Her delicate hands slid from my shoulders to my chest, fingers splaying as though memorizing the shape of me even in the drunken haze.
I lost myself in her—the heat, the tightness, the way her body clenched around me like it was made for this.
I’d fucked her hard, feral, chasing every fantasy I’d ever buried.
And when I felt her begin to tighten, when her breath turned ragged and she cried my name—“Ruslan”—I slowed deliberately, wanting to drag her pleasure out, wanting her to remember.
I held back my own release, rolling my hips in deep, punishing strokes until her fingers dug into my chest, back arching, mouth falling open in a silent scream.
Only then did I let go—thrusting fast and brutal, filling her completely as we shattered together.
I’d groaned so loudly the sound echoed off the walls, my body jerking against hers while wave after wave ripped through me.
No woman had ever undone me like that.
Afterward, I remembered collapsing onto the leather couch, the world spinning violently as exhaustion dragged me under.
I could still feel her weight against me, her warmth, the aftermath of something I hadn’t allowed myself to name.
My limbs had gone heavy, unresponsive, mind slipping into darkness before I could form a single coherent thought.
I must have blacked out.
When I woke hours later, the study was silent.
Too silent.
I was naked on the couch, a dull ache settling deep in my body, the air thick with the unmistakable scent of sex and stale whiskey.
My head throbbed viciously, tongue dry, memory fragmented.
Papers lay scattered across the floor like fallen leaves, the desk lamp tipped sideways.
She was gone.
For a long moment, I lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to stitch together reality. Then the instinctive defense kicked in—the same one that had protected me for years.
It was a dream.
A cruel, vivid hallucination born of guilt, alcohol, and the months of denied hunger that had twisted me inside out.
I clung to that lie like a lifeline.
I dressed mechanically, scrubbed my hands raw at the sink, refused to look too closely at the marks on my skin that told a different story.
By morning, I had buried it.
But it hadn’t been a dream.
Standing outside Blackridge now, staring at Elena—silent, broken, bloodstained—the truth finally rose up and crushed me.
It had been real.
And it had left her carrying my child.
A child I had never known existed. A life I had unknowingly signed a death sentence for when I handed her over to that place. A future erased before it ever had a chance to breathe.
Something vital tore loose inside my chest.
