For the first time all evening, my anger ebbs, replaced by something sharper—fear. Not of Jack, not of Volkov, but of losing the fragile trust of the woman beside me. I lay my hand palm-up on the seat between us. After a breath she threads her fingers through mine, squeezes once, and leaves her hand there.
Inside that simple contact is a whole treaty—room for proof, room for doubt—but room. And that’s good enough for tonight.
Rain skitters across the windshield in silver lines, blurring Newark’s warehouses into watercolor smears. Teresa dozes beside me, head tipped to the window, envelope of forged photos on the seat next to her. Passing streetlights scatter orange streaks across her face. Jack’s accusation replays in my headon a loop—Angeloff funded the crash, Angeloff shot Maxim—as corrosive as battery acid.
A lie fractures trust faster than a bullet,I think to myself. If she starts doubting my word, I lose more than operational leverage. I lose the woman I’m ready to build a kingdom around. The bruise under my ribs still throbs, but the prospect of Teresa pulling away hurts worse.
“ETA, twelve minutes,” Dmitri says from the driver’s seat. “No tails.”
“Spasibo.”
My fingers stay woven with hers on the leather seat until we arrive home.
When the private elevator opens into the penthouse, Teresa thanks Dmitri then runs for the hall bathroom, one hand over her mouth. The door clicks shut.
I can hear her retching. My fists clench. Every part of me wants to break the door down. She needs space, but she also needs care. The tap runs. I wait.
When she comes out, her eyes are watery. I hand her a cold glass of ginger ale.
“Doctor?” I ask.
She manages a smile. “I’m sure it’s just from all the stress. I’ll be okay.”
I want to call in a doctor, but I let it go. For now.
We sit on the sofa, the fire low and glowing. I tell her the plan: My people will strip the photo files, check the mechanic’s ledger from Saint Petersburg, and trace the IP that sent Jack’s dossier.
She stares at the flames. “Part of me believed him,” she says quietly. “I suppose that’s the way of guilt.”
“Guilt can trap you, or it can guide you,” I tell her. “You choose.”
She moves closer. Her sleeve brushes my hand, sending a spark through me. Then she takes my jacket off, slowly.
“You didn’t have to save me,” she says. “But you did.”
Her hands slide over my holster. I take it off, set it aside. She leans in and kisses my neck, then my mouth—slow at first then deeper.
I catch her wrist, thumb grazing her pulse. “I’d do it a thousand times over,kotenok.” Her breath hitches and she moves closer. I can feel her heartbeat as I pull her against me.
Her lips find my throat, soft and tentative at first, then bolder, kissing along my collarbone. I fight the urge to sayI love you, the words burning in my throat, and instead tilt her chin, kissing her deeply, tongue stroking hers, tasting her warmth.
My hands slide under her blouse, easing it over her head and tossing it aside. Her bra and panties follow, her skin glowing in the firelight, curves begging to be touched.
Teresa guides me down onto the rug, her eyes fierce, taking control. “I want you,” she whispers as she straddles me, her pussy brushing my trousers, already wet. I groan, hands gripping her hips as she unzips me, freeing my cock—hard, throbbing, aching for her.
She slides down, kissing my chest, then lower, but I stop her, needing to taste her first. “Not yet,solnishka.”
I roll us, pinning her beneath me on the rug, her thighs parting as I settle between them, the firelight casting golden flickers across her skin.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I whisper, kissing her navel, tongue tracing the soft curve of her hips, then lower, teasing her clit until she moans, nails digging into my shoulders. Her pussy’s so wet, glistening, and I lap at her, slow and deliberate, savoring her taste, sweet and heady, knowing she’s mine in every way.
She writhes and gasps. “Vlad, oh my god,” she cries, her voice breaking as I suck gently, pushing her closer to the edge.
My fingers slide inside, curling against that spot that makes her tremble, and she comes hard, crying my name as her body arches. I thrust into her before the orgasm subsides, slow and deep, her tight heat gripping me.
“Mine,” I growl, Russian spilling out. “Moya radost, moya zhiznm,” my joy, my life.
Her moans, her soft cries of “Vlad, yes,” drive me harder, her nails raking my back, leaving trails of fire. “You feel so fucking good,” she says, legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me deeper, her heels digging into my ass. “Don’t stop, please.”
