Page 15

The morning sun filters in through tall, sheer curtains, casting pale gold light across the polished hardwood floor. The ceiling is high, the molding ornate, and the silence almost religious. I blink slowly, still half lost in sleep, disoriented by the sterile luxury of the room wrapped around me.

This isn’t the farmhouse.

Gone are the rough wooden walls, the distant hum of an old generator, the faint scent of mold clinging to the corners. This space is newer. Colder. The bed beneath me is impossibly soft, the linens smooth and crisp, too clean to feel comforting. There’s a fireplace, unlit. A dresser I haven’t dared to open. A small armchair that looks more like decoration than furniture. It’s the kind of room designed to impress—not soothe. A trap wrapped in velvet.

Kolya’s official residence, whatever that means. He brought me here days ago.

I sit up slowly, dragging the covers off my body like they might cling to my skin. I’m still sore in places I don’t want to think about—not from harm, not anymore—but from tension, from exhaustion, from a body that’s been in survival mode for too long.

Since we arrived, I’ve seen very little of him.

He’s kept his distance, disappearing into meetings, phone calls, locked doors. I don’t know what business he runs from this mansion, but I know it’s soaked in blood and secrets.

Yet, the longer he stays away, the more I think about him—something I promised myself I wouldn’t do.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, feet brushing the cool floor.

“Get yourself together,” I mutter. I’ve said it a hundred times these past few days.

I cross the room and draw the curtains open. The window stretches nearly floor to ceiling, an expanse of glass overlooking a winding drive bordered by bare trees and high stone walls. Guards in dark coats stand at the gates, barely moving. This place is a fortress. A cage with silk sheets and no visible bars.

There—down the drive—is him.

He steps out of a black car, tall and commanding even from a distance. His coat whips in the wind as he exchanges a few words with Boris, face unreadable as always. Then he heads inside.

My stomach twists. I don’t know if it’s dread, or something worse.

I let the curtain fall shut. When I turn toward the bathroom, I catch the glint of something on my hand.

My breath stops. There’s a ring on my finger.

Not one I recognize. Not my own. Elegant. Heavy. A band of platinum or white gold with a single, narrow diamond inset so cleanly it barely catches the light unless I move. It’s simple, deliberate, expensive.

Panic grips me.

I stare at it like it might vanish if I blink hard enough. I tug at it instinctively—it doesn’t budge. Not tight enough to hurt, but snug. Familiar, like it was meant to be there.

I don’t remember putting it on, I don’t remember anyone putting it on. I don’t remember—

My knees buckle a little, and I sit hard on the edge of the bed, heart in my throat.

This isn’t a gift. It’s a message, or maybe a threat.

I press my palms to my thighs and breathe, trying to steady myself.

I don’t know when he put it there, or why he hasn’t said a word about it. But as the sound of distant footsteps echoes down the marble hall beyond the bedroom door, I know one thing with absolute certainty.

I don’t remember walking out the door.

One second, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the ring like it’s a noose dressed in diamonds, and the next, I’m storming down the gilded hallway barefoot, heart slamming against my ribs.

The house is a maze of marble floors and vaulted ceilings, all designed to impress and disorient. But I find him easily.

I don’t knock, I throw the door open.

Kolya stands just inside, one arm braced lazily against the frame of the balcony doors, a glass of something dark in his hand, like this is any other morning. Like nothing is wrong.

His eyes meet mine, and he has the audacity to smirk .

“What the hell is this?” I snap, holding up my hand. The ring catches the morning light like it has a damn spotlight on it.

He doesn’t even blink. “A ring.”

“Don’t play games with me.”

“I’m not. It’s real gold.”

My hands curl into fists.

He watches me with that maddening, casual confidence, as though he’s waiting for me to come to my senses and thank him. He doesn’t move, but his presence consumes the space between us like smoke—thick, suffocating, inescapable.

“You’re my fiancée now,” he says simply.

The words hang in the air like a gunshot.

I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for the smirk to fade and for him to admit this is one more game. One more twisted way to assert control. But he just sips his drink.

“ What? ”

He shrugs. “You saw things you weren’t supposed to. The usual solution is a bullet. I like you. So, marriage.”

My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “Are you insane ?”

“Probably,” he says, a little too easily. “That’s beside the point.”

“You don’t just—just decide something like this.”

