.

It feels a lot like baring my throat to a beautiful, wild wolf.

“My son is asking if you know about Spider-Man,” he says after a tension-filled moment. “I assume the answer is yes.”

With effort, I tear my gaze away from him and focus on the boy. “Yes, I know about Spider-Man,” I say, smiling. “I loved Spider-Man when I was your age. Also Superman and Batman and Wonder Woman and Aquaman.”

The child’s face brightens more with every superhero I name, and when I get to Aquaman, a mischievous grin appears on his face. “Aquaman?” He wrinkles his small nose. “Nyet, nye Aquaman.”

“No Aquaman?” I widen my eyes exaggeratedly. “Why not? What’s wrong with Aquaman?”

That draws a giggle. “Nye Aquaman.”

“Okay, you win. Not Aquaman.” I let out a sad sigh. “Poor Aquaman. So few kids like him.”

The boy giggles again and runs over to a pile of comic books next to the bed. Grabbing one, he brings it back and points at the picture on the front. “Superman samiy sil’niy,” he declares.

“Superman is the best?” I guess. “Your favorite?”

“He said he’s the strongest,” Nikolai says evenly, then switches over to Russian, his voice taking on the same commanding tone.

The boy’s face falls, and he lowers the book, his posture dejected.

“Let’s go back to my office,” Nikolai says to me, and without another word to his son, he heads for the door.