“You’re not scared anymore,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice low and rough as gravel. The warmth of his breath skims my skin, making the hairs at the nape of my neck stand on end.
I fight the shiver crawling down my spine, summoning bravado because I refuse to let him see how easily he still undoes me.
“Maybe I’ve just gotten used to you,” I scoff, tilting my chin up, determined to meet his eyes. My voice wobbles on the last word—a tell I know he doesn’t miss.
He huffs a laugh, the kind that rumbles low in his chest. His lips brush near my temple, not quite a kiss, just a ghost of one; a promise or a threat, I can’t tell which. My breath stutters, caught somewhere between relief and longing.
For a heartbeat, I think he’ll close the distance—give in, claim my mouth the way I ache for—but he doesn’t. Instead, he draws back, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips, eyes dark with mischief and satisfaction.
“Good,” he says, as if we’ve just finished a negotiation. He steps away, already reaching for the punching bag, knuckles flexing, jaw set.
I stand there a second longer, flush creeping hot up my cheeks, pulse thundering everywhere at once. He’s already half turned, muscles rippling under sweat-damp skin, and I know he’s dismissed me, at least for now.
The dismissal stings, but not as much as my own reaction: I want him to chase me, want him to claim me, want something I can’t name.
Annoyed—at him, at myself—I snatch up my notebook and storm out of the gym. I hear the thud of fists resuming behind me, the chain rattling. The rhythm almost matches my heartbeat.
I spend the rest of the evening restless, replaying the moment over and over. The heat of his body behind me, the roughness of his voice, the softness that slipped in between. I hate how easily he unravels me with a look, a touch, a tease.
He shouldn’t have that kind of power over me. No one should.
After dinner, I avoid him, claiming exhaustion, letting the maids draw my bath and brushing off his quiet “Good night” with a nod that’s sharper than I mean.
I bury myself in my room, but there’s no peace—not in the silence, not in the shadows, not in the steady ache coiling low in my belly.
When sleep finally comes, it is anything but restful.
He fills my dreams. Lukyan: bare skin, calloused hands, the rough whisper of my name. I dream of him caging me against the wall, the weight of his body pinning me in place. His lips trace the column of my throat, hot and possessive, his teeth grazing my shoulder. I gasp in the dream, surrendering, arching into him as he presses his mouth to the hollow beneath my ear.
His hands roam my body, confident and knowing. In the dream, I can’t pretend indifference; I give myself up to him with a desperation that startles me. I hear his voice, low and thick:“You’re mine.”It sounds less like a warning, more like a promise I want to believe.
The dream turns heated—his mouth on my breast, the rasp of his stubble against my skin, his fingers sliding between my thighs. I moan for him, shameless, wanton, opening myself to the darkness, to him, to the part of myself that’s tired of fear and doubts. My body shudders, pleasure cresting, and I wake breathless, flushed, tangled in damp sheets.
For a moment, I lie still, the room slowly coming back into focus. My skin is slick with sweat; my heart is pounding. The taste of him, the memory of his touch, lingers—so real it aches.
Fear is gone. What’s left feels far more dangerous.
I turn over, swallowing hard, and look across the wide bed. Lukyan is there, deep in sleep, the morning light soft on his face. He looks younger now, all the harshness in his features relaxed, mouth slightly open, one arm tossed above his head.
He doesn’t know what he does to me. He doesn’t see the chaos he’s left behind in my chest. I study him for a long moment, tracing the line of his jaw, the sweep of his dark lashes. He shifts, mumbling something in Russian, and my heart twists painfully.
I could touch him; reach out and claim what I wanted in the safety of sleep and dreams. But I don’t. Instead, I press my hand to my belly, still trembling, letting the heat of longing settle there.
It’s not fear anymore. I know the taste of that, sharp and cold. What I feel now is hot, hungry, and infinitely more reckless.
I slip quietly from the bed and head to the shower, needing the rush of cold water to clear my head, to wash away the dream. His touch lingers, stubborn as always, a promise whispered against my skin, refusing to let me go.
I close the bathroom door gently, careful not to wake him. The tiles are cool beneath my feet as I strip off my sleep shirt, every movement deliberate, grounding myself in the present—trying to shake off the heat of my dream.
I twist the taps, let the water run cold, and step under the spray.
The shock makes me gasp, but it feels right, bracing and honest. I let the chill chase away the last traces of sleep, rubbing soap over my skin with sharp, practiced movements. I scrub my neck, my chest, my thighs—everywhere his mouth and hands lingered in my dreams, but the ache remains.
I rest my forehead against the tiles, watching rivulets race down to the drain. I know I can’t wash him away. I don’t even want to.
When the water finally runs too cold to bear, I shut it off and towel myself dry. I take my time moisturizing, taming my hair into a loose braid. My heart is still pounding, but the trembling has faded into a new kind of anticipation.
I choose a soft dress—something comfortable, pale blue cotton that skims my hips. Nothing seductive, but I catch myself hoping he’ll notice anyway. I swipe on a little lip balm, study my face in the mirror. I look different, eyes too bright, lips a bit swollen.
