THE DEVIL’S ON CALL

The Architecture Of A Trap

Zoya watched in absolute silence as Ivan extended the glossy designer gift bag and the wrapped velvet box toward her, that signature, unhinged grin pulling at the corners of his lips. She didn't reach out. Instead, she stepped back, crossing her arms tightly over her chest as she anchored her weight against the stainless-steel examination table.

"I'm not taking anything from you until you tell me exactly what is inside," Zoya said, her voice dropping into a sharp, defensive register.

She had spent the last fourteen days learning the hard way that a gift from Ivan Starkov was never just a gift. It was a Trojan horse wrapped in silk. Over the past two weeks, he had managed to trick, corner, or outmaneuver her in every single interaction they shared. Whether it was a seemingly innocent game of cards where he somehow memorized her tells, a match of chess where he sacrificed his pieces just to trap her queen, or a simple game of two truths and a lie where his truths were more horrifying than his fictions, Ivan always had something up his muscled sleeves. He was a creature who thrived on a baseline of perpetual manipulation.

"Calm down, doc, it’s just a dress. See?" Ivan rolled his eyes with a dramatic, exaggerated sigh, waving the designer bag directly in front of her face like a piece of bait.

"A dress?" Zoya’s brow furrowed, her suspicion deep and unyielding. What on earth would she be needing a dress for in this place?. "Starkov, I have an incredibly busy day ahead of me. Just get straight to the point."

Ivan sighed again, a sound of pure, boyish impatience, and dropped the packages directly onto the pristine workspace she had just cleared. Before she could react, he moved past her, his massive frame brushing against her shoulder as he cleared the distance.

Zoya spun around instantly, her heart executing a sudden, violent leap against her ribs. She had gotten dangerously used to the fact that Ivan loved to sneak up behind her; it was undeniably his favorite psychological weapon. Over the last fortnight, she had realized that she always felt an intense, involuntary somatic reaction whenever he touched her. Whether it was just a faint, accidental brush of his long fingers against the side of her face, the authoritative way he grabbed her wrist without her permission, or the heavy, casual weight of his arm when he wrapped it around her shoulders to guide her through a corridor it entirely threw off her internal balance.

At first, Zoya had rationalized it as a calculated strategy. She thought he was merely testing his physical limits with her, pushing boundaries to see when she would break or scream. But she had soon discovered the truth: all of this uninhibited physical contact was completely natural for him. He was a predator who moved through the world touching whatever he pleased.

But to her? She was always hovering precisely at her absolute limits whenever he was within a three foot radius. His touch, his heavy scent of expensive tobacco and expensive cedar, his suffocating physical presence she was acutely, terrifyingly aware of every single variable. It made her shiver, a deep, internal tremor that felt like the gentle breeze rustling through the trees right before a massive, destructive storm. To Zoya, Ivan Starkov was a ticking time bomb. The terrifying part was that she genuinely didn't know who would end up exploding first when the timer finally hit zero him, or her.

Luckily, Ivan wasn't trying to touch her or sneak up on her this time. He simply walked over to the consulting desk and took a seat in her rolling office chair. He sat back, perfectly relaxed, his hands resting on his lap as he watched her. The fact that he was keeping his distance only made her more uneasy. He was definitely up to something.

"We’re going out, doc," he finally said, his voice casual, as if he were announcing a change in the weather.

Zoya froze. For a second, she genuinely thought what she had heard was just the wind howling against the clinic windows, or perhaps her own mind playing cruel psychological tricks on her after being cooped up inside this concrete fortress for fourteen straight days.

"I’m sorry... what?" she asked, her voice cracking slightly as she sought confirmation.

"You heard me. We’re going out," he repeated, the unhinged grin returning in full force as he began to twirl the office chair left and right, spinning like a child while keeping his dark, chaotic eyes locked onto her reaction with immense amusement.

A thousand frantic thoughts collided in her mind at once. He was definitely joking. He had to be. This was undoubtedly some sick, twisted psychological game the brothers were playing to test her compliance. Were they really going to let her leave the perimeter of the estate? Even with all the high caliber security and the armada of armed guards they possessed, if she stepped foot into the public eye, she would absolutely find a way to escape, she would run,she would do whatever it took to break the tether.

She stared at Ivan intensely, her gaze boring into his face as she tried to decipher the exact nature of his bullshit.

"What the f**k are you up to now?" she demanded, dropping her professional demeanor entirely.

