“Look at you,” he murmurs, his thumb parting me. “Furious with me, plotting my murder, and you’re dripping down your thighs. Your body doesn’t have any pride,solnyshko.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.” He smiles, remembering when he said the same words, and I kissed him.
He positions the device—cold metal against hot, wet flesh—and slides it in. It stretches me, fills me, and the sensation is so intense my knees buckle. He catches me, his arm like an iron band around my waist, holding me up while I adjust to the intrusion.
“Color?”
“Green,” I gasp. “Christ. Green.”
He adjusts the angle, then presses the remote control, and pleasure sparks through me so sharp I nearly collapse.
“That’s one.” His thumb circles my clit once—feather-light, devastating. “Now you’ll feel me all night. Every step. Every breath.”
He pulls my dress down and smooths the silk over my hips, and when he tells me to turn around, my legs are shaking so badly I have to grab the dresser for support.
The collar comes next—platinum and filigree, beautiful enough to be jewelry, heavy enough to be a reminder.
“What? No!” I say.
His hands are still on the clasp.
“My mother wore something similar. It’s bulletproof.”
“It didn’t save her.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice is rough.
“No. It didn’t.”
He finishes with the clasp and steps back, and I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything at all.
* * *
Roman’s palm rests on my thigh in the Audi, and the device hums inside me with every bump in the road. Low and relentless and absolutely maddening.
Through tinted windows, Moscow slides past, and the Bolshoi rises ahead of us.
“I can’t do this.”
“You walked into a Bratva wedding knowing they’d kill your brother if you ran.” Roman’s hand tightens on my thigh. “You can dothis.”
He kisses me—hard and claiming—and then the door opens and we’re stepping into flashbulbs and shouted questions. Roman is guiding me through the crowd of journalists, like a dutiful husband.
The lobby is champagne and crystal and power, and Vadim appears from the crowd with his snake smile and his Savile Row suit.
“Anyuta.” His eyes rake down my body and linger on my throat. “Marriage suits you. If the sounds we’re hearing from Roman’s study are correct, we will soon welcome a cub.”
The intimate diminutive from his mouth makes my skin crawl.
His hand rises toward my collar.
Roman catches his wrist.
“Don’t you fucking dare, uncle.”
Heads turn.
