Page 22

Ivan charged forward with precision and calculated steps. I gripped my knife, the cold steel of the blade feeling like a natural extension of myself. Ivan was good—great, sometimes—as a skilled and experienced opponent, but on most days, I was better. And most days were nine out of ten sparring days.

With thick brows drawn and his jaw set, he lunged forward, his blade flashing toward my ribs. I sidestepped, twisting my body just enough for his knife to graze my T-shirt but not my skin. Smirking, I countered immediately. My knife sliced through the air toward his arm. He dodged, but not fast enough. A thin line of crimson appeared on his forearm.

“Fucking sloppy,” I growled, circling him like a predator.

A crooked smile appeared on his lips while he wiped the blood with the back of his hand. “I request for another chance to prove you wrong, Boss. I want to redeem myself.”

I didn’t talk. I didn’t need to. My knife did all the talking. I moved in with a feint to the left, and when he shifted to block, I pivoted and struck at his side. The blade cut deep, and he stumbled back, cursing.

“Ready to give up yet? Because from what I’m seeing here, you’re losing this battle, Ivan.”

Blood dripped to the floor between us, but he was relentless. “I’m determined, Boss, and if learning from the best is what it takes to beat the best, then I’ll gladly take whatever you have to offer.”

Looking over his shoulder, I shared a laugh with the other men gathered, weapons in hand. “Seems like someone’s ready to die tonight.”

Arlo chuckled behind us, tossing a dagger in the air and catching it. He was making circles around the four-cornered mat, observing with one hand in his pocket. “Unless you’re ready to get more poorly designed tattoos on your skin, my best advice to you is to back out, Ivan, now that you still have the chance. Boss is going to make a mess with your blood.”

He swiped the blood on his arm and stuck his thumb into his mouth. “It’ll be for a noble cause.”

Arlo scoffed. “Fuck noble.” He tossed the dagger in his hand to me, and I caught it effortlessly, grinning.

“Still want to go through with this, Ivan?”

“Learning from the best to beat the best.”

“Suit yourself.”

The men cheered and whistled as we clashed again. Blades collided with sharp, metallic clangs. His strikes were fast and aggressive, each one aimed to kill, but I was faster. I parried and countered, driving him back step by step. My knife sliced across his thigh, his shoulder, anywhere I could find an opening.

The chants spurred me and fueled my adrenaline, but he didn’t go down.

Ivan lunged again, his knife aiming for my throat. I grabbed his wrist mid-strike, twisting it hard until the knife clattered to the ground. I punched him in the face with my free hand, feeling the satisfying crunch of his nose breaking under my knuckles.

He stumbled back, blood streaming down his face, but he didn’t stop.

“You want to beat the best?” I smirked, circling him. “You’re making this too easy.”

He dived for his knife, and I let him pick it up. I wanted him to try again, but I wanted to end this on my terms despite his willingness to continue. His focus, high level of resilience, and determination were among the reasons I chose him for serious operations.

But then a thought slipped into my mind, and again, I remembered the one time he slipped up when he should have paid closer attention—Serena. Her face flashed in my head. The fear in her eyes when she looked at me, the hope that sprung alive in her when I held her close, the way she clung to me.

I was still fucking pissed at him, but I needed to clear my head to concentrate.

Too late.

He’d noticed the hesitation, the flicker of distraction, and he seized the moment.

His knife slashed upward, catching me completely off guard. Pain exploded in my arm as the blade sunk into my flesh. The heavy Russian victory chants died instantly, and Arlo’s eyes narrowed.

“Shit.” Ivan paled at the sight of red quickly spreading across my arm, soaking the white fabric of my shirt. “Boss, I swear…I thought you were going to miss that one.”

Fuck

I grunted, stumbling back, clutching the wound. Blood seeped between my fingers, sticky and warm.

Rage flared in me, hot and uncontrollable. My grip on the knife tightened, and I forced myself to focus. “I didn’t ask you to fucking stop.”

“But Boss—”

I snarled, pushed through the pain, and launched myself at him one last time. My knife found its mark, but I curved the dagger to the side and plunged my clenched fist deep into his chest. His eyes went wide, the fight draining from him as he collapsed to the ground, trying to catch his breath.

I stood over him, breathing hard, blood dripping down my hand and staining the floor beneath me. I pressed against the wound, but it was not enough to stop the pain.

“If you want to be the best,” I glared at Ivan, “then you have to always think like the fucking best, not a fucking pussy.”

Turning away from him, I grabbed a bottle of water from Arlo. “That’ll be all for today. Not a shabby job you did this time, Ivan. Everyone is dismissed.”

****

I’d built the training complex within the estate, and though there was some distance from there to the main house, I didn’t bother taking a ride. Arlo followed closely behind in the car, probably waiting until I got pissed off or tired enough— or both—to enter the fucking vehicle.

Much to his utter disappointment, I didn’t. And I didn’t bother saying a word to him when we got to the gate leading up the driveway to the house. He parked the car beside the others under the shade covers, and I marched up the steps.