"Simple, doc. I got you a dress, you’re going to wear the dress, and you're going to go out with me. It’s not rocket science," he explained, stopping the chair from spinning and leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Where are we going?" she asked almost immediately, her voice sharp as she tried desperately to conceal the wild, burning eagerness leaping in her chest. A breath of fresh air. A glimpse of the city. Anything was better than these walls.

"You’ll find out when we get there. It’s a surprise, ptichka."

"Stop calling me that," Zoya snapped, her jaw tightening. She loathed that nickname with every fiber of her being. Every time the word slipped past his lips, it made her feel incredibly small in front of him. small, helpless, and completely naked, as if he could see straight through the armor down to the terrified girl underneath.

Ivan got up abruptly. He moved toward her with a frightening, fluid grace, crossing the distance between the desk and her workstation in less than three long strides. Before she could even draw a breath, he was completely invading her personal space, looming over her until she could feel the literal heat of his breath rising against the skin of her throat.

"What would you prefer I call you then?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rasp.

Zoya swallowed nervously, her spine pressed flat against the edge of the counter behind her. "Zoya. I would prefer if you called me by my actual name."

"And where's the fun in that?" His face was now inches from hers, his dark eyes dropping significantly to lock onto her lips with an intense, heavy gravity.

Zoya’s heart hammered against her ribs, a hot wave of frustration flushing through her veins. Why in hell did her captors have to be this infuriatingly good looking? It was a genetic injustice. It infuriated her to no end, and worse, it made her feel something entirely inexplainable a dangerous, electric pull that she refused to give a name to.

Unable to look into his dark eyes for another second, Zoya closed her eyes tightly, her hands gripping the edge of the wood behind her. She braced herself for his touch, expecting his fingers to find her jawline.

Instead, a voice rang out from the doorway, making her eyelids snap open and causing her to shudder violently.

"Five p.m., doc. Don’t keep me waiting."

Zoya blinked in utter disorientation. Ivan was already standing at the exit, his hand on the brass doorknob, looking back at her with a smug, knowing chuckle. When on earth had he gotten all the way over there? He had moved so fast, so silently, it was as if he were a ghost.

With a final, mocking nod, he left the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. Zoya looked at the velvet box on the counter and let out a long, ragged sigh of relief. Thank God he was gone.

She picked up the box and the designer bag, setting them carefully at the far side of her desk. Her mind was a chaotic storm of questions. Where were they going? Was it just going to be the two of them, or would Lev be joining the excursion? How was she going to survive a prolonged car ride with Ivan when she spent her entire existence trying to avoid him as much as humanly possible? And most importantly... would she be able to find a window to escape?

A sharp knock at the door interrupted her spiraling thoughts. An armed guard walked in, holding his forearm where a deep laceration was bleeding through a makeshift bandage. And just like that, her medical day began.

For the next several hours, Zoya worked tirelessly, stitched up skin, cleaning wounds, and managing the clinic with a frantic pace, doing everything in her power to keep her mind off the impending outing. She failed miserably. The anticipation was eating her alive, clawing at her focus as the clock ticked closer and closer to the deadline. Where was he taking her?

By the time she finished up her last patient and cleaned the stainless-steel tools, she looked up at the wall clock. It was 4:30 p.m.

Panic surged through her. She grabbed the gift box and the designer bag, practically sprinting out of the medical wing and rushing through the hollow corridors back to her residential room. She threw the packages onto her bed, stripped off her clothes, and jumped into the shower, freshening up as fast as her limbs could move.

Minutes later, wrapped in a short, white terry-cloth bathrobe that barely reached her mid-thigh, Zoya knelt on the mattress and carefully opened the velvet box. The first things to greet her eyes were a pair of stunning black stilettos by Cesare Paciotti. The heels were high, sleek, and tipped with a signature metal dagger accent. Zoya usually found heels to be incredibly uncomfortable she was used to the flat sole of her medical clogs, but she had been forced to get used to them during her residency whenever she had to attend high end hospital charity events or colleagues' weddings. She could manage. She could walk in them, and if it came down to it, she could run. What worried her more, however, was the terrifying realization that Ivan somehow knew her exact shoe size without ever asking.

Turning her attention to the designer bag, she pulled out the dress. It was black.

Zoya stood up, holding the fabric up to the light to examine it properly, and her jaw nearly dropped to the floor. The dress had a couple of straps. Actually, who was she kidding? It was all straps. The entire garment was constructed from a complex, revealing matrix of elasticized silk bands that crossed over the bodice, slashed down the ribs, and held the skirt together from bottom to top. It was a structural hazard. It was basically what Zoya would call a slut trap if she saw someone else wearing it. There was absolutely no way in hell she was going anywhere with him wearing this.

