Page 122 of Brutal Reign

A bottle of whiskey sits half empty on the paint-covered table. The amber liquid has done nothing to dull the sharp edges of my guilt. It’s been three hours since Hope ran from my office, and I can still see the exact moment her world crumbled.

I had to become someone else in my office, the Syndicate boss instead of the man who loves her. She deserved the truth, all of it, no matter how much it destroyed us both.

But fuck, it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

The brush moves without thought, creating abstract slashes across the canvas that mean nothing and everything at the same time.

I fucking love her so much it’s like a physical ache, but we can’t move forward until she knows the whole ugly truth about Simon, Chen, and even her father.

My fist connects with the wall before I can stop myself, leaving a crater in the drywall and blood on my knuckles. The pain feels good; it’s what I deserve for putting that look of absolute betrayal in Hope’s eyes.

I reach for the whiskey again, taking a long pull that burns all the way down. The alcohol should be numbing me by now, taking the edge off. Instead, it’s making every emotion more raw, more immediate.

The soft click of the studio door opening and closing barely registers through my self-destruction. Probably Yarik, coming to check on me after hearing the crash of the easel. Or Roman, who seems to have a sixth sense when I don’t want him around.

“I don’t want to hear it,” I mutter, not turning around as I stare out the window into the darkness beyond.

There’s no response, but when I finally glance over my shoulder, it’s not Yarik or Roman standing by the door.

It’s Hope.

She looks tired. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her hair mussed. But she’s here, in my studio, looking at me with something that isn’t the hatred I expected.

I go still, not daring to move or speak or even breathe too loudly. I don’t know what she’s going to say, and I’m terrified that whatever it is will be the final nail in the coffin of what we had.

She takes a tentative step toward me, then another, and my heart hammers against my ribs. Then she reaches for me, pulling me toward her with urgency.

Her kiss is desperate and demanding. I can taste the salt of her tears as she pours all her emotion into this moment. I don’tknow if this is forgiveness or a final goodbye, but I hold nothing back.

“Hope,” I try to say, needing to understand what this means, but she silences me with her mouth, her hands already fumbling with my jeans.

“I need you,” she whispers, and the broken way she says it makes my chest constrict. “Please, Pavel. I just need you.”

I capture her mouth again, walking her backward until her legs hit the leather couch I keep in the corner for late nights when I can’t sleep. The studio is a disaster with paint scattered across the floor, canvases torn and wrecked, but all I can focus on is her.

My hands find the hem of her shirt, and she helps me pull it over her head. The sight of her in a delicate lace bra makes me feral.

“Beautiful,” I murmur, my fingers tracing the curve of her breast through the lace. “So fucking perfect.”

She makes a sound that’s half a sob, half a moan, and then she’s pushing at my jeans, needing them gone. I help her, kicking them aside along with all her other clothes, until we’re both naked in the low light of my trashed studio.

I guide her down onto the couch, pushing my legs between hers until her thighs are locked around my waist. My weight settles over her as I press my cock against her entrance. The leather is cool against our heated skin, but all I care about is the way she’s looking at me with a desperate want that mirrors my own.

“Look at me,” I command when she tries to close her eyes. “Give me your eyes, angel moy. I need to see you.”

Those dark eyes lock with mine as I settle between her legs, the head of my cock pressing against her entrance. She’s already wet for me, ready, and when I push inside, we both groan at the sensation.

“Fuck,” I breathe, fighting for control as her tight heat surrounds me. It feels like coming home.

I start to move, slow and deep, watching every expression that crosses her face. Looking for some sign of what this means to her, what we are in this moment.

“Whatever this is between us, whatever happens after tonight, I need you to know that I’d do anything for you and Kin. You are my world now.”

Tears spill down her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. Instead, she pulls me down for a kiss that claims me with urgency. Her lips part with a soft gasp as her tongue slips in to tangle with my own.

“Show me,” she whispers against my lips. “Show me how much.”

So I do. I put my soul into the way I move inside her, each thrust a confession of my love and a prayer that this isn’t the end. My hand slips between us, finding her clit, and she arches beneath me with a cry that goes straight to my soul.