Page 11

ROMAN

S he almost broke me.

I was supposed to break her—make her submit, get the answers we needed, and forget her name.

That was the plan.

It should have worked.

She was nothing but a pawn. Meant to be used. Sacrificed.

So why the hell couldn’t I get her under control?

I wasn’t the kind of man who lost his head over a pretty blonde with a sharp tongue and fuckable curves. But I’d never met a woman so fierce. So unapologetically alive.

And those damn flashing green eyes.

I tried to shake the image from my head. Focus on something else. Anything else.

I was supposed to be making dinner. Instead, my mind wandered to her.

That moment when her innocence brushed against the head of my cock—I nearly lost it.

I was close. So fucking close to taking what wasn’t mine to take.

No matter how much I wanted it.

Somehow, that little fucking printsessa had stolen more control than she ever should have had.

Any other woman would’ve shattered under what I gave her.

The spanking I delivered wasn’t playful—it wasn’t even meant to arouse.

It was punishment. Raw. Ruthless. My palm still ached from the force.

But she took it. Every single strike. And judging by how wet she was, she loved it.

Not just tolerated it—got off on it.

She wasn’t some porcelain doll. She was a goddamn masochist.

Maybe it wasn’t the pain.

Maybe it was me.

Wishful thinking.

With the men she’d been around in her orbit—her brothers, her father, that pathetic excuse of a husband—I wondered if there was something to it. None of them knew what she really was. None of them appreciated her strength, let alone knew how to tame it.

A woman like Zoya needed a man who could see what she was made of, then break her down and rebuild her stronger.

Not one of them was capable of that.

I forced myself to think about something else, anything else, to clear my head.

I hadn’t eaten in hours, and I had no idea when the last time she ate was.

So, I started making ropa vieja .

My mother’s recipe.

She made it every time I got sick or upset. Called it the ultimate comfort food—beef, tomatoes, spices that warmed the body and soothed the soul.

I didn’t understand that as a child. Now I did.

I cooked it when I missed her. When I missed the life I had before she died.

I wasn’t always the black sheep of the Ivanov clan.

For the first ten years of my life, I was loved.

My mother was Cuban. My father, Russian—an Ivanov. The younger brother of Artem’s and Gregor’s fathers.

They taught me things my cousins were only just now learning the hard way.

They taught me love wasn’t a promise. It was a plague.

True love didn’t conquer all—it destroyed everything in its path. Left nothing behind.

My parents fought it at first. She was a diplomat’s daughter. He was a bratva prince.

They met at university. Clashed in the middle of class—neither one remembered what the fight was about. Only that each was convinced they were right, and the other was wrong.

My mother used to tell me the story while running her fingers through my hair as I fell asleep.

She’d say I was the product of two fierce nations. When opposites collided with enough intensity, they broke down to the bone—and what was left was something new. Something stronger.

I was supposed to be that something.

I had her wit. His strategic mind. Her warm skin and eyes. His height. His strength.

The stubbornness? They both claimed I got that from the other.

They planned everything for me—elite schools, top universities. I was their hope. The bridge between empires.

When her father found out she’d fallen for a Russian criminal, she was cut off.

My father’s mother disowned him when he refused to return to Moscow and serve the family.

They didn’t care.

They chose each other.

And for the first ten years of my life, I believed I’d find that kind of love, too.

Then she died.

A car crash. Maybe an accident. Maybe a hit. I never got the chance to find out.

My father packed up our small London apartment and took me to live with his mother in Rublyovka.

That week changed everything.

I learned the tiny place we had in London was a step down for my father. He’d walked away from wealth and power for my mother.

But what that apartment lacked in square footage, it made up for in warmth.

My grandmother was a bitter, ice-hearted woman.

She barely looked at me. Called me a mongrel. A mutt.

I thought maybe she didn’t realize I spoke Russian fluently.

I found out quickly she just didn’t give a damn.

My father stayed for a week. Then he left. Back to London. I never saw him again.

A month later, my grandmother sneered and told me he was dead. Suicide. Claimed it was because he didn’t love me.