I slammed the door behind me harder than I should have, ignoring the echoes reverberating through the halls of the house. My forearm throbbed in protest, the knife wound burning like fucking hellfire, but I didn’t stop moving. Blood soaked through my t-shirt, sticking it to my skin, and each step sent a fresh wave of irritation through me.

The first aid kit was where it always was, tucked in a drawer in the kitchen. When I breezed inside, Serena was by the cooking gas. Her hand paused over the pot, her mouth fell open, and her eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets when she saw me.

I didn’t even bother with the courtesy of a greeting. I didn’t even fucking bother to fully notice how radiantly she was glowing in yet another yellow dress that stopped high above her knees. Opening the drawer, I yanked out the fucking box with more force than necessary, spilling nearly half its contents onto the counter. Bandages, antiseptic wipes, gauze—they scattered everywhere, and I cursed under my breath.

I wasn’t sure which annoyed the hell out of me more: not being able to recall the last time I needed to use a first aid box or needing to use one at all.

Grabbing what I needed, I stalked into the living room, throwing myself onto the couch. The leather creaked beneath me as I leaned back, wincing when the movement pulled at the torn flesh in my forearm. “Goddammit!”

I looked down; my shirt was ruined, the dark stain spreading across like a black canvas.

With one jerk, I ripped it off, gritting my teeth as the dried blood pulled at the wound. The air hit the raw cut, and I clenched my jaw, my patience thinning with every second. The antiseptic wipe came first. I ripped the packet open with my teeth, dabbing at the wound with a sharp intake of breath as the sting set my nerve on fire.

“Damn it.” Growling, I tossed the used wipe onto the center table.

The bandage was next. A simple strip of adhesive should have been easy, right? Fucking wrong.

My hands, which were usually so steady, were shaking—anger, pain, maybe a mix of both. I peeled the backing off, but the damn thing folded in on itself before I could line it up. I barked out a frustrated laugh, the kind with no humor, and tossed the crumpled bandage aside.

Another one. This time, I held my breath, steadying my hand like I was aiming a gun. I pressed the bandage over the cut, smoothing it down, only for the edges to peel away immediately.

“Son of a—” I leaned back against the couch, glaring at the ceiling like it personally offended me.

Blood trickled from beneath the failed bandage, mocking my efforts. My head dropped back, eyes closing for a second as the frustration boiled over. I’d stitched fucking bullet wounds, broken bones with my bare hands, and taken down men twice my size without breaking a sweat.

And here I was, losing a fight to a goddamn Band-Aid.

“Turns out you’re not Superman.”

I opened my eyes, not surprised to see my wife standing in front of me with a smile on her face.

Offering a dry chuckle, I sat upright. “Ha, really? Here I was thinking we’d already established that.”

“And yet, somehow, you manage to remind me.”

Closely, I watched her. “How long have you been standing there?”

She shrugged, lowering herself to sit beside me on the couch, and the plush cushion pillow dipped under her weight when she adjusted. “Long enough to catch the show of the mighty one ripping his shirt off with his bare hand.”

I grunted, earning a laugh from her. “Must have been quite the show.”

“Yeah, it was. I followed shortly after you stepped out of the kitchen, but I guess you were too immersed in fixing up that bandage that you didn’t notice.”

“And what a great job I’m doing putting it on, right?”

“Fantastic work.” She smiled at the mess I’d made, and her gaze softened when her eyes met mine. “I can help make it more fantastic if you’d like.”

I motioned to the opened box. “Knock yourself out. Not literally, though.” I grumbled the last part.

When she took over the Band-Aid mission, I forced myself to exhale slowly, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease when her fingers touched mine. She didn’t linger much; the third bandage finally aligned, and she caressed the edges to make them stay.

“Done.” She was beaming like a marathon runner who’d won the cup. “More fantastic, isn’t it?”

Her joy was almost contagious. Except, somehow, I couldn’t remember the last time Serena was extra with her giddiness. She was usually more reserved, logical, and level-headed.

Twisting to my side, I raised a brow at her. “Should I be concerned that you’re finding this entire thing amusing?”

“Are you ever concerned about anything?”

I narrowed my eyes at her.

“Fine, that was insensitive. I take it back. You get concerned about lots of things sometimes. What I meant was, do you want to tell me what happened, or is it perhaps something I shouldn’t know?”

“Are you indirectly asking to know what happened?”

“If I ask directly, will I get an answer?”

“So many questions.”

She folded her arms, and I flexed my jaw before resigning to the power of what tried to look like an intimidating stare from her.

“Training session with the men.”

“Training session with the men,” she repeated, disbelief clearly laced in her voice. “And they managed to get a…. What was used? A knife in you?”

I couldn’t help it; the smile I’d been suppressing from the moment I saw her in front of me rose to the surface. “Not they . He . But the details aren’t important. I’m fine now, thanks to you. Although, you deserve some blame. You’re the reason I managed to get hit in the first place.”

Her jaw dropped. She looked gobsmacked and gorgeous. “What— me ? How was that even possible when I was right here?”

