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"That's it,kisa," he murmurs, one hand sliding up to tangle in my hair. "Take what you need."
The endearment—that Russian word for "kitten" he uses only in our most private moments—undoes something in me. I arch my back, taking him deeper, reveling in the way his breath catches. My thighs tremble with the effort of rising and falling, but the pleasure building inside me is worth every ache.
Outside, the city gives way to darkness as we speed toward the countryside. Inside, there is only heat and friction and theintoxicating scent of sex mingling with the lingering smell of gunpowder on our skin.
"You have no idea," he groans, his accent thickening as his control frays, "what you do to me when you fight. When you show your teeth."
His thumb finds the center of my pleasure, circling with devastating precision. I bite my lip to keep from screaming, aware of the driver despite the partition separating us.
"No," Mikhail says, his eyes flashing. "I want to hear you. Let him hear who you belong to."
The possessiveness in his voice sends a fresh wave of heat through me. This is what I've awakened in him—this primal need to claim and be claimed. To my surprise, I find I want it too. Want to mark him as mine just as surely as he's marking me.
I roll my hips, changing the angle, and am rewarded with a curse in Russian that sounds like a prayer. His fingers dig harder into my flesh, guiding me faster, deeper. The leather seat creaks beneath us, the sound nearly drowned out by our labored breathing.
"You're close," he observes, his eyes never leaving mine. It's not a question—he reads my body like a book he's memorized. "Come for me,kisa. Let me feel you."
His command, combined with the relentless pressure of his thumb, pushes me over the edge. The orgasm crashes through me like a tidal wave, stealing my breath, my thoughts, my very sense of self. I cry out his name—not his title, not "husband," but "Mikhail"—as my body clenches around him.
He follows me seconds later, his control finally completely shattered. His release fills me as he pulls me against his chest, his face buried in my neck, my name a broken litany on his lips.
For long moments afterward, we stay joined, our breathing gradually slowing. Mikhail's hands stroke my back beneath thetorn dress, tracing patterns I can't decipher. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft against my ear.
"I would burn this city to the ground for you," he confesses, the words sounding as if they've been torn from somewhere deep inside him. "After tonight... after seeing you fight... I know there is nothing I wouldn't do to keep you safe."
I pull back just enough to see his face, to read the truth in those ice-blue eyes that no longer seem cold to me.
"I don't need you to burn cities," I tell him, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "I need you to stand beside me while I learn to fight my own battles."
Something like respect flickers across his features mingled with the lingering heat of desire.
"As you wish,kisa," he says, his thumb tracing the curve of my lower lip. "But know this—anyone who tries to take you from me will die screaming."
The promise should terrify me. Instead, I find myself nodding, understanding at last the rules of this new world I've chosen.
"And anyone who tries to hurt you," I reply, "will answer to me."
His smile—slow and dangerous and full of dark promise—is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. He may be a monster, but this beautiful monster belongs to me.
Chapter 20
Epilogue: A Week Later
Mikhail
Istep over the last bodyguard's corpse, his blood pooling into the Persian rug like spilled wine.
Vanya moves like a shadow beside me, his breathing controlled despite the carnage we've left in our wake. Three floors of Petrov's mansion, and not one of his men proved worthy of the bullets we put in them. The silence now feels almost sacred—a cathedral of death that we've built with our bare hands and loaded guns.
I pause outside the mahogany doors of what I know to be Vlad's office, my fingers tracing the cold steel of my Makarov. Through the crack beneath the door, warm light spills out, and I can hear the faint scratch of pen on paper. The bastard doesn't even know his empire is bleeding out around him.
"Ready?" Vanya's whisper carries the weight of years of loyalty, of shared kills, of brotherhood forged in fire.
I don't answer with words. Instead, I kick the door open with enough force to splinter the frame, my gun already trained on the man behind the ornate desk. Vlad Petrov looks up from his ledger, his pale eyes widening for just a fraction of a second before that familiar arrogance slides back into place like armor.
"Mikhail Zhukov," he says, setting down his fountain pen with deliberate calm. "I was wondering when you'd come calling."
The scent of expensive cologne and fear mingles in the air between us, thick as smoke.