FIRST COMMAND
.
.
.
AUTHOR’S POV
The penthouse gleamed like a blade—sharp edges of glass and steel slicing the Manhattan skyline. Serene clutched her worn backpack, her sneakers silent on the marble floor.
Her heart hammering louder than the city hum thirty floors below. She wasn’t supposed to be here.
Not in this world of wealth and whispers, where men like Nicholas Volkov ruled with fists wrapped in velvet.
But the paycheck—seven grand a month just to cook and clean—had silenced her doubts. Julian’s voice echoed in her head: “It’s simple, Serene. He’s my brother. He needs help. You need cash.”
The elevator doors hissed shut behind her, sealing her in.
She adjusted her ponytail, black strands sticking to her sweaty neck, and glanced at the note Julian had scrawled: Kitchen. 7 p.m. Dinner. Simple. She could do simple.
Except nothing felt simple when the air prickled with him before she even saw him.
“Late.”
The word hit like a whip, deep and rough, from the shadows of the living room.
Serene froze, her breath catching as Nicholas Volkov stepped into the light.
He was a storm in a suit—tall, broad, his late-thirties frame carved from years of power. Dark hair streaked with silver framed a face too handsome to be fair, all hard lines and a jaw that could cut glass.
His gray eyes locked on her, stripping her bare in one sweep, and her knees wobbled.
“I-I’m sorry, sir,” she stammered, clutching the backpack tighter.
“The subway—”
“Dinner. Now.” He cut her off, voice a low growl, already turning away.
His presence sucked the oxygen from the room, leaving her dizzy. She scurried to the kitchen—open, gleaming, a chef’s dream—and fumbled with the fridge.
Steak. Rare, Julian had said. She could do this. She had to.
The sizzle of meat on the pan filled the silence, but his shadow loomed closer.
She felt him before she saw him—heat radiating as he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching. Her hands shook, the spatula slipping.
A drop of oil popped, and she flinched.
She was nervous. He was too close and she couldn’t seem to breathe the same air as him.
“Too slow,” he said, voice closer now, a dark velvet that brushed her spine.
He stepped behind her, his chest a wall of muscle inches away. She smelled cedar and bourbon, sharp and intoxicating.
“Turn it.”
“W-what?” Her voice was a squeak, barely audible over the hiss of the steak.
He didn’t repeat himself. His hand shot out—not to the pan, but to her wrist, gripping it with calloused fingers.
Firm, not cruel, but enough to make her gasp. He guided her hand, flipping the meat with a flick, his breath hot against her ear.
“Like that. Learn fast, little maid.”
Her cheeks burned, her pulse a wild drumbeat under his touch.
She nodded, too scared to speak, too aware of his thumb lingering on her skin before he let go.
He stepped back, but his eyes didn’t—gray and unyielding, pinning her like a butterfly on a board.
She plated the steak, hands trembling, and slid it across the counter.
“Here, sir.”
He didn’t move. Just stared—first at the plate, then at her. A smirk tugged his lips, sharp and dangerous.
“Sit.”
“Sir?” She blinked, her stomach twisting.
“Sit,” he repeated, nodding to the stool beside him.
“You eat with me tonight.”
Her mouth went dry.
This wasn’t in Julian’s note.
She hesitated, but his gaze darkened, a silent command she couldn’t defy. She perched on the edge of the stool, knees pressed tight, feeling small next to his towering frame.
He sliced into the steak, the knife glinting, and held a piece to her lips.
“Open.”
Her heart stopped.
Her fingers trembling.
She parted her lips, trembling, and the meat hit her tongue- warm, rich, overwhelming.
His eyes never left hers, a predator savoring his catch.
“Good girl,” he murmured, and the words sank into her, coiling low and tight.
She didn’t know what she’d stepped into.
Not yet.
But as Nicholas Volkov leaned closer, his knee brushing hers under the counter, she knew one thing: she wasn’t just a maid.
She was his.
And he wasn’t letting go.
