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Anya's cries of pleasure fill the room, bouncing off the walls and feeding the fire inside me. I pick up the pace, thrusting harder and deeper into her depths, relishing in her tightness and the way she clenches around me. I lower my mouth to her neck again, tasting her skin with my tongue as my hips continue to pound into hers.

"You like it when I'm in control, don't you?" I growl against her ear, my breath hot and heavy. Anya's only response is a low moan, her body trembling against mine. Desperate to feel more of her, I grip the neckline of her dress, tearing it from top to waist in one movement. It bares her breasts to my gaze, and I capture one in my palm, squeezing it.

Her nipples harden in response, and she arches her back, offering herself to me fully. I take it as the admission of defeat it is, slamming my hips into hers even harder.

"Say you're mine,” I order, and she is so breathless she almost can’t speak.

"Y–Yes," she pants out, her voice shaking with desire and submission. "I'm yours, Rolan." The words seem to unravel something inside me, and I lose what little control I have left. My hand leaves her breast and travels down her stomach, sliding between her thighs to find the slick heat of her arousal.

My thumb rubs against her clit in time with my thrusts. I watch her face as she fights for control. "Whose are you?" I demand.

"Yours," Anya gasps out, her eyes squeezed shut as the first waves of pleasure start to crash over her.

As Anya's orgasm washes over her, I feel it in my very bones. Her pussy clenches around my cock, milking me of every last drop of control. My own release comes in stuttering jerks of my hips as I dump into her every ounce of my energy and strength. She continues to clench and convulse even as I pull out and let her feet fall to the ground. She’s breathless, half-naked in a torn dress, and I think I’ve proven my point.

She wants me and even when she disagrees with my orders, she knows I’m the one who calls the shots.

When it’s over, the room is silent. She’s still catching her breath when the door swings open without warning. Misha steps inside like he owns the place, eyes skimming the scene without apology. His gaze lands on Anya—naked, flushed, scrambling to pull the sweater together over her chest.

I don’t even look at her as he struts toward my desk. He looks at me first, then back at Anya, and his mouth pulls into a smirk. “Looks like I missed the show,” he says dryly.

Anya grabs the edge of the table for balance, yanking the sweater over her chest with shaking hands. Her face flushes deeper, but she doesn’t speak. Her shoulders tighten.

"Get out of my office," I growl.

"Fine," she says, straightening. "Then listen. I want the authority to stop your men when they act like idiots. The nexttime one of them looks at my son wrong or sneers at me in a hallway, I won’t wait for permission. I’ll put them on the ground and let them crawl to you to complain."

I look past Misha, finally turning my attention to her. “You’re my wife,” I say calmly. “That means every man in this house takes orders from you—except me.”

Her gaze jumps to mine, startled.

I don’t blink. “If you want to protect our son, then stop pretending you’re a guest. Act like you belong here. Because whether you want to or not, you do.”

I keep my eyes on her as she rushes out while Misha chuckles, and I tuck my dick back into my pants. She will learn eventually, and until then, I’ll enjoy teaching her, one sexy lesson at a time.

19

ANYA

It started with a call. I’d just finished brushing Nikolai’s hair, coaxing him toward bed, whenBatyarang from the apartment. His voice came through the burner phone, panicked and uncertain. He said someone had come to the door that afternoon—a man in a suit with a folder tucked under his arm. Said he was from a solicitor’s office. Said he needed my signature for a set of adoption papers Rolan had initiated.

I stood there gripping the phone, not speaking. My father kept talking, muttering that he hadn’t let the man in, that he’d told him to come back later when I was home. The rest didn’t matter because I had no intention to sign those papers.

My hands were shaking so badly I almost couldn't hold onto the phone, and I hung up without responding and left Nikolai’s room in silence. Now, I walk the corridor toward Rolan’s suite with every step packed with fury. And when I get there, I don't even knock on the door. I slam it open and storm in, not waiting to be beckoned.

He stands at the window in a black T-shirt and slacks, drink in hand, his shoulders wide and still. The door bounces on the wall behind me as I stalk toward him in anger.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I don’t wait for a response. I stand my ground, fists clenched and eyes locked on him. Every muscle in my body is braced for the fallout. My hand shakes from more than anger—it’s betrayal, disbelief, the icy gut-punch of fear. He's trying to take my son, actually attempting to slither into my life as if he has permission.

He turns without flinching and looks at me over the rim of the glass. "You didn’t even have the spine to tell me yourself," I say. "You sent someone to my father’s door like I’m just some box you needed to check. A man from a solicitor’s office with documents I never asked for and never agreed to. You went behind my back, and you knew exactly what you were doing."

My voice rises, shaking with rage I don't even try to mask. Every syllable tastes bitter. The words drag out like a wound reopening. I'm bleeding emotions everywhere on everything and I don't even care.

He walks toward the window, drink in hand, his body relaxed in a way that makes me want to scream. It’s like this entire confrontation is beneath him. Like I’m not a person, just an obstacle he expects to brush aside.

"It’s a precaution." His tone is too calm for this. It's like he can't see that I'm so angry or he doesn't care. His calmness only stokes the fire in me.

"Bullshit." I step forward, closing the space between us until the heat of my anger could set fire to the air between us. My voice comes out even, held firm by sheer will, but everything in me strains for release. I’m seconds from breaking.