Page 51 of Cruel Juliet

My legs shake. My palms slip against the tile. I’m feeling so much, but Petyr hasn’t come yet, and I want that. I want to feel him spill inside me with an urgency that scares me.

He doesn’t stop fucking me. He drives into me harder, curses into my ear in Russian while he spears me open.

I’m still pulsing when he stiffens behind me.

He thrusts deep one last time. His grip is hard enough to bruise, but I can’t pretend I don’t love it. Everything he’s doing to me—I want it so bad it hurts.

With a guttural curse, he spills inside me.

The spray pounds down on us. Our breaths turn ragged. He stays pressed to my back until my knees steady.

I close my eyes and breathe hard.

This was a mistake.I know it the same way I know he’ll hurt me again. Nothing between us is fixed.

But the way his body feels pressed to mine, the way he fills me just right—I can’t walk away from it. It feels too good.

And as much as I want to tell myself this is the last time, deep down I already know the truth.

I won’t be able to give this up again.

22

PETYR

When I wake up, she’s the first thing I see.

Sima is curled under the covers, her hair spread across the pillow. Strands cling to her cheek, her lips parted as she breathes slow and deep. She looks worn out, and I know the reason.

I took her in the shower. Then I took her again in the bedroom, because I couldn’t get enough.

I should feel guilty. But I don’t. Being with her again has been like a release I didn’t know I needed. Weeks of holding back, of sleeping in separate rooms, built up a hunger in me I couldn’t control anymore.

I told myself I could treat her like nothing more than leverage. That I had this under control.

Like fuck I did.

All of my determination was undone in a single night. One glance at her in our bedroom, and I was done for.

I’ve been starving for her. That’s the truth.

I sit on the edge of the mattress. The weight of it dips. Sima shifts. She rolls onto her side, but she doesn’t wake.

I take the moment to look at her properly. In her sleep, she looks softer and less defensive. The lines of tension ease from her brow.

The blanket slips low on her shoulder. I glimpse the curve of her arm, the faint lines of her collarbone. The urge to touch her again nearly overwhelms me.

My fists curl on the covers. If I didn’t have somewhere to be, I’d take her again in a heartbeat.

But I don’t have to hold back anymore. Every night, she’ll be in my bed. She’s mine again. Whether she accepts it or not, she belongs here, with me.

That thought soothes me and unsettles me at the same time.

I know she hates me for how I’ve handled her. She doesn’t trust me, and I can’t fucking blame her. But last night, she came apart in my arms anyway, and that power—that connection—is something I can’t ignore.

It’s a mistake,thepakhanin me argues, restless.She’s a mistake.

I swore I’d treat her as a means to an end. She would give me an heir and then she would go. That was the plan. Cold, clean strategy.