Page 16

KIRILL

I ’ve never experienced frustration that’s so close to the level of self-fucking-destruction I’m feeling now.

I had to physically remove myself from the room before I did something I’d regret for the rest of my life.

My steps are controlled, but they hide a raging fucking war. Once I’m in the bathroom, I splash my face with cold water a few times, but it does nothing to kill the flames that are devouring me from the inside out.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror and barely resist the urge to drive my fist into it. That would be no different than spiraling back into bad habits.

Namely the younger, less balanced version of myself.

The man who stares back at me overflows with negative fucked-up energy that could be used as ammunition for a weapon of mass destruction.

I had everything I fucking wanted. Not because of privilege. In fact, being born into this family has worked against me all my life. The only reason I got to where I am is because of pure fucking will.

The best way to get what you wish for is to block all other paths so that those against you have no choice but to turn to you.

And I succeeded, again and again.

Except with the fucking woman tied to my bed.

I whirl around and head back into the bedroom. Sasha lies in the middle of her shredded clothes and spots of her arousal. Her skin is sweaty, red, and smeared with droplets of her blood and wetness that I made sure to tease her whole body with.

There are also marks from my knife on her breasts and stomach because I couldn’t resist putting them there.

Currently, a toy teases her clit on a low setting, so she’s close but will never get there.

Did I get this toy on impulse a few weeks ago? Yes, I did. But maybe it wasn’t impulse, after all, since I knew all along that I would be torturing the fuck out of her.

I just didn’t know that she wouldn’t budge. Not even a little. Not even close.

I used every single method under the sun and denied her more orgasms than should be legal. Yet this little fucking shit only shook her head while sobbing and begging for a release.

Then, when I continued depriving her, she started calling me names and cursing me six ways to Sunday while trying to dry hump my fingers.

Now, she’s in the acceptance stage. Her head lolls to the side, sweat coats her skin, and her nipples are as hard as diamond pebbles.

Her expressive eyes are half closed, and her dry lips are parted. Despite giving her water now and again, she’s still on the verge of dehydration.

I grab a bottle on my way to her and lift her head. “Open.”

She’s like a doll in my hands, so weak and light that she could be broken with the snap of a finger, but she still glares and purses her lips shut.

“You feel victimized?” I close her nose, so she has no choice but to breathe through her mouth, then I pour the water in. “None of this would’ve happened if you’d just given me the fucking name.”

She chokes, and water splatters out of her nose, but she does drink most of it.

“Does this fucker mean so much to you that you would go to this length to protect him?”

She purses her lips shut again and looks the other way.

My fingers wrap around her throat, and I have to mentally remind myself that I can’t snap it as I force her attention back to me. “I told you to look at me when I’m talking to you.”

I retrieve the toy’s remote from my pocket and push the setting higher. A whole-body shiver goes through her, and her breathing starts to quicken.

She shakes her head, fresh tears rimming her eyes.

“The more you choose him, the meaner I treat you. The harder you defy me, the colder I become. You should know by now that I always, without a doubt, get what I fucking want.”

She lets out a whimper. “Kirill…”

“What? You have that name for me?”

The fucking woman shakes her head and I struggle to remember why she’s not six feet under right now.

“I thought you wanted us to go back to before Russia, but that won’t be possible if you have another fucking man in your heart, Sasha.”

“It’s not…” Her voice is small and shaky. “It’s not a lover…”

“If he’s not, then give me his fucking name.”

“I can’t…” She shudders, and her hips jerk and lift off the bed.

I wrench the toy out. She sobs and screams, her nails digging into the belt’s leather.

Her legs rub together in a hopeless attempt to trigger the orgasm, but nothing comes.

“Do you want to stay tied to my bed for the foreseeable future? Because I can make that happen.”

“Just kill me…” she murmurs through tears. “If you can’t trust me anymore, get rid of me.”

Those words fill my mind with murderous scenarios, but none of them include her.

Only her lover.

“Where’s the fun in that?” I tighten my hold on her neck. “You think you can escape me, Sasha? You think there will be a day when you’ll be out of my sight and back with him? I’ll always find you, and when I do, I’ll kill him right in front of your eyes.”

“Fuck you…” she whispers, and her lids close.