I laughed. Unlike the fleeting moment we had in the kitchen, now I really saw her, and she was way more fucking beautiful than… ever. Her bump had protruded more over the past months; she’d let her hair grow out, dangling above the curve of her hip, and her cheeks were much fuller.

She looked like sunshine.

“You’re fucking beautiful, Pchelka.”

Stunned, she opened her mouth to say something. Then, she closed it again. Her cheeks turned a fiery shade of red, her giddiness reduced to a shyness I recognized all too well.

Leaning closer, I tucked loose strands of her hair behind her ear, allowing my finger to gently brush her cheek. As always, she smelled like vanilla and a hint of citrus.

“You’re trying to change the topic.”

I tipped her chin up. “You’d rather I talk about getting stabbed in the fucking arm than show you how much I want to fuck you right now?”

“I…um…” she stuttered.

I loved seeing her all flustered like this, watching her melt in a puddle, a simple but significant reaction to my touch. I loved it when she called my name. I loved the tiny sighs she made when I kissed her.

The blood in my body heated up, dangerously traveling south at the mere thought of tasting her lips. Dipping my head, I claimed her lips with mine, kissing her sweetly yet possessively.

She cupped my face, moved her lips against mine, and pulled back with closed eyes, breathing softly against my lips. “Timur….”

It was crazy how I’d transitioned from a whirlwind of emotions—anger, pain, irritation—only to have them simmer at the sight of her.

“I know where this is going, but it would interest you to know that I have your meal cooking on that stove.”

I grinned, pressing a sharp kiss to her lips again. “Then it means I have to make you come quickly.”

“Timur—”

“No time to waste time, Serena, mother of Timur the Second. Get on top of me.”

Her eyes shined with mirth. “You can’t just name our son Timur the Second. And what if we have a—”

“What I have is an injured arm, woman. The least you can do is fuck me to recovery. So, hurry up, there’s not a fucking minute to lose.”

Laughing, she swatted my arm but crossed her legs over mine. “I can’t believe you have a funny bone.”

Narrowing my eyes at her, I slipped my uninjured hand under her dress and headed straight for her panties. Which were already fucking soaked, and I hadn’t even touched her.

“I don’t, Pchelka.” Shifting her panties, I encircled her swollen nub with a finger, feeling a familiar rush of excitement swell between my legs. “Fucking you is serious business.”

The smile was off her face already, her fingers digging into my shoulders to steady herself. Dazed, she moved her hip against my hand, hissing when I pushed two fingers into her wet pussy. Her walls clamped around my hand, her head lolled backward, and she caught her lip between her teeth.

“How many minutes before we set the house on fire?”

“Ten,” she mumbled and dove in for a kiss.

It was desperate, needy, and everything we both needed to communicate how much we knew we needed each other without having to admit it in words. She thrust her tongue into my mouth, eagerly tasting, fiercely battling. Her hands were everywhere: my head, my cheeks, my neck, and my shoulders.

I cupped the back of her head, matching her energy as I sucked on her lips, one after the other.

She tasted like citrus, too.

Moving her hips, she tried to create friction, but I pulled out and hastily tugged down my sweatpants, allowing my cock to spring free. What I didn’t expect was that she would curl her fingers around me and impatiently position me at her entrance.

“Seven minutes, Timur.”

I slid my arm around her waist and, at the same time, covered her mouth with mine; before bringing her down on my cock, I swallowed her moans, grunting at the sting of her fingers digging into my chest, while I guided her to ride me.

Her bump brushed my torso, and I gripped her thighs, plunging deeper into the warmth of her sex. Pleasure and satisfaction settled on her face when she rocked faster against me. I kissed her neck, dipped my head to suck her braless breasts through her clothes, and relished in the sound of hearing her mumble incoherent nonsense.

She was so fucking tight, squeezing me in and out. All I wanted was to feel the depths of her, to fuck her harder and faster—as insanely as I knew how. She cupped my neck, breathing fast against my lips. Her forehead dropped to mine, and her hair fell forward, trapping us in a world where only us existed and nothing else.

“Two more minutes,” she whispered, running her fingers up and down my chest. “I’m close, baby.”

My ears perked at the foreign name, but I couldn’t concentrate on it for long as I tried to kiss her. But it was fucking sloppy. She sighed into my mouth, played with my ears, and mumbled another incoherent thing I couldn’t register.

I could feel her closing in on me, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to hold on any longer. She raised her hips and slid back down, allowing me to hit her just where she needed, just where I needed liberation, and she shattered above me, coming undone in my arm. It wasn’t long before I followed after, coming inside her with a deep grunt.

Laughing, she snuggled her head on my heaving chest, and I knew she was trying to hide the blush on her cheeks.

I kissed her forehead. “What’s funny?”

Shaking her head, she looked up. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how it happened or where that came from. I called you baby.”

Yes, she had. And while it was strange, I welcomed the new development with open arms and didn’t want any change.

“You can call me whatever you want, Pchelka. I’m yours.”