But I knew the truth.

He didn’t die because he stopped loving me.

He died because he couldn’t stop loving her.

And I couldn’t die because I couldn’t leave this world without carrying a piece of her with me.

I went from dreaming of a love like theirs to praying I’d never find it.

Now, I was the only Ivanov without that kind of love. And I hoped the beast never found me.

As I always did when making my mother’s recipes, I let the aroma carry me back. To her arms around me. To the way she laughed in her red and yellow dresses. To the way my father would dance with her in the kitchen.

The memories were my vice.

Not the rum I sipped while the sauce simmered.

Them. My parents.

They were the indulgence I refused to give up.

If the first ten years of my life were about love, the next ten were about pain. Loneliness.

I worked hard to prove myself, knowing full well I’d never get my grandmother’s approval.

But it made me stronger.

That cruel old woman turned me into the weapon the Ivanovs needed.

And when she died, I pissed on her grave—just like she always said she wanted to do to my mother’s.

Shaking off the memories, I focused on the food. Stirred the sauce. Let it cook evenly.

What the hell was it about that girl?

I should’ve starved her. Let hunger soften her resolve.

Instead, I was making her my mother’s comfort food.

When the meat was tender, I plated a bowl. Black beans. Seasoned rice.

Mama would’ve been proud.

But would she have approved of the girl I had tied up in the other room?

Would she have understood?

My father might’ve.

I took a deep breath. It didn’t matter.

They weren’t here.

The only person I needed to live up to was me.

And I was going to do whatever it took to protect my cousins. My name.

No matter how pretty our enemy was, she was still the enemy.

Even if I was feeding her like a lover.

I walked into the room with the tray balanced in one hand.

Zoya was still shackled to the chair, breathing sharp, chest rising and falling with rage.

The flush on her skin told me she hadn’t cooled off in the hours since I left.

She looked up at me through her thick lashes, those damn green eyes cutting through me.

I held the bowl under her nose.

“If you promise to be a good girl, I’ll release you so you can eat,” I said, keeping my tone even. Reasonable.

She stared. Then spat at my feet.

My patience vanished.

I set the tray on the table behind me. Grabbed her hair. Yanked her head back.

Her breathing stayed sharp, her eyes wild with defiance.

And fuck me, I wanted to break her all over again.

“The next time, printsessa ,” I murmured, voice like silk stretched over steel, “that spit will be on my cock as you choke on it. Do you understand me?”

Her pupils flared. But she said nothing.

I tightened my grip on her hair. My other hand circled her throat.

“Answer me when I speak to you.”

She looked away. Not in surrender. No—she was calculating.

Every possible response playing out in her mind.

“I understand,” she said finally, eyes still down.

It wasn’t submission. Not yet.

But it was a start.

I sat down in the leather chair in front of her, dragging her wooden chair closer with a screech.

“You’re either going to eat,” I said, voice low and thick with warning, “or I’ll finish what I started earlier. Understood?”

No answer.

I picked up the fork, scooped some rice and beef, and held it in front of her.

She opened her lips.

I pulled it back.

“I said, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” she bit out, quiet rage beneath every syllable.

My cock twitched. I liked the respectful way she called me sir. Even though we both knew she didn’t mean it.

I fed her the bite. Watched her tongue rise to meet the tines before her lips closed over them.

She didn’t break eye contact. Not once.

Would she watch me like that when she was on her knees?

Would she glare up at me while choking on my cock…then start begging for breath?

With each bite, she chewed slower. Savoring them but giving me nothing. No gratitude. No softness.

This woman was a brat. A fighter.

And she needed to be tamed.

The next bite I held just out of reach.

She leaned forward, hair falling across her face, tongue darting out to reach it.

My cock throbbed. Pre-cum soaking into my boxers.

Feeding her shouldn’t turn me on this much.

I gave her the bite. And another.

Every time she swallowed, my control slipped a little more.

I had come in here to break her.

Instead, I was the one unraveling.

And it wasn’t her resolve turning to dust.

It was mine.