Page 38 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
“Look at me,” I told her.
Her eyes snapped open, locking on mine, and something passed between us—something fierce, binding. Every thrust, every sound, every touch was ours alone.
Her moans grew higher, her body tightening around me as I pushed her closer to the edge. “Come for me,” I urged, my voice harsh with need.
She shattered in my arms, her release pulling me over with her. I buried myself deep, holding her there as we both trembled in the aftershocks.
When it was over, I stayed above her, pressing my forehead to hers, both of us breathing hard in the darkness.
“This meant something,” I said quietly.
“I know,” she whispered.
She curled into me, her head on my chest, one arm thrown across my waist. I should have moved, should havemaintained the distance that kept things simple. But for the first time in years, I didn’t want simple.
I let her stay, let myself hold her while she slept, let myself imagine that this could be real. That Eleanor Voronov wasn’t just a name on a marriage license, but the woman who’d somehow found her way past every defense I’d built and made herself at home in the ruins of my heart.
Outside, Chicago slept, unaware that two people who’d started as enemies had somehow become something else entirely. Something worth fighting for.
Something worth protecting, no matter what it cost.
Chapter 11 – Eleanor
Work became my salvation and my prison all at once. I threw myself into designing with the kind of desperate intensity that bordered on obsession, losing track of time until my fingers cramped around my pencils and my eyes burned from staring at fabric swatches under harsh studio lights.
My office had transformed into a war room of creativity. Sketchbooks covered every surface, fabric samples hung from makeshift lines across the walls, and my digital tablet never left my side. I worked until three in the morning, fell asleep at my desk more often than in my bed, and woke up with needle marks on my fingertips from hand-sewing samples.
The spring collection was taking shape, and it was unlike anything I’d ever designed. Darker, more complex, with an edge that reflected everything I’d been through. These weren’t clothes for the girl who used to design pretty florals and safe silhouettes. These were for the woman who’d married a monster and discovered she liked the way his darkness looked on her.
Zara called it my “vengeful goddess” era, and she wasn’t wrong. Every sketch, every seam, every choice of fabric was infused with the kind of raw emotion that only came from having your world turned upside down and somehow landing on your feet.
“You’re going to burn yourself out,” Anya said one afternoon, finding me hunched over my sewing machine with a half-eaten sandwich forgotten beside me.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re working eighteen-hour days and living on coffee and spite. That’s not fine; that’s heading for a breakdown.”
I looked up from the silk I was hemming, seeing the genuine concern in her hazel eyes. Over the past few weeks, Anya had become more than just my sister-in-law. She’d becomemy partner, my sounding board, my lifeline in a world where I still felt like I was constantly swimming upstream.
“I need to prove myself,” I said. “Show everyone that I’m not just some victim who got swept up in circumstances beyond her control.”
“Prove to who? The fashion world already loves your comeback story. Orders are pouring in faster than we can fill them.”
“Prove to myself, I guess. Prove to Maxim that I’m worth more than just being a pawn in his revenge game.”
Anya set down the coffee she’d brought me and perched on the edge of my work table. “Eleanor, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Are you doing all this because you love fashion, or because you’re trying to distract yourself from the fact that my brother is being an emotionally constipated asshole?”
The question hit too close to home, and I felt heat rise in my cheeks. “Both, probably.”
“I thought so.” She was quiet for a moment, then said, “He’s scared, you know.”
“Of what? The big bad Bratva facilitator is scared of his own wife?”
“Of letting anyone close enough to hurt him. Maxim has spent years keeping everyone at a safe distance, and you’re making that impossible.”