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It’s filthy. Obsessive. Carnal.

He doesn’t talk—he growls. He groans. He fucks me like the world could end and he needs me imprinted on his soul.

And I give him everything. Every sound. Every shake. Every shattered breath.

He takes it all.

When it’s over—when we’re nothing but sweat and shaking limbs and tangled sheets—he presses his forehead to mine.

“You still undo me,” he says hoarsely.

“You never stood a chance.”

We’re tangled in the sheets, the world quiet around us, when the knock comes.

Viktor tenses. Immediately.

So do I.

He doesn’t let me move. Just kisses my temple and murmurs something I can’t hear, then pulls on his pants and disappears out the door.

I sit up slowly, dragging the blanket around me.

Voices in the hallway. Sharp. Low.

Then silence.

Then footsteps.

The door opens.

Not Viktor.

It’s Lena.

She steps into the doorway like she doesn’t want to come in.

Like she isn’t sure she belongs.

She’s dressed in a sleek midnight blue coat, snow still clinging to the collar, and her expression is strained. Too composed. Too careful.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says.

“You didn’t,” I lie.

She doesn’t smile. Just walks to the window and peers out like she’s hiding something in the snowfall.

“I saw Anton tonight.”

I glance up sharply.

She doesn’t turn around. “He’s different.”

“He’s dangerous,” I say gently.

“I know.”

Something in her voice tightens. My stomach coils.