He whispers something quick and low in Russian—a word I don't understand, but it sounds like a final, permanent command.
Then, he pulls completely away and slides off the bed, heading into the bathroom. The door shuts with a quiet click. Next, I hear the sound of running water.
I turn onto my side and curl up, instantly feeling very lonely and bereft. My skin is still buzzing from his touch, yet his sudden absence is a cold void. For some reason, I suddenly feel tears sting my eyes. How dare I cry?
I quickly wipe them away when I hear the bathroom door open again. I squeeze my eyes shut, pretending I’m asleep, because I’d die before I let him find out I’m crying. I’m crying because he didn’t offer to take me to the bathroom, and he didn’t think to just hold me a little while longer. He literally just took my virginity, the most intimate thing a man can take. And while it was a pleasurable storm, my core still burns with a persistent ache.
“Elara?” His voice is a low rumble.
I feel the bed dip slightly, and his fingers gently touch my thigh. I almost recoil, but my body is too exhausted to move.
“Are you asleep?”
I don’t answer.
He doesn’t speak again.
I’m shocked out of my pretense by the unexpected touch of cool, wet linen. He runs the wet cloth over the inside of mythigh, then up my stomach, moving with a gentle, surprisingly careful precision. He’s cleaning the blood and the evidence of my pain.
His touch now is so soft, so sweet, it’s the most devastating thing he could have ever done. I cry harder, silent tears sliding into the pillow, because this act of tenderness is actively pushing down my defenses. Maybe I’d have preferred it if he had taken his own shower, then fallen asleep without holding me. It would have been easier to harden my heart and hold onto my hatred that way.
When he finishes, he discards the cloth, flips us over so he’s beneath me, and pulls the heavy duvet over us both. He’s warm, solid, and utterly silent. His arm wraps around my midriff, and he plans a kiss to the top of my head.
“Goodnight,printsessa.”
Again, as I lie there, I acknowledge to myself that I’m doomed.
Chapter 12 – Roman
It’s morning, and I lie awake, Elara curled against me, her small frame pressed into my chest. Her warmth seeps into me, soft and intoxicating, and without thinking, I pull her closer, burying my face in the glossy strands of her hair. She’s exactly as I imagined—soft, fragrant, perfect.
The memory of last night crashes over me, relentless and sharp.
The best sex of my life.
I try to frame it as a strategy, a calculated move to tether her closer, to make her mine in ways beyond the ring on her finger. But the truth claws at me: I wanted her then, with a ferocity I hadn’t expected, and I want her again, already, unbearably.
Her soft breathing against my chest, the weight of her body in my arms, the heat of her skin—every piece of her makes it impossible to think clearly. My mind drifts over every detail: the arch of her back, the shiver when I touched her, the way she surrendered in moments I never imagined anyone could.
I tell myself she’s mine only by arrangement, by contract. But my mind, my body, every instinct I have, screams otherwise. She isn’t just leverage. She’s a storm, a fire I can’t put out, and the more I lie here, the more I realize I don’t want to.
I shift slightly, letting my hand brush the curve of her hip, and she murmurs in her sleep, soft and intimate. A small, involuntary sound, and it twists something inside me.
I close my eyes, trying to settle the storm inside. But I know it won’t be settled. Not while she’s in my arms. This isn’t right. I can’t afford this distraction. Already, I want to rouse her so I can have her again and again, but not only is she sore, but I also have work to get back to.
Making up my mind, I pull away from her sleeping form and leave the room. The door clicks shut behind me, shutting out the quiet rhythm of her breathing. I don’t look back.
I run into Luka in my office, arms crossed, eyeing the suit I’m still wearing from the wedding—haven’t even bothered to take it off. He scowls, but when our eyes meet, he quickly looks away, hiding the smirk tugging at his lips.
“Don’t you think it’s too early to be at the office?” he asks, voice teasing. “It’s barely two a.m. What about your honeymoon?”
“This isn’t a real wedding, Luka,” I reply flatly, dropping onto the leather chair behind my desk.
He scoffs. “Doesn’t seem like that to me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You should go be with your wife,” he says, shrugging.