“I do.”

“No. Absolutely not. This is… this is kidnapping. Blackmail. Delusional.”

He smiles, slow and self-satisfied. “Elise, everything I do is delusional. That’s why it works.”

I shake my head, reeling. “You can’t marry me. We’re not—there’s no we . You’re a monster. You killed people. You had me taken from my job, locked me in a basement—”

“Now I’ve upgraded you to a mansion,” he says. “You’re welcome.”

I lunge at him, shoving at his chest. “Take it. Now.”

His hand catches my wrist mid-push, grip firm, unyielding. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can —”

“No,” he says, voice lower now, the amusement fading just enough to show something colder underneath. “Because it’s not just a ring. It’s a message.”

“To who ?”

“To everyone.”

He steps in closer, and I instinctively step back—but not far enough. His body crowds mine, the scent of him—smoke, cedar, danger—wrapping around me in a way that makes my skin hum.

“You’re not just a hostage anymore,” he says. “You’re mine.”

“You think that means I’m safe?”

“I know it does.” His fingers brush lightly down the side of my arm, infuriatingly tender. “No one touches what’s mine.”

I hate how the words curl heat in my gut. “You can’t protect me from yourself, ” I whisper.

His smile is wicked. “I won’t have to. I wanna keep you alive, Elise. That wasn’t part of the plan, but plans change.”

My breath catches as he brushes a thumb just beneath my jaw, lifting my chin.

I should slap him. Instead, I freeze.

Something in his eyes flickers—not softness, never that—but something real. Possessive. Unapologetic. Honest , in a twisted, dangerous way.

“You don’t get to own me,” I say, but my voice is shaking now. Less from fear, more from the raw, maddening confusion he always leaves in his wake.

“You’re already wearing my ring.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

He leans in, breath brushing my lips. “It will.”

I shove at him again, but he doesn’t budge. I hate him. I hate him—but my body responds like it’s drunk on proximity, on his voice, on the friction that always flares to life between us the moment he gets close.

His hand slides down, brushing the edge of my waist.

“You know what your problem is?” he murmurs.

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“You keep pretending you don’t want me.”

“I don’t.”

“Liar.”

He moves so fast I gasp—one arm braced beside my head, pinning me lightly against the wall. His hips not quite touching mine, but close enough that heat pulses through the small space left.

His lips are at my ear now. “Tell me to stop.”

My heart stutters. My breath catches.

“Tell me,” he says again, voice a low command.

My silence seals it.

Not because I’ve given in—but because there’s nothing left to say. The air between us crackles, pulsing with tension, with heat, with a hunger I’m no longer pretending not to feel. My body goes still beneath his, not in fear, but in anticipation. Every nerve is on edge, trembling like a drawn wire, wound tight and ready to snap.

His thumb brushes along my jaw, rough but careful, tilting my face to his. My eyes find his, and I know what he sees there. The defiance he thought he’d crushed. The fight he tried to beat out of me. It’s still there. Dimmed, yes. Changed. But burning hotter now. Hungrier.

Then his mouth crashes into mine.

It’s not a kiss—it’s a claim.

Hard and unrelenting, all teeth and tongue and dominance. He takes without asking, devours like he has the right, and my gasp gets swallowed into him. My hand scrambles for balance—one gripping the edge of his forearm, the other twisting into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer when I should be pushing him away.

There’s no space. No air. No control.

And I don’t want any.

I feel myself arch against him when his hand slides down my waist, rough fingers gripping my hip like I’m already his. A sound slips from my lips—half moan, half something sharper. It only makes him press in harder, his teeth catching my lower lip until I gasp again, breathless and burning.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing, like I’m made to fit against him, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, arms hooking behind his neck. I hold on like I’ll break without him.

Somewhere between the wall and the bed, I forget everything—why I should stop this, what I’ve been through, who he is.

All that exists is the heat of his body, the roughness of his mouth, the terrifying need building inside me that I can’t control.

He lowers me onto the bed, my back hitting the mattress with a soft gasp.

Then he follows—covering me, surrounding me. Kissing me like he’s starved for it.

Like I’m the one thing he was never supposed to touch but will never give up now that he has.

The heat between us is relentless.

His lips drag down the side of my neck, finding the hollow just above my collarbone, biting down hard enough to make me gasp. His breath fans hot over the mark, a promise pressed into skin.

