Page 20

No words are spoken.

I grip her wrist tightly—not gently—and lead her through the halls with swift, deliberate strides.

She doesn’t resist, but I feel the tension in her arm, the quickened beat beneath her skin.

The party fades behind us, muffled by layers of stone and expensive silence.

Music and laughter blur into noise, irrelevant. Meaningless.

She tries to speak.

I hear the breath she draws, the question forming on her tongue—but one glance over my shoulder is enough.

She goes quiet.

My jaw is locked. My pulse hammers. The fury in me simmers just beneath the surface, hot and sharp, waiting for a reason to boil over. Every step echoes with it. I don’t trust myself to speak—not yet. Not when I’m still seeing it play in my head, over and over like a loop I can’t shut off.

Jackson Waters. Leaning in like he had a right.

Speaking to her like she was available. Like her body wasn’t already marked. Already mine.

The image is a rot in my brain, and I can’t cut it out. His smug mouth. Her laughter—real, open. That softness she won’t give me, but handed to him like it meant nothing.

I should’ve broken his jaw. I wanted to.

Instead, I brought her here. Where she belongs.

We reach my quarters, the double doors looming at the end of the hall. I shove one open and drag her in behind me, the darkness swallowing us whole.

The door slams shut. The sound rings out like a gunshot.

Before she can move, before she can breathe, I turn and press her back against the heavy wood, one arm on either side of her, caging her in. My hands brace against the grain above her shoulders, body crowding hers with all the heat I’ve held back for too long.

Her breath stutters. Her chest rises and falls fast—too fast.

She’s not struggling. She’s not trying to run.

Her eyes are wide, lips parted, the faintest tremble visible in her lower lip. She looks up at me with a fire she doesn’t understand. Not yet.

Her body betrays her first.

I feel it.

The shudder that goes through her when I lean in. The way her hands fist at her sides like she’s holding herself still, waiting. Wanting. Hating herself for it.

She’s trapped, and she doesn’t want to be free.

I lean in until my mouth hovers just above hers, close enough that I can feel the hitch of her breath against my lips, close enough that she can’t ignore the weight of me—what I am, what I’ve done, what I will do again. My voice cuts through the air like a blade, low and venom-laced.

“Did you like that?” I ask. “Having another man’s attention?”

She jerks like I struck her.

It’s not the words—it’s the truth beneath them, the accusation she doesn’t know how to answer. Her entire body goes taut, jaw tightening, breath stalling in her throat. She looks away, or tries to. I don’t let her.

I catch her chin between my fingers, not gently.

Her skin is warm, flushed, and soft, but I hold her like I own her, like I have every right to demand she look at me.

Her head resists at first, a flicker of that defiance still alive beneath the shame, but I tilt her face back toward mine until our eyes meet.

She looks up at me, lips parted, chest rising and falling too fast. Her pupils are blown wide, her green irises barely visible in the dim light. There’s fear there. Anger. Guilt.

She hasn’t done anything wrong.

Not really.

The guilt is still there, pulsing through her like a second heartbeat. I see it in the way her shoulders bunch under the thin fabric of her dress, in the way her fingers twitch like she’s bracing for impact—or something worse. I know that guilt. I put it there.

Her thoughts spiral. I can feel it. She’s trying to justify it all. Jackson was just a man, just a conversation. She didn’t touch him. She barely spoke. Still, her heart pounds like she was caught in the act.

I study her—every flicker of emotion across her face, every breath she takes like it might steady her. I see the pulse fluttering wildly in her throat, the way her mouth opens just enough to speak, but no sound comes out.

Still pretending she has control.

I’m done waiting.

I crash my mouth into hers. It’s not a kiss—it’s a reckoning.

My lips press to hers with bruising force, a violent clash of need and ownership.

There’s no gentleness in it. No tenderness.

I kiss her like I want to destroy every lie she tells herself about what this is.

My hand tangles in her hair, tilting her head back further, deepening it, forcing her to feel every inch of what she’s done to me.

That single second of resistance dissolves into something raw and consuming.

Her body arches into mine without thought, her mouth opening beneath mine with a soft, desperate gasp. The tension between us snaps, and what’s left is pure hunger—hot and unrelenting, stripped of all the lies we’ve both tried to tell ourselves.

My hands move fast, greedier than I mean them to be.

One slides to her waist, gripping her hard enough to feel the tremble in her muscles.

The other runs down the curve of her thigh, fingers digging into soft flesh.

She shudders when I lift her, instinct taking over as her legs wrap around my hips, locking me against her.

She’s weightless in my arms, but her heat, her scent, the wild thudding of her heart where our bodies press together—are all heavy. All drag me under.

We’re a tangle of breath and motion as I carry her across the room, every step slow and deliberate, every inch of her pressed tightly to me. She clutches at my shoulders, not resisting now, but clinging like she doesn’t know where she ends and I begin.

When I lower her to the bed, our mouths break apart with a gasp—both of us struggling to breathe, to think, to do anything except feel.

I push the dress higher up her thighs, my palms gliding rough over smooth skin.

Her body burns under my touch, hips shifting restlessly against the mattress.

I slide my hands beneath the silk, thumbs brushing along the sensitive insides of her thighs, dragging closer to where she’s already wet and wanting.

Her breath hitches sharply.

