First Breakfast
1380 Words
"I—I'm sorry," July stammered, her heart leaping into her throat as she stepped back. "I was looking for the bathroom. I couldn't find it."
The man didn't anger. Without a word, his large hand gently closed around her arm. He guided her back out into the main bedroom, strode over to an adjacent door, and opened it to reveal a sprawling marble bathroom. He gave her a gentle nudge forward, pushing her inside. He looked down at her intently for a quiet, suffocating beat, before turning his back.
"Take your time," he muttered over his shoulder.
"Look for the dining room when you're done."
The moment the door clicked shut, July leaned against it, her heart racing so loudly it was deafening. Trying to calm her nerves, she stripped out of his oversized pajamas and stepped into the massive glass shower. She turned the handle and stepped directly under the spray—only to gasp and violently recoil as a stream of ice-cold water hit her skin. In her panic, she had completely forgotten to adjust the temperature.
She quickly dialed the heat up. As the warm, steamy water finally began to cascade over her shoulders, cleansing away the lingering trauma of the auction block, July noticed something strange. Her mind, usually frantic with worry, was entirely blank. She wasn't thinking about her parents, her failed university plans, or the human traffickers. Nothing. The only thing completely occupying her thoughts was the dangerous, enigmatic man outside the door.
Shaking the thoughts from her head, she shut off the water and grabbed the fresh towel. Wrapping it around her plus-size frame, she was relieved to find it was huge, enveloping her comfortably in its thick, soothing fabric.
Back in the bedroom, she sifted through the paper bags and pulled out a pair of dark, baggy jeans and a simple white shirt. As she went to put them on, her eyes caught the price tags still attached to the collar. Her jaw dropped. The cost of this single, casual outfit could have paid for months of her family’s groceries back home.
Once dressed, she had to admit the clothes fit her perfectly and were incredibly comfortable. But the moment she smoothed down her shirt, a loud, echoing rumble echoed from her midsection.
She was absolutely starving. Taking a deep breath, July braced herself and opened the bedroom door, stepping out into the unknown corridors to find the dining room.
When July opened the heavy bedroom door, she was greeted by a hallway so profoundly silent that the stillness almost rang in her ears. The corridor stretched out like an endless, echoing gallery. Deciding to turn right, she had barely taken two steps when a polite, calm voice startled her out of her skin.
"You chose the wrong path, miss."
July spun around. Standing a few paces away was a man in his late thirties, possessing an air of quiet professionalism. He wore a casual but expensive knitted brown sweater, sleek tailored pants, eyeglasses, and polished leather shoes. Every hair on his head was perfectly in place.
"This way," he said gently, gesturing toward the opposite direction and guiding her down the corridor.
As they walked, July couldn't help but marvel at the architecture. The house—or rather, the sprawling mansion—was unfathomably huge, boasting soaring high ceilings that made her feel microscopic. The furniture lining the hallways was predominantly wood, but it was clearly of the highest, top-grade quality. The decor was minimal, yet every single piece whispered of absolute luxury.
Despite the grandeur, July was hyper-aware of her own awkwardness. She was fully dressed, but her feet were completely bare. The polished marble floor beneath her was ice-cold, sending a chill up her legs with every step.
The man led her toward a grand, sunlit belvedere—a beautiful architectural viewing space surrounded by glass. There, sitting at a table, was the giant. He was positioned perfectly to face the majestic, snow-capped peaks and sweeping wilderness of the Kamchatka Peninsula.
And, in a display of absolute absurdity, he was holding a glass of rich red wine in the very early hours of the morning.
"Thanks, Jacques," the giant said smoothly, his deep voice cutting through the quiet room without him even turning around.
Jacques gave July a polite nod, turned on his heel, and seamlessly exited the room.
Left alone with him, July stared at the back of the man she had literally slept beside the night before, cursing inwardly at the sheer unfairness of his existence. Now that his head wasn't obscured by a devil mask or a towel, she could see his hair in its full glory. It fell to his shoulders in dark, shiny, unruly waves. It looked effortlessly sexy, softening nothing about his massive frame but adding an undeniable allure.
"Sit," he commanded, his voice waking her from her thoughts. He didn't look back, but he pointed to the vacant seat right next to him.
July hesitated, taking a step forward. As she did, his predatory eyes finally snapped to her, scanning her from head to toe. The moment his gaze hit her bare feet pressing against the freezing marble, a flash of irritation and annoyance crossed his handsome features. Without a word, he pulled out his phone and tapped the screen a few times.
Not even a minute later, Jacques reappeared as if he had materialized out of thin air, carrying a pair of soft, incredibly plush pink bunny slippers. They were clearly a few sizes too big for her 4'11" frame, but they would easily do the job of keeping her feet off the cold stone.
"My apologies, miss," Jacques murmured politely before vanishing back into the mansion.
"Sit," the giant repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Nervously, July slid into the vacant chair on his right side, intentionally leaving a wide berth between them. But the man reached out, grabbed the edge of her heavy wooden chair, and effortlessly pulled it closer to his own. He stopped just short of letting their skin touch, but the proximity was dizzying.
"Look at the view," he told her quietly.
But July couldn't. The majestic Siberian mountains outside the glass were entirely forgotten because, for the first time, she finally had the chance to see his face in all its glory.
His face looked as if it had been carved from violence and expensive sin. Sharp, aristocratic cheekbones cut beneath olive-toned skin, giving him the cold, devastating beauty of a man who had never learned the meaning of mercy. A faint, jagged scar traced the edge of his jawline like a whispered warning—yet instead of ruining his features, it only made him look more dangerously attractive.
His shoulder-length dark hair fell around his face in loose, slightly damp waves, as though he had just stepped out of a storm or a bloodbath and didn’t particularly care which. The careless strands framed his face, but they did nothing to hide his features.
But it was his eyes that truly destroyed people.
They were predatory. Piercing. Eagle-eyed.
They carried the terrifying, absolute stillness of a man who noticed everything and forgave nothing. His dark irises, almost pitch-black beneath the morning light, locked onto her with a suffocating intensity—as if he could peel apart her lies, her fear, and her deepest desires in a single, effortless glance. Looking into them felt exactly like standing too close to the crumbling edge of a cliff.
His mouth was unfairly beautiful for someone so lethal. He possessed full, perfectly sculpted lips that looked as though they rarely smiled, and July got the distinct impression that when they did, it usually meant someone else was about to suffer. A heavy shadow of stubble darkened his jaw, roughening his perfection just enough to ensure he looked dangerous instead of princely.
He didn’t merely occupy the space next to her.
He invaded it.
He sat there beside her, looking exactly like a loaded gun dressed in black silk and tailored sin.
- Writer
