Page 15

ANISSA

His body is heavy against mine, his breath still rough against my neck. I should feel trapped. Instead, I feel… something way more dangerous.

Understood.

Complete.

And it scares the fuck out of me.

When he lifts his head, his eyes dark and unreadable, he stares down at me. “This doesn’t change anything.”

I grin at him and roll over, running my fingers along the lines of welts and scratches down his back and arms. “Oh, honey.” I wink at him to distract him. I don’t want to let him know how raw and vulnerable I feel right now. “You keep telling yourself that.”

I wince when he looks down at the bruises he's left on me. Fingerprints on my arms, scratches on my inner thighs. Bite marks and welts. Where others may look down and feel abused, this is mine. I own it.

Hurting like this when we have sex is the most freeing experience of my life. I've never wanted anything more. Other people, even the Irish, treated me like I was a delicate fucking flower. And I'm not. I like being pushed, prodded, broken. I can't explain it, but there's something about being flayed open like this that makes me feel so satisfied. It's as if his pain makes mine more bearable. It's controlled.

"We should probably put… some antiseptic on that?" Now that the haze of lust is lifting, I see that I scratched the fuck out of him like a cat.

He reaches for my shoulder, and I wince. What the hell? I look down to see a bite mark that's already bruising.

"Oh my god. Fucking hell. I overdid it." His voice cracks as he says, "I'm sorry."

I put my hand on his shoulder and push him back a little. "Stop that. Don't you dare fucking apologize. That was brilliant."

The heat of his body, the ragged way he breathes against my skin, the weight of what we just did presses down on both of us. I know it does because of the way his forehead meets mine, and he breathes heavily.

He shakes his head. "I could've hurt you."

I meet his gaze. "I could've taken more."

Silence.

Heavy.

Charged.

Then, a shift—so small, so lethal. His grip tightens, his thumb dragging over the inside of my wrist as if checking for a weak point, needing to feel my pulse thrumming like something caged. “I know,” he murmurs. It feels like a confession. His voice is quieter now but no less dangerous. “That’s what terrifies you, isn’t it?”

My breath catches. I can’t look away. Because… he’s right. I’ve spent my whole life running, outthinking, outmaneuvering the few men who ever got close to me.

Until… him.

He doesn’t just chase me—he’s caught me. And he might just break me.

He stares into my eyes, and I worry he can read me, that he knows what I fear worse than death.

I breathe out a sigh of relief when he nods toward the bathroom. "Shower. Now. I got a text we need to respond to.”

But he doesn’t make a move.

"Oh?"

My limbs are heavy, my body aches, and my skin is raw where he spanked me, bit me, and held me down. I should get up and move, slip away like I always do. But this time, I don't. I can't. Because he's still here, and something's wrong.

"Matvei?"

I half expect him to roll away, put on that cold mask, that calculating detachment that reminds me I asked for this. Because I did.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he touches me. Not rough or possessive. His fingers trace over my skin, over every bruise and mark he left, as if memorizing the damage. His breath hitches, and when I glance up at him, there's something in his expression I don't understand. Regret? Guilt? It’s almost like he’s ashamed of himself. Like he hates himself for the way he just fucked me.

A part of me thinks about throwing it in his face, laughing at him, taunting him. But I won’t. I can’t. Because when he moves, when he leaves the bed, I feel his absence like he just took a part of me with him. What the fuck is that?

I sit up slowly, my body sore, my thighs shaking. He fucked the hell out of me, and he was not gentle.

And then—warmth. Gentleness. A cloth pressed to my skin, wiping away the sweat, the mess, the evidence of what we just did. I freeze. There’s nothing he could’ve done that would’ve taken me off guard as quickly as this.

I don’t know what to do. He kneels in front of me, his expression unreadable as he cleans me and takes care of me. Carefully, delicately, like I’m something fragile. Like he cares.

I bite my lip hard enough that it hurts because something inside me is breaking open, and I can’t handle this. I don’t want him to know that his tenderness undoes me in a way his roughness never could.

I can handle his cruelty, his punishment. I can handle the way he holds me down and takes me like I belong to him, tosses me around, slaps my ass, bites me, marks me. But this? This tenderness? This fucking gentleness?

I want to shove him away, tell him to stop because it’s making me sad. My throat is tight, my chest is hollow, and my hands curl into fists in my lap. His fingers skim over my skin, his touch light.

"Anissa." His voice is low and strained.

I shake my head. I don’t want to look at him because if I do, I might cry. And I don’t cry. Why is he treating me like I’m something precious?

For the first time… I don’t want to run. I want to stay right here.

"We’re going to the Kopolov house," he says with a self-deprecating smirk. "You should wear… long sleeves."

"I should wear a strapless, backless top," I snap. "I’m not ashamed of the marks you left on me. Are you?"

For one second, the momentary softness evaporates, and in its place is my ruthless captor.

"I’m not fucking ashamed ," he says in a low voice. "But any fucker in that house will take one look at you and know what I did, and I'd fucking have to kill them. I’m the only one who touches you. I’m the only one who fucks you. I’m the only one who knows when I fuck you. Understood?"

I nod as my brain catches up to me. "Wait a second. You said Kopolov house?"

Shit. Shit. No. Fucking shit?—

"Yes. You’re going to be okay."

I shake my head. I’m not ready for this.

Doesn’t matter.

“Rafail called us to him. He and Polina were traveling. They had to leave for an emergency, and now they’re home. He wants you to meet your sister, and he wants to talk to you."

Oh shit.

I blanch, and I don’t know what to say.

