“Eight million Euros.” A voice from the back.
“Nine million.”
“Twelve million Euros.” Polina. Standing with her paddle raised, emerald silk catching the light.
Roman’s fingers press harder, and my thighs clamp around his wrist. “What do you want,solnyshko?”
“I want that painting. And to come on your hand.”
His mouth curves against my ear. “Then take it. Buy it yourself.”
He pulls his hand away—I nearly whimper at the loss—and presses the auction paddle into my palm.
“Spend my money.”
I raise the paddle with a hand that’s not quite steady. “Fifteen million Euros.”
Gasps ripple through the room.
Polina’s jaw tightens. “Eighteen million.”
She’s not buying art. She’s trying to buy her way back into relevance. She’s trying to buyhimback.
I look at Roman. He’s watching me with dark eyes, waiting to see what I’ll do.
“Twenty million Euros.”
Polina glances at Vadim, who gives the smallest shake of his head. She sets her paddle down, fury barely hidden behind her smile.
“Sold! Lot seventeen to Mrs. Volkova for twenty million Euros!”
Roman’s hand slides back between my thighs, rewarding, claiming. “That’s my girl.”
“I just spent twenty million of your money.”
“I know.” His fingers find my clit and press right where I need him. “And you looked like a fucking queen doing it.”
“The painting—”
“Looks like us.” His voice drops to a growl against my ear. “Falling. Drowning. Too obsessed to care.”
I come silently, shaking, biting down hard on my cheek while the room applauds a painting I can barely see through the pleasure.
“Beautiful,” Roman murmurs against my ear. “Now let’s dance before I fuck you on this table.”
The ballroom transforms for dancing—lights dimmed, orchestra playing something haunting—and Roman leads me onto the floor with his hand still wet from touching me. His palm settles on my back, and I can feel myself on his fingers, can smell my own arousal mixing with his cologne.
We waltz with all that danger turned into something that looks almost civilized, and from the balcony above, Vadim watches.
“Smile,” Roman murmurs.
I tilt my face up and give them the show they paid for. I look at him like he hangs the stars, like I don’t see the blood on his cuffs. Every time I look at him, I think about how he’ll die if Ash fails. How I’ll die. How everything we’re building will collapse into blood and silence.
“When we get home,” I murmur against his jaw, “I want you to finish what you started under that table.”
“Solnyshko, when we get home, I’m going to spread you out on my desk and eat you until you scream loud enough for the guards to hear.”
“Is that a promise or a threat?”
