Page 128 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

I can barely think as his skilled fingers work their magic, building pressure that threatens to shatter me completely. “Yakov, please?—”

“Shh,” he whispers, catching my mouth in a hard, brief kiss. “Let go,milaya. I’ve got you.”

With another circling of his thumb, the pleasure rises in me, crashing through every part of my body. He watches with a mix of triumph and something deeper as I shamelessly grind against his hand, whimpering against his shoulder. Slipping my panties aside, he guides his fingers to my entrance.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Don’t you dare.”

The rumble of approval from his chest sets my skin aflame as he enters me, first one finger, then two, stretching and filling and knowing my body like no one else ever has. Before I can catch my breath, he works that magical rhythm that always has me shaking and gasping, pinned beneath his careful ministrations. A climax builds, an intense pressure in my core.

“Come for me,” he urges, his breath against my skin more persuasive than the coaxing command. “Scream for me, little doctor. Now.”

With an expert movement of his fingers, he stretches and fills me while his thumb works that sensitive bundle of nerves. The sharp edges of his teeth on my throat are the final push I need—an explosion that reverberates through my entire body, stealing air and strength. The sound that escapes me is somewhere between a shout and a whimper, half muffled against his shoulder as his fingers continue their relentless pace, prolonging the orgasm in a way that makes my vision go white.

Before I can recover, my phone rings shrilly, the sound jarring in the heightened atmosphere. His hand stills, but he doesn’t pull out his fingers as I fumble for my purse, breathless and flushed.

Yakov’s phone rings a second later, and the matching ringtones tell us something’s wrong before we even answer. His expression shifts instantly from desire to tactical assessment as he reaches for his phone.

Igor’s voice crackles through the speaker, loud enough that I can hear every word: “Pablo’s escaped custody. Twenty minutes ago. Get back to the mansion now.”

The world seems to tilt beneath me as Yakov’s eyes lock with mine, his expression hardening into something I recognizefrom that night in the alley. Cold calculation. Lethal focus. The warrior emerging from beneath the man.

“We’re fifteen minutes out,” he says, already putting the car in drive.

As we race back, he reaches for my hand, an anchor in the storm about to break. Whatever comes next, we’ll face it together—the psychologist who chose to love the beast and the beast who found his humanity in her arms.

The road stretches before us, and I try not to think about Pablo’s twisted smile, about the way he threatened to break me, about what his escape means for our fragile peace. Instead, I focus on Yakov’s hand in mine.

“We’ll be ready for him this time,” Yakov says, reading my thoughts as he so often does.

I tighten my grip on his hand and nod, choosing to believe him. Choosing to see the future we’re fighting to create, even as danger circles ever closer.

37

INTO THE STORM

MILA

The mansion has transformed into a military compound by the time we pull through the gates—black SUVs lined up like sentinels, armed men positioned at strategic points, and enough firepower visible to outfit a small army.

“Jesus,” I breathe, taking it in.

Yakov’s expression darkens as he surveys the scene. Before we can even park, Nikolai emerges from the main entrance, his usual composed demeanor replaced by urgent efficiency. Igor flanks him, barking orders into his phone while Aleksander coordinates with a team of men I don’t recognize.

“Gagarin,” Nikolai calls out the moment we step from the car. “Emergency council.”

I feel Yakov’s tension ratchet higher, his body shifting into that predatory stillness I’ve learned to recognize. “Now?”

“Pablo’s escape wasn’t opportunistic,” Igor snaps, ending his call. “Intelligence suggests he had inside help. We need you in the war room stat.”

My stomach drops. The implications hit me immediately. If Pablo has insider knowledge, nowhere is truly safe.

Yakov’s hand finds mine, squeezing once. “How long?”

“Could be hours,” Nikolai replies grimly. “We need to identify the leak and strategize response protocols.”

I can see the war raging behind Yakov’s eyes—duty versus protection, Bratva obligations versus his need to stay close to me. It’s the same conflict that’s defined our entire relationship.