I had sex with her. Again. I can’t escape her. I can’t shake her. When I’m inside her, I feel human. All the feelings and emotionsI buried deep in order to survive bubble to the surface when I’m with her.
I want to put my fist through the car window. Want to scream. Want to go back to that creek and either kill her or kiss her again. I'm not sure which impulse is stronger.
Instead, I force myself to get in the car and drive.
The taste of her won't leave my mouth. The memory of her hands tracing my scars—gentle, heartbroken, like each one physically hurt her—won't leave my mind.
The pain in her voice sounded real. Felt real.
The certainty I've held for six years is cracking, and I hate it. Hate the doubt creeping in. Hate that every time I see her, every time we touch, my conviction weakens.
I park my car in the garage of the estate and head inside, already planning to avoid everyone and lock myself in my room. Pretend tonight didn't happen.
Except Roman is waiting in the main sitting room, two glasses of scotch poured, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Maksim." He gestures to the empty chair. "Join me."
It's not a request.
I take the chair and accept the scotch, even though the last thing I need is alcohol. My control is already too fragile.
"You look..." Roman studies me with amusement. "Satisfied. Did you have a pleasant evening?"
The question is loaded. Does he know? Did he have me followed?
"Fine," I say neutrally. "Just needed some air."
"Of course." His smile suggests he knows exactly what kind of air I needed. "A man has urges. Especially after six years. Nothing to be ashamed of."
I force myself not to react. To sip the scotch and let him make whatever assumptions he wants.
"You know," Roman continues, leaning back in his chair, "I meant to apologize. For Kira. I know you two were engaged before... everything. It must be difficult seeing her with me."
The words are smooth. Concerned. Completely false.
"It's fine," I lie. "That was a lifetime ago."
"Still." He swirls his scotch. "I hope there are no hard feelings. I didn't plan to fall in love with her. But you were dead—or so we thought—and she was... well. You know what she is. Beautiful. Brilliant. A challenge."
Fall in love. The words make me want to laugh. Roman doesn't love anyone but himself and power. No one believes Roman loves Kira. He loves the idea of her in his bed.
"No hard feelings," I force out. "She's yours now."
"Exactly." His satisfaction is palpable. "And speaking of which, I've been finalizing the wedding details. Thought you might want to hear them."
I don't. But refusing would be suspicious.
He pulls out his tablet and starts scrolling through what looks like military operation planning disguised as a wedding. Security details. Guest lists. Contingencies for various scenarios.
"Two hundred guests," he says. "Every major family in Moscow. Show of unity and strength. Kira will wear white—I insisted. Something traditional."
I imagine Kira in white, walking down an aisle toward Roman, and my hands tighten on the glass.
"She'll be beautiful," Roman continues, either not noticing my reaction or enjoying it. "Though I'll need to break some of her more... independent habits. She's been running her own operations too long. Forgotten how to be appropriately submissive."
"She's not the submissive type," I hear myself say.
"Everyone is the submissive type with the right motivation." His smile turns cruel. "Which brings me to her dear sister. Anya. Sweet girl. Choosing between them is like choosing between dark and milk chocolate.”