Clutching the strapped black dress tightly in her hand, fury blinding her judgment, Zoya stormed completely out of her room. She didn't think; she just reacted, rushing straight down the corridor and into the private wing of the house reserved exclusively for Ivan and Lev.

She stopped abruptly in front of Ivan’s heavy mahogany door and began knocking frantically, her knuckles bruising against the wood.

"Ivan! Open this door!" she yelled.

After a short, agonizing wait, the lock clicked, and the door swung open. Ivan stood there, already half dressed for the evening, casually buttoning up the front of a crisp, black dress shirt. The moment his eyes landed on her, that familiar, infuriating smirk slammed right back onto his face, as if he had been anticipating this exact confrontation.

"What the f**k is this?" Zoya hissed, shoving the black strapped dress directly toward his chest.

"The dress you’re supposed to wear, doc," Ivan replied smoothly, his eyes tracing the fabric before shifting up to her face. He glanced down at the gold watch on his wrist. "And you need to be ready in the next... ten minutes."

"Yeah, well, I would rather grow old, rot, and die in this estate than go anywhere with you wearing this piece of dental floss," she snapped, her voice vibrating with rage.

"I mean, I do like the sound of that," Ivan purred, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, his dark eyes glittering with amusement. "But also... you don't really have a choice here, do you? You know you're itching to step outside these walls for a while. That, and the fact that I'm technically your employer, which makes this a direct order. So you better be ready in the next ten minutes wearing that dress, or we're going to leave exactly as you are right now."

Before she could scream at him, Ivan slammed the heavy door right in her face.

Zoya stood frozen in the hallway, her chest heaving as she heard his booming, deep laughter echoing from the other side of the wood. The sound made her absolutely livid. She raised her fists, knocking on his door again and again, the wood rattling under her assault.

"Ivan Starkov! I swear to God, open this door right now!"

She paused, her hands dropping to her sides as a cold realization struck her. This was exactly what Ivan wanted. He fed on chaos. He genuinely enjoyed seeing her lose her mind, watching her become frantic and unraveled. She was playing right into his hands.

Taking a slow step back, she forced herself to breathe. Her eyes darted down the long, opulent hallway, landing on the massive set of double doors positioned at the absolute end of the corridor. A sudden, desperate thought crystallized in her mind.

If one twin was being entirely unreasonable and childish, then the other twin the one who prided himself on logic and corporate structure would have to listen to her. Lev would see the ridiculousness of this situation.

Without giving herself a single second to second guess the impulse, Zoya turned on her heel and headed straight for Lev’s door.

She reached the threshold, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She knocked once. Twice. A third time. No reply came from the other side. Frustrated, she reached down and wrapped her fingers around the brass handle, pushing the door slightly. To her surprise, it wasn't locked. It swung open on silent hinges, and she carefully stepped inside.

The room was vast, dark, and incredibly cold, the air conditioning turned down to a freezing baseline. The space smelt intensely of crisp mountain air, mixed with deep notes of cedarwood and a faint, masculine trace of smoke. It was the kind of heavy, commanding scent that immediately made you want to step back, close your mouth, and listen.

That was exactly how Lev Starkov smelled.

Zoya had spent the last two weeks doing everything in her power to actively avoid Lev. His cold, unlinking stares had the literal ability to freeze the blood in her veins, making her feel intensely uneasy whenever he entered a room. Now, here she was, willingly trespassing in his private sanctuary. Unlike Ivan, who took great pleasure in showing his cards and flaunting his madness, Lev was the complete opposite. He was cold, calculative, distant, and unreadable. Over the fortnight, Lev had shown absolutely zero personal interest in her, treating her like nothing more than a piece of high value inventory. Zoya still couldn't decide if his total indifference was a good thing or a terrifying bad thing.

She looked around the dim space, her eyes straining in the shadows, silently praying that he wasn't currently lurking in some dark corner, watching her and waiting to strike.

What the hell was she even doing here? There had to be a hundred better ways she could solve the dress problem than lurking around like a thief in the private bedroom of Lev f*****g Starkov.

Just as I turned on my bare heel to slip back out the door, the overhead lights in the room sharply clicked on, flooding the space with bright, brilliant illumination.

I froze completely, my breath catching tightly in my throat.

Lev was just coming out of the adjoining suite bathroom. He was entirely shirtless, a heavy white towel wrapped loosely around his low hips, while he held another smaller towel in his large, scarred hand, casually drying his dark, damp hair.

His winter-blue eyes snapped forward, landing directly on me, and he froze too.

