The shame comes in a slow, burning wave with heat blooming across my cheeks, down my neck, settling low in my belly.
It tangles with the exhilaration, the sense of danger, the wild rush of having been wanted, claimed, seen. I don’t know if I’m proud or mortified. I only know that I am changed—flushed and aching and more awake than I’ve been in years.
When Leon finally pulls back, he doesn’t look away. His gaze is so intent, so hungry, I feel like he’s searching for something inside me he doesn’t quite trust himself to find.
His hands linger, gentle now, thumbs stroking absently over my bare skin. The kitchen is filled with the frantic hush of our breathing, the distant clatter of staff pointedly staying far, far away. For once, he isn’t saying I’m his or daring me to run. He’s just looking, and the weight of it is almost too much.
I slide off the counter, landing unsteady, my dress twisted, hair tangled. My hands shake as I tug down the old T-shirt, trying to smooth myself into something resembling composure.
I avoid his eyes, afraid he’ll see every secret, every fracture, every bright and trembling want. I can still feel the press of his mouth on my skin, the ghost of his hands mapping out all the ways I’m vulnerable to him.
My legs threaten to give out. I stand tall anyway.
Leon stays silent, watching, as if memorizing every inch of me. The air between us vibrates with something unfinished, unsatisfied. This is a line neither of us can uncross, a secret written on skin and muscle and breath.
When I turn to leave, he doesn’t stop me. He only watches, his eyes sharp and unreadable. The message is clear as a blade: this isn’t finished. Not by a long shot.
I walk away, forcing my steps to stay slow and sure, head high even as my heart races, even as my body betrays me with the memory of what we just did. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me falter. I tell myself I’m not running—I’m reclaiming myself, drawing a line in a world where I have so few to draw.
The truth follows me down the hall: I’m not sure who I’m protecting anymore. Him, or me.
In the privacy of my room, I let the mask fall away. I close the door, lock it behind me, and stumble to the bed, dropping into a heap of bare legs and wrinkled cotton. My body is still trembling, nerves alight, the evidence of Leon’s touch seared into my skin.
I press my hands to my face, trying to slow my breathing, to make sense of what just happened.
Flashes of the last hour play in my mind—the fight, the words, the feel of him pressed between my thighs, the wild, almost desperate way we clung to each other. The look in his eyes when I told him he didn’t own my smile.
The way he answered, not with threats or orders, but with something naked and honest, a need I recognized too well.
I don’t know if I won or lost. I don’t know if I’m more furious or more alive. All I know is that something between us has shifted. The old boundaries—the war, the rules, the pretense of indifference—are ashes now.
We’ve crossed into new territory, and I can’t pretend it doesn’t thrill and terrify me in equal measure.
I just lie there, letting the fire burn itself down to embers. I wonder what comes next, if I’ll ever be able to meet his gaze in the hall, if the staff will ever look at me the same way again. I think about running—really running—but the idea is hollow. There’s nowhere to go, not really. Not with him in my blood, in my head, in every secret place I used to keep safe.
I ache everywhere, but it isn’t just from his hands. It’s from the truth that, for all my protests, I wanted him just as badly as he wanted me. That, in that moment, I was just as possessive, just as hungry to take and be taken. That letting him have me—here, in the open, without shame or fear—was its own kind of victory.
I know I should be angry. I should hate him for the way he takes and takes, for how easily he tears me open.
Chapter Eighteen - Leon
Work is supposed to be the answer—always has been. When the world tilts, when the city whispers threats, when the past crawls up from the grave, I bury myself in the Bratva’s machinery.
Today, I move through the day like a storm barely contained: meetings with lieutenants, briefings on the Vadim fallout, deals to secure, hands to shake, threats to enforce. Every order is crisp, every decision ruthless, every word sharper than the last.
I don’t give my men a chance to question, to hesitate, to see the fraying edge in my control.
She’s everywhere, even in her absence. Suzy. I catch myself checking my phone for messages that never come. In the middle of an asset review, I stare down at a shipping manifest and see the curve of her smile instead of numbers.
My men rattle off names of loyal soldiers and traitors, and I hear only her voice, the edge of challenge when she stands her ground, the raw, aching note in her laugh when she forgets to be afraid of me.
It’s infuriating. No matter how deep I dig into business—no matter how high I stack the day with tasks and orders and the problems only I can solve—she cuts through the noise.
Every moment is haunted: her hands shoving at my chest, the memory of her pressed against marble, the fire in her eyes when she spit back,You don’t own my smile.
I can still feel the resistance in her body, the heat, the way she trembled beneath me, not with fear but with something reckless and alive.
I grind through the afternoon with a scowl, barking at anyone who falls short of perfection. Boris glances at me, quick and careful, weighing how much he can say.