I barely have time to sit up before he’s on me again.

His hands are everywhere—at my waist, under my shirt, dragging it up with a roughness that makes my skin burn. He peels it over my head and tosses it aside. His eyes rake over me, sharp and hungry, and the low, satisfied sound he makes turns my stomach into fire.

His cock is hard now, straining against his black pants. I reach for him without thinking, tugging him back on top of me so his cock slides along the inside of my thighs.

I’m quaking.

“Beautiful,” he mutters, voice ragged.

He shoves off his coat, his shirt, every layer until I’m staring at bare skin—scars and strength and shadows carved into muscle. I’ve seen this man kill without flinching, seen him terrify grown men into silence, but now he looks feral, like the only thing in the world he wants is me.

When he unbuckles his belt, his cock springs free, already leaking pale precum. Then, he comes down over me like a storm.

The press of his body is crushing in the best way—heavy, grounded, real . His mouth crashes into mine again, devouring, and I answer him with a moan I don’t recognize. His hands slide down my hips, dragging my pants away with impatient fingers. He rips them down, not caring about finesse, and I’m left in nothing, trembling beneath him as he settles between my thighs.

“Still want me to stop?” he asks, low and sharp.

I shake my head. That’s all I can do. “More, please.”

His smile is dark, predatory. “Then hold on.”

What follows is a blur of sensation—hot, fast, dizzying. His touch is demanding, mapping every inch of skin like he’s determined to memorize it. Every time I gasp, he growls. Every time I beg, he gives less.

He doesn’t just take—he unravels, thrusting into me with such force the bed creaks, his thick cock filling me blissfully.

Bit by bit, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left between us but heat and need and something far more dangerous rising with every breath we share.

His hands are rough, calloused from a life spent wielding power, but when they move over me now, they’re worshipful—tracing every curve with a possessiveness that makes my skin burn. I arch into his touch, needy and breathless, like my body’s been waiting for this long before my mind caught up.

Every wicked thrust is deliberate. Every press of his palm, every roll of his hips, designed to pull a sound out of me I’ve never made before.

I moan his name—raw, desperate—and it spurs him on.

His mouth finds my neck, biting just enough to leave heat blooming beneath the skin, before dragging lower. His breath grazes over my chest, the wet trail of his mouth following the curve of my breast before he latches on to me with a hunger that nearly undoes me. I clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. He groans at the sting, like he wants me to mark him— needs to be claimed just as much as I do.

The way he moves against me is sinful—rhythmic and slow at first, grinding into every sensitive inch, letting me feel just how badly he wants me before he gives in to it. His control is a razor’s edge, barely holding.

I lose count of how many times he takes me to the brink, stretching me wide until I’m dizzy.

Finally, I fall apart beneath him with a gasp as an orgasm rips through me. I’m left shaking beneath him as he pumps me full, warm come slicking down my thighs.

His name is the only thing I can breathe.

His weight is still heavy on top of me, grounding in a way I never expected—like gravity itself has changed.

My chest rises and falls in sharp, shallow breaths. Sweat clings to my skin, cooling in the soft breeze that slips through the crack in the balcony door. The air smells like rain and sex and him. Every inch of me aches in the best, most aching way.

Kolya doesn’t speak at first. He just breathes against my shoulder, his lips resting against the curve of my neck. One of his hands slides down my thigh, not with urgency now, but care. Calmer. His fingers drag lazily over my skin, tracing nothing in particular.

Then, slowly, he shifts his weight off me—reluctantly, like he’s not quite ready to let me go. I feel the loss instantly, the space between us like a wound, but then his arm curls around me and pulls me to his chest.

I don’t resist.

My cheek rests against his collarbone. His heart beats slow and steady beneath my ear, and for a while, we just lie there in silence. No barbed words. No sharp edges. Just warmth.

His hand finds my hair, brushing the damp strands from my face, his touch unusually gentle. “Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice low, gruff but careful.

I shake my head. “No.”

He nods once, as if reassured—but he keeps holding me tighter anyway.

His fingers stroke lazy lines along my back, and when he feels me shiver, he reaches down, pulls the blanket up over both of us. “Sleep,” he murmurs, his mouth close to my temple. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time in what feels like forever…

…I believe him.