For a long, agonizingly silent moment, neither of us moved. My eyes were completely locked onto him, utterly trapped by the sight. Lev and Ivan shared the exact same towering, heavily muscled frame, the same striking eye color, and the same dark hair, but seeing Lev like this was entirely different. Lev had far fewer tattoos than his brother—just a few intricate lines of foreign writings etched dark against his ribs and shoulder blades. When he was fully clothed in his immaculate, heavy three piece suits, you would never guess those tattoos were even there.

Water droplets from his damp, messy hair ran effortlessly down the carved, rigid lines of his tanned chest, streaming over his perfectly toned abs before disappearing beneath the edge of the low towel.

I was clearly caught in a trance again, my brain short-circuiting against my will. There seriously should be international laws against men looking as good as these two, I thought bitterly, a flush of heat creeping up my neck that had absolutely nothing to do with anger.

"Do you need something?"

Lev’s hoarse, deep baritone voice suddenly broke through the silence, catching me entirely off guard.

"Hmmm, ummmm... yeah," I stammered, my face burning as I tried desperately to look anywhere else in the room but at his bare chest. I cleared my throat, forcing my voice to find its usual sharp, professional footing as I held up the black garment. "Ivan said I was supposed to follow him to this outing tonight, which is fine, but he got me this and is insisting that I wear it."

I took a nervous breath, turning back to face him fully, trying to look demanding despite the circumstances. "Lev, look at this. This isn't a dress, okay? It's a freaking fish net and a blatant uncomfortable safety hazard."

Like I wasn't even standing there, like my heated words were nothing more than a minor annoyance, Lev calmly walked right past me. He didn't even look at the black fabric. Instead, he sat down on the edge of his massive king-sized bed, picking up the smaller towel to continue drying his hair.

As he passed, the heavy, intoxicating scent of cedarwood hit my nose all over again.

"And?" Lev asked dryly, his voice completely flat, as if I were actively wasting his highly valuable time.

"And?" I questioned, my temper flaring violently at his dismissive tone.

Driven by pure, unfiltered frustration, I marched right up to the edge of his bed, standing directly in front of him, casting a shadow over where he sat, demanding to be properly listened to.

"And can you at least be the mature one in this house for once?" I argued, gesturing wildly with the strapped dress. "Can you help your brother understand that I literally cannot wear this out in public?"

Lev didn't answer right away. He got up from the bed, his massive, towel clad frame easily towering over me once again as he moved past me toward the far end of his room, casually pulling open a sleek dark drawer to look for a clean shirt.

"Then don't go," Lev said simply, his tone utterly indifferent as he flipped through the clothes. "If you have a problem with the dress, don't wear it. And if you don't wear the dress, Ivan cancels the outing. It's simple math."

My jaw dropped. These sons of bitches.

A wave of bitter realization crashed over me. They both knew. They both knew exactly how badly, how desperately I wanted to step a single foot outside of this prison, and they were deliberately playing games right in my face, weaponizing my own desires against me.

"You know what? f**k you," I cursed loudly, the professional mask completely shattering into pieces.

I turned on my heel, marching out of his room and slamming his massive mahogany door behind me as hard as I humanly could, genuinely hoping the force of the impact would make the entire building collapse on top of them.

I spun around in the hallway, blind with rage, and immediately bumped hard into a solid figure. I stumbled back, my hands flying out to steady myself as my eyes landed on Rowena.

Ro was staring back at me, her jaw completely slack, her eyes wide as saucers as if she were looking at a literal ghost.

"Ummm..." Rowena stammered, her voice high and completely stunned as she looked between me and the door I had just slammed. "Were you just coming out of Lev’s room?"

"Yes!" I replied sharply, my hands gripping my hips as I prepared to launch into a massive, furious rant, desperate to vent some of my explosive anger and talk to Rowena about the absolute insanity of the Starkov twins. "You honestly won't believe these two…"

"Zoya," Rowena cut me off, her voice dropping into a shocked, breathless whisper as her eyes slowly traveled down my body. "You... you just came out of his private bedroom wearing that?"

I paused, my brows furrowing in utter confusion at her horrified expression.

Slowly, I let my gaze drift downward, looking down at myself properly for the very first time since I had stormed out of my quarters.

My stomach dropped into a cold, bottomless pit of pure, unadulterated mortification.

I was still in my tiny, ridiculously short cream terrycloth bathrobe. The hem barely reached the top of my thighs, and my legs were completely bare. All this time for the last fifteen minutes while I had been marching down the public corridors, yelling at Ivan's door, and standing inside Lev's bedroom complaining about not wanting to wear a slutty dress...

I had been walking around the entire estate in a freaking bathrobe.