"Excuse me?" I say, raising a brow. He has the audacity to smirk because it's not often he catches me off guard—but he just did. The absolute nerve.

"You heard me." He leans back against the headboard, completely at ease, stretching one arm behind his head. "It's time to meet the family."

My stomach turns to ice. No. No, no, no. Not the Kopolov estate. The lion’s den.

Rafail.

I don’t want to see the man I ran from. I don’t want to see him, or the rest of his wolves, waiting. Watching. Judging. I burned that bridge years ago. I set it on fucking fire. I walked away and never looked back. Matvei came for me, but… what if they still see me as a traitor?

I would rather be a vagabond, running from place to place. I would rather be without any ties at all than under the thumb of Rafail and his brothers. What if they make an example of me?

My pulse pounds in my ears. I scramble off the bed, the sheets tangling around my legs. I shake my head.

"I don’t—I don’t feel good. Tell them I’m sick. I can’t—I can’t?—"

He’s on me in an instant. One hand snaps around my wrist, yanking me back against him. I fall onto the bed, and he pulls me into him, his chest solid and immovable against my spine. His breath is hot at my ear, his voice low. Dark.

"You. Are. Mine."

A shudder wracks through me, and I hate myself for it. I hate myself.

"I found you," he continues, his grip tightening. "I took you. I’ve punished you."

His lips graze along my jaw. His next words steal my breath.

"No one is going to touch you, my little witch. No one is going to hurt you. And if anybody so much as fucking lays an eye on you, I’ll deal with them."

I want to fight him, push him away, snarl that I’m not his possession, that I don’t belong to anyone—but the truth? The bold, honest truth?

There’s a part of me that’s been running, hiding, being nothing but a ghost, that wants to believe him.

So I play it all off like I always do because being serious and honest is sometimes painful. “What if someone cut in front of me in line at the checkout?”

His lips twitch. “Toast.”

I almost smile back. “What if I were driving and someone cut me off?”

“I’d slash their fucking tires.”

“What if?—”

He tilts my chin up until my eyes lock onto his. I close my mouth. "You’re mine now. Do you understand me?"

This should terrify me.

Okay, it does.

And yet, a dangerous, reckless part of me exhales at the weight he just took off my shoulders.

Still, I shake my head and give him a curious look. "That’s not exactly how this works."

"It is now."

He’s so certain.

I stare at him, at all that ink and those stormy, brooding eyes. I can’t decide if I want to slap him or kiss him.

My fingers curl into the sheets. "And what if they don’t accept me?" I feel like a child on her first day at a new school.

"They’ll have to," he says, letting out a dark, quiet laugh.

"And if they don’t ?" I press, my voice sharper now. Wobbling. I hate that it wobbles.

His jaw ticks. "I thought I made that clear. Then they answer to me ."

I know exactly what it means to answer to him. It’s a damn good threat.

Dangerous warmth creeps across my skin. I hate that it makes me feel so safe. I swallow hard, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I’m still a little scared."

What it takes for me to admit that… I’ve never told anybody I’m afraid. Ever.

He exhales sharply, then cups the back of my neck, dragging me forward until our foreheads touch.

I close my eyes. It feels so fucking right, and that terrifies me.

"Good." His voice is quieter now, rougher. "That means you still have something to lose."

I’m lost. He’s caught me.

"If it makes you feel any better, a part of me feels like an outcast too. My brother was once one of us."

"Once?" I ask. "What happened?"

Matvei’s eyes darken to storm clouds, more gray than blue. His brow furrows, and he runs his thumb along my cheek like it soothes him. Like I’m his little good-luck charm. His fidget toy.

"He betrayed us. Suffered the ultimate punishment."

"I’m sorry."

“I’m not. It had to happen.” He looks away. “My parents will never forgive me. I’ll never forgive myself."

So his brother betrayed them. And Matvei was the one who acted as the enforcer. Served the punishment.

That’s fucking brutal. My heart aches.

I whisper, "That’s why your parents hate you."

He shrugs and smirks, but it’s not a real smile. His eyes are sad. And a part of me wants to make it better.

"Eh, they always liked my brother better."

I wonder what the ultimate punishment is for betrayal when you’re one of them. It wouldn’t be a fine, or jail, or something civilized. No.

They must hurt them, beat them, do something physically painful. And then kill them or something. Right?

His own little brother.

My mind is spinning a mile a minute. I’m about to meet my sister. What if she hates me? What if we’re nothing alike?

And my mother… I have a mother.

I’m an absolute ball of nerves thinking about facing Rafail and Polina in their own house.

"Do we have to do this?"

I’ve never been this vulnerable around him. Not after everything we’ve been through.

When he brushes his thumb along my cheek again, I feel wetness.

I’m crying.

Oh my god, I’m crying.

I hate that.

"Are you really that afraid, beautiful? My little witch?" His lips twitch. "Cast a spell and protect yourself."

Then, softer. "And trust me. You’ll be fine."

The depths of his loyalty—it’s hard for me to understand. He killed his own brother? For love of the Bratva?

"When do we have to go?"

He glances at the little alarm clock on the bedside table. "We have about an hour."

I leap from his lap, but he catches me midair, tugging me back down.

I fall onto his lap with a quick thump.

"Come here," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. "Don’t go so fast. We just went over a lot. Are you all right?"

He needs to stop being so sweet.

"I’m fine," I huff out. "Can you go back to being an asshole, please?" I shrug. "It makes me more comfortable."

I scoot off the bed just as his hand connects with my ass.

I squeal, smiling, as I head to the bathroom.

I have to get ready for my grand entrance.

* * *