Chapter 70: Scent
But before Finn had even spoken his name, she had suspected he was there.
It was his scent.
A deep, quiet blend of cold winter air, expensive woodsmoke, and a sharp, clean cologne that somehow made the air in the room feel instantly thicker.
Over the past few days, her senses had turned hyper-aware of it. Whenever he came close, her pulse would jump, her chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the overwhelming memory of how big, how warm, and how close he had felt when he leaned over her the night before.
She felt a nervous heat climb up her neck, staining her cheeks a faint pink. She quickly lowered her head, trying to pretend she was still deeply focused on her book.
It didn’t work.
Aaron turned his attention away from Finn and stepped closer to her chair. He stood right beside her, the dark fabric of his coat brushing against the armrest.
"Comfortable?" he asked softly.
Isabella kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, her fingers trembling slightly against the heavy paper. "Yes. It’s fine."
"You seem tense," Aaron noted, leaning down slightly. He could see the faint flush on her skin, the way her breathing had hitched the second he stopped beside her.
He enjoyed it entirely too much, the way she tried so hard to act cold and indifferent while her body gave her away every single time. "Is the book boring?"
"No," she said, her voice a little too quick, a little too sharp. "The book is fine. You should go. You said you had business."
"I do," Aaron murmured. He reached out, his gloved fingers brushing gently against a stray lock of hair near her cheek, tucking it behind her ear.
His touch was light, but the cool leather against her warm skin sent a tiny shock straight down her spine. His hand lingered for just a second, his knuckles barely grazing the sensitive skin of her neck.
Isabella instinctively ducked her head and lifted her hand, swatting at his wrist. "Stop that."
Aaron let out a low, quiet chuckle, stepping back just out of reach. "I’m only making sure you’re taking care of yourself."
Finn looked back and forth between the two of them, his forehead scrunching up in confusion. "Why are you guys being weird?"
"We’re not," Isabella and Aaron said at the exact same time.
Pyotr, standing by the doorway with his tablet tucked under his arm, let out a dry, quiet cough. "Very convincing."
Isabella felt her face burn even hotter. She pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders and turned her face back toward her book, ignoring the sound of Aaron’s low laughter as he finally turned and walked toward the door.
"Keep the gates locked," Aaron told Pyotr as they stepped out into the grand hallway, the heavy oak doors closing behind them. "And make sure the drivers are ready."
...
The drive into the deeper, older parts of the outskirts took nearly an hour. The city lights of Moscow faded away, replaced by towering walls of dark pine trees and ancient stone gates.
This wasn’t the modern, shiny part of Russia. There were no glass skyscrapers here, no flashing neon signs, no luxury sports cars parked outside bright nightclubs.
The convoy turned down a narrow, private gravel road that wasn’t marked on any public map.
Thick iron gates sat at the end of the track, guarded by heavy stone pillars covered in dark ivy. Multiple armed men in unmarked tactical gear stood by the entrance, their faces obscured, heavy rifles held across their chests.
Aaron’s car slowed to a stop. One of the guards stepped up to the driver’s window, checked the credentials, and glanced into the back seat. He met Aaron’s gaze for a brief second, nodded once, and stepped back, waving the gates open.
The car rolled through, crunching over the gravel, approaching a massive, pre-revolutionary estate built from dark gray stone. It looked old, heavy, and forgotten by time, a fortress that had survived wars, revolutions, and decades of shifting regimes.
This was where the old power lived. The men who didn’t run for office, whose names never appeared in news articles or Forbes lists, but whose nod could change laws, open borders, or erase entire companies overnight. The old council.
The car stopped near the broad stone steps of the front entrance.
Aaron opened the door and stepped out into the biting cold air. Two heavy-set guards in tailored wool coats waited at the top of the steps. As Aaron approached, one of them held up a hand, silently indicating for him to stop.
Pyotr stepped forward to hand over his sidearm. The guard checked Aaron quickly, respectfully, but thoroughly, running a scanner over his coat before stepping back and bowing his head slightly.
Pyotr went to follow him inside, but the guard placed a heavy arm across the doorway. "Just Mr. Kazarov."
Pyotr frowned, looking over at Aaron.
Aaron merely gave a small, calm nod. "Wait in the car, Pyotr."
He stepped inside alone. The interior of the estate was silent, lit by heavy brass wall sconces that cast long, amber shadows down the dark wood corridors.
The air smelled of beeswax, old leather, and rich tobacco. There were no modern screens, no security cameras mounted on the corners, just thick, soundproof walls and centuries of secrets.
A tall butler in an immaculate black suit walked ahead of him without speaking a word, leading Aaron down a long hallway lined with oil paintings of forgotten statesmen and military generals.
They reached a pair of massive, carved oak doors at the very end of the hall. The butler knocked twice, opened the heavy door, and stepped aside.
Aaron walked into the room.
It was a grand, dimly lit study lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A massive fire roared in a stone fireplace on the far wall.
Sitting in a high-backed leather chair near the hearth was an elderly man with silver hair, wearing a simple, dark wool cardigan, a crystal glass of amber liquid held loosely in his hand.
The old man didn’t look up immediately. He took a slow sip from his glass, watching the flames crackle against the wood.
"You’re late, Aaron," the old man said, his voice deep, gravelly, and carrying the dry weight of absolute authority.
Aaron pulled off his leather gloves, checking the silver watch on his wrist with a faint, calm smile.
"I’m three minutes early, Minister."