When she fell asleep the previous times, I woke her up with some form of sexual stimulation. I’m still tempted to do that just because she cursed me for threatening her lover.

But I don’t.

One, she’s past her limits.

Two, I can’t guarantee I won’t leave a permanent mark if she continues refusing to tell me the fucker’s name.

I tried finding it on my own, both through Viktor’s investigation of the Belsky Organization and even digging into her past.

I actually did that after she wanted to come with me to New York, but since she’s using a fake last name, it only comes with a fake background that the army believed. Or more like, she bribed her way into the institution, which isn’t a surprise considering her previous rich-lady status.

And that leaves only one way to find out about her lover’s name. Through her.

It’s a problem when she’s completely refusing to cooperate.

I remove the belt from around her wrists and massage the red marks left by the leather.

A soft moan leaves her lips, and my cock hardens to a painful degree. Fuck.

I should’ve fucked her before I came up with this torture method.

Or better yet, fucked her while I tortured her.

I went celibate for months before she came along. Searching for a drama-free hole was a hassle that I didn’t want to take part in unless absolutely necessary.

But being celibate after being in Sasha’s pussy exactly two hundred twenty-seven times has been pure fucking torture.

What? I didn’t mean to count, but I might have grown obsessed with it and done it unconsciously.

My fingers linger on the slits of red on her pale skin. Is it fucked up that I want to put more marks on her so the world can see who she fucking belongs to? Probably.

That doesn’t mean the thought disappears, though.

Her head lolls to the side and falls on my chest. Fucking fuck.

For a second, I forget that I’m mad at this woman. No, mad is an understatement. I’m livid and so close to losing my fucking mind whenever I think she has someone else.

Those thoughts make me consider setting the whole of Russia on fire just to weed him out.

Such crazy, completely impossible thoughts haven’t left me alone since I heard her telling him on the phone that she loved him and that she’d go back to him.

As if I would ever let that happen.

Add the sense of betrayal and being shot, and I’m spiraling down a path even I don’t like.

Not one bit.

I stroke my finger marks on her neck, and she leans her cheek on my palm, snuggling close as if I’m her safe haven.

More like, I’m her custom-made hell.

As I wipe the droplets of sweat off her face, the name of the abyss I’ve fallen into punches me in the fucking gut.

Obsession.

That’s what it’s called, isn’t it? This is what it feels like to have the need to own someone when I’ve never thought about that concept before. This is also why I’m plagued by images of complete wrath if anyone dares to take this woman away from me.

And that includes her.

I meant it earlier—if she continues to not choose me, I’ll be the cruelest monster in her life. I’ll completely destroy her until one of us dies.

And that’s dangerous. Not only for her, but for me as well.

Because she’s starting to look like a fucking weakness. She’s someone who can be used against me to put me on my knees.

And I don’t do weaknesses.

I’ve always been the type to play, never to be played with.

I’ve never gotten too close, never revealed my cards or allowed emotions into my decision-making process.

So imagine my fucking annoyance when I realized that the very damn foundations of my being were being shaken by none other than an enemy.

And Sasha is an enemy. I might not treat her like I do my traditional enemies—which is usually to kill them or manipulate them, then kill them—but she’s not someone I’d trust.

She has relations with the Belsky Organization, and while I have no idea why they want me dead, I know they’re after me.

And until I can completely turn her to my side, meaning she’ll hide nothing from me, she’ll have to stay in the gray area.

Now, if my cock would understand that fucking her is reckless, that would be wonderful.

It doesn’t help that her naked body is splayed out in front of me, tempting me to take her and remind her exactly who she belongs to.

Down, boy. We’ll have our time.

I lift her enough to remove the damp cover—along with the sex toys, the knife, and my belt—from beneath her, and then I place her on the clean, dry sheet.

She whines in an adorable way that doesn’t help with the state of my starving cock, then turns on her side with a sigh.

My self-control has been tested today more times than in my whole fucking life. It takes everything in me to go to the bathroom and place a few towels in a bowl of hot water. When I return, she’s on her back again, every inch of her naked skin laid out for me.

I stare down at my cock that’s becoming a fucking nuisance. “Really, now? Since when are we into somnophilia?”

The only reply I get is an antagonizing erection.