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Yelena

The air in the room is thick with the aftermath of what just happened. My body is pressed against Aithan’s. My legs weak from exhaustion, and my breath coming in shallow bursts. My skin is damp with sweat, my thighs aching from being wrapped around Aithan’s waist for so long. I can still feel the imprint of his hands on my hips, the bruising grip that held me steady while he claimed me, again and again.

The cool silk of the sheets clings to my bare skin as I lie motionless, my breath still erratic. Aithan's weight beside me is a solid reminder of the storm that just passed between us—the kind that tears down walls and leaves vulnerability in its wake. My heart thumps against my ribs, and I feel each beat as a question, echoing the intensity we never should have reached.

My mind spins as I try to process everything. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Or was it?

I had convinced myself that what happened between us in New York was nothing but an accident—an unfortunate slip fueled by lust, alcohol, and reckless decisions. A one-off, a fluke that would not repeat itself. After all, lightning, they say, does not strike twice in the same place.

But it did.

And it didn’t just strike twice—it hit with a force so powerful, so consuming, that I don’t even remember how we went from arguing about his alleged affair to me begging him to take me, right there against the wall.

I had barely managed to get the words out—demanding to know if he was sleeping with another woman—before his lips crashed into mine. And just like that, I had forgotten everything. Every ounce of anger, every speck of resistance, every shred of control had melted under the fire of his touch.

I close my eyes, feeling annoyed with myself.

Tears threaten to spill, but I blink them away, swallowing down the lump in my throat. I refuse to cry over this. Not with how much I enjoyed the way he made my body feel.

Aithan shifts beside me, his body still pressed close, the heat of his skin radiating against mine. He brushes a strand of hair from my face, and I steel myself before speaking.

“Please make sure to have my door fixed by morning.” My voice is steady, but my insides feel anything but.

Aithan stills for a moment, then exhales a quiet chuckle. He tightens his grip around my waist before I can move away. “The door will be fixed, but not because of you.”

“Hmm?”

“Because you are moving into my room.” His voice is deep, laced with something dark and possessive.

I stiffen. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

I push at his chest, but he doesn’t budge. His pewter-gold eyes lock onto mine, and a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, as if daring me to argue.

“Aithan, I am not—”

“You are.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “You are my wife, and I will not have you sleeping in a separate room like we’re strangers. Not after this.”

I scowl at him. “This—” I gesture between us, still too raw to even say it out loud, “—changes nothing.”

His expression shifts, the amusement replaced by something more intense. “It changes everything, agápi mou.”

I shake my head, refusing to let myself believe in whatever twisted logic he’s trying to sell me. “You haven’t even explained the photos.”

He sighs and leans back slightly, rubbing a hand down his face before meeting my gaze again. “Yesterday, I told you Bella was my ex.”

“But you forgot to tell me she was with you yesterday.”

“She came to see me,” he continues, his voice low. “Blocked my way as I was leaving the restaurant. She threw herself at me, told me we could still be together. She said she didn’t care that I was married.”

Something sharp twists in my chest, but I say nothing, letting him speak.

“I told her no. I told her I was married now and that whatever we had was over.” He cups my face, his thumbs brushing against my cheeks. “I don’t know how those pictures got to you, but I will find out.”

I swallow hard. A part of me wants to believe him. The way he’s looking at me—so damn serious, so raw—it makes me want to trust him.

But then I remember how easily I fell into his arms tonight, how quickly I let my body rule over my mind. I can’t be that weak. I need some sort of distance from him.

“You’re still moving into my room,” he says again, softer this time, but just as firm.

I shake my head. “I—”

“Enough.” His grip on me tightens, but it's not painful. “You’re mine, Yelena. In every sense of the word. And starting from this moment, I will give you no reason to doubt that.”

I exhale sharply, my blood roaring in my ears. “You can’t just make decisions for me.” I protest weakly.

“You’re my wife.”

“That doesn’t mean you own me.”

Aithan studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, his lips curl into something dangerous, something lethal.

“Yes, it does,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth against my temple. “I own you. Your body, soul, and spirit belong to me. And I take care of what’s mine. And you, agápi mou …you are mine.”

I shiver at his words, at the sheer certainty in his tone. He believes it. He believes he owns me, that I belong to him, body and soul.

And the terrifying part?

A small, twisted part of me wants to let him own me in every sense.