Above her, I watch every flicker of emotion chase itself across her face. Fear. Want. Shame. Need. She’s trembling, but not from fear—not anymore. Her mind is fighting, clawing to hold on to something righteous, something clean.

I know all she feels is the ache, the unbearable heat between us.

I hold her gaze, giving her that last, fragile chance.

Then—her hips lift into my touch, a broken, instinctive plea that shatters whatever walls she had left.

That’s all I need. My cock is aching for her, and I’m impatient now.

I pull the silk dress over her head in one rough motion, baring her to the cool air. She gasps but doesn’t shy away, her hands reaching blindly for me as if she can’t stand the sudden distance. I shed my own clothes quickly, efficiently, my body already throbbing with need.

When I cover her with my weight, she arches into me, her bare skin slick and hot against mine.

One hand captures her wrist, pinning it to the bed beside her head. Not brutally—possessively. Claiming.

The other hand roams her body, fingers splaying across her ribs, her waist, her hips. Memorizing. Owning.

She clutches at my back with her free hand, nails biting into my skin—not to drag me closer, not to hurt.

I kiss a line down her throat, teeth grazing her pulse, then lower, tasting the sweat and heat of her skin. Her body writhes under mine, small, helpless movements she can’t control. Every breath she takes punches into me, dragging me deeper into the storm of her surrender.

“You’re mine,” I murmur against her skin, voice ragged. “You’ve always been.”

She shudders again, a soft sound escaping her lips, and her eyes blur—not with fear. Not with pain.

With something far more dangerous.

She believes me.

I reach between us, guiding myself to her entrance, sliding through her wetness with an ease that makes my teeth grit. She’s ready. Desperate.

I press in slow, watching every flicker of sensation in her face—the way her lips part, the way her brows draw together, the way her legs tighten around my waist to pull me closer.

When I bottom out, she gasps, her head falling back against the pillows.

I start to move, slow at first, savoring the way her body tightens around me, the way she clings. Her hips meet mine with growing urgency, a silent plea for more, faster, harder.

I give it to her.

I drive into her with deep, powerful thrusts, setting a brutal rhythm she quickly matches. Our bodies slam together, slick with sweat, lost to anything but the primal need to consume. To own. To belong.

Her breath breaks into moans she can’t catch, and I swallow them with my mouth, kissing her harshly, possessively.

She answers me with her body, giving herself over completely, no hesitation now. No fear.

Only us.

We move together like we’ve done this a thousand times—like fate wrote it into our bones before we ever met.

The coil in my gut tightens as she trembles around me, her body clenching in frantic, helpless spasms. Her nails rake down my back, her cries sharper, breathier.

I don’t slow.

I pound into her through it, dragging out her release, forcing her to feel every second of it.

She breaks beneath me with a sob, and I follow, spilling into her with a hoarse groan, my body locking tight as pleasure tears through me.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is our ragged breathing, the creak of the mattress beneath our bodies.

I don’t move. I don’t roll away. Instead I stay, holding my weight over her, breathing her in.

Her hand—trembling, soft—traces lazy lines across my back, neither of us ready to let go.

The silence feels different now. Heavy.

Alina stares at the ceiling, wide-eyed and stunned, her face a mirror of everything inside her she can’t yet name.

Tonight, she’s given me everything.

The room is still thick with the heat of what just happened.

Our bodies are tangled together on the bed, skin sticking to skin, the sheets shoved down around our ankles in a useless heap. The air smells of sweat, sex, and something heavier—something I don’t want to name.

Alina doesn’t move.

She lies beneath me, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm, her eyes half closed but still awake. Still aware. Her fingers, which had been clenching the sheets just moments ago, relax slowly, tracing faint, unconscious patterns along my spine like she doesn’t know she’s doing it.

Neither of us speaks.

There’s no need for words. Words would only shatter the fragile silence we’ve built—would turn what happened into something smaller, something that could be twisted or denied. Neither of us wants that. Not yet.

I shift just enough to ease my weight off her, careful not to lose the heat of her body against mine.

She lets out a soft breath, one that brushes against my neck, and I feel her muscles finally begin to loosen under me.

Like some part of her—maybe the part she fights hardest—is surrendering all over again.

Slowly, without thinking, I pull the rumpled covers over us.

It’s not tenderness.

It’s instinct.

She turns slightly, pressing her cheek against my chest. Her hair fans across my skin, tickling lightly, and I feel another deep, dangerous pull low in my gut. I force myself to stay still, to just breathe with her.

Minutes pass. Maybe longer. The only sounds are the muted cheers of the men still celebrating outside.

Alina’s breathing slows, becoming deeper, steadier.

Sleep drags at the edges of my mind too, heavy and insistent.

I resist it at first. Habit. I’m not used to sleeping beside anyone.

Not used to this kind of vulnerability. I should get up.

I should leave her here and return to the night, to the violence and certainty waiting beyond the bedroom walls.

Instead, I stay.

I tighten my arm around her waist, anchoring her against me. Her body shifts slightly, fitting more perfectly into the curve of mine, like she was meant to be there all along.

Her hand flattens against my chest.

I close my eyes.

In the heavy, breathless dark, we fall asleep together.

No promises. No forgiveness. Only the quiet truth of her body against mine, and the knowledge that whatever we’ve become, there’s no going back now.