Page 24

The car sways beneath us as we speed through the night, the tinted windows sealing us in our own private universe of blood and desire. Outside, the city lights blur into streaks of neon against the darkness. Inside, there is only his heat, his hands, the thundering of my heart.

"I'm yours," I repeat, the words which have never sounded so true. "And you're mine."

A growl rumbles from deep in his chest. His hands slide up my thighs, leaving trails of fire in their wake, bunching the silk of my ruined dress around my waist. The cool leather seats press against my bare skin as he hooks his fingers into the delicate lace of my underwear.

"These are in my way," he murmurs, and with one sharp tug, the expensive fabric tears like tissue paper.

I should be scandalized. I should remember that we're in a moving vehicle with his most trusted soldier just beyond a thin partition. Instead, I find myself reaching between us, my fingers fumbling with his belt buckle, desperate to feel him.

"So eager," he says, his lips curving into that dangerous half-smile that never fails to quicken my pulse. "What happened to my reluctant bride?"

"She discovered what it feels like to choose her own fate," I whisper against his mouth. "To fight for what's hers."

His hands cup my face, surprisingly gentle for a man who, minutes ago, ended lives without hesitation. "And am I yours, Kira? Is that what you're choosing?"

The question hangs between us, weighted with everything unsaid. Six weeks of arranged marriage. Six weeks of careful distance punctuated by moments of unexpected tenderness. Six weeks of wondering if I could ever truly belong in his world.

Tonight, I stopped wondering.

"Yes," I breathe, finally freeing him from the confines of his trousers. He's hot and hard in my palm, a stark contrast to the cool metal of his watch that brushes against my wrist. "You're mine, Mikhail Zhukov. And I want what's mine."

His control—that legendary restraint I've watched him maintain through negotiations and threats and tonight's violence—shatters. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise as he positions me over him.

"Look at me," he demands, his accent thick with desire. "I want to see your eyes when I make you mine."

I obey, locking my gaze with his as he lowers me onto him in one powerful thrust. The fullness, the stretch, the exquisite pressure tears a gasp from my throat. My fingers dig into his shoulders, clinging to him as the world narrows to the place where our bodies join.

"Perfect," he groans, his forehead pressing against mine. "So perfect for me."

The Range Rover hits a bump in the road, driving him deeper, and I cry out—a sound caught between pleasure and pain.

His hands guide my hips, setting a rhythm that matches the racing of my pulse.

Each movement sends sparks cascading through my nervous system, building a pressure that threatens to consume me.

"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 the intoxicating 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 the torn 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.