"I've made my decision." The words come out steadier than I feel. I move closer to his desk, close enough to see the documents he's been reviewing, the vodka glass sitting half-empty beside his laptop. "I'll marry you."
Something flickers in his expression, too quick to identify. Relief, maybe. Or satisfaction. He leans back in his chair, his gaze never leaving mine. "And?"
Of course there's an and. Roman Sokolov knows me well enough by now to understand I don't surrender without conditions. I clasp my hands in front of me, pressing my thumbnail into my index finger before forcing myself to stop.
"Alexei gets full protection. The same security detail you have, the best schools, everything he needs to build a future that has nothing to do with your world." My voice hardens. "He stays innocent, Roman. Whatever violence defines your life, it doesn't touch him."
Roman nods slowly, his expression revealing nothing. "Done. What else?"
"The predatory lending scheme. The one that trapped my mother, that's destroying hundreds of families." I step closer, my hands gripping the edge of his desk. "You help me dismantle it. Not with violence, not with war. Systematically, from the inside. We free every family caught in Yakovlev's web."
His jaw tightens at Abram's name, but he doesn't argue. "Agreed."
The ease of his acceptance should relieve me. Instead, it poisons the moment with bitterness so sharp, I can taste it. My hands clench on the desk's edge, my knuckles going white.
"And my grandmother," I say, notching my chin up. "You will pay for her surgery… and any other health expenses she may have."
He nods. "Agreed."
"I'll be your wife," I say, my voice dropping to something cold and venomous. "I'll give our child your name. I'll live in your house and play whatever role you need me to play." I lean forward, making sure he sees the hatred burning in my eyes. "But I will always hate you for this. For weaponizing my family's needs. For trapping me with your money and your power. For taking away every choice until marriage became my only option."
The words hang between us, brutal and honest. Roman's expression doesn't change, but I see his jaw tighten, see something flicker in those cold blue eyes. Hurt, maybe. Or anger. His hands rest on the armrests of his chair, and I notice the way his fingers curl slightly, like he's restraining himself from reaching for me.
Then he stands, moving around his desk with that predatory grace that always makes my breath catch. I should step back, should maintain distance, but I'm frozen as he closes the space between us. His presence fills my senses, the scent of his cologne mixing with leather and something darker, more dangerous.
He crowds me against the door, one hand braced beside my head, the other cupping my face with a gentleness that catches me off guard. His thumb traces my lower lip, and heat floods my body despite the anger still burning in my chest.
"We should seal this agreement properly," he says, his accent thicker now, rougher. His blue eyes drop to my mouth, then lower, and I feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. "A kiss to bind the deal."
I open my mouth to protest. This isn't a negotiation! This is my life, my future, my freedom being bartered away. But then, yeah, it is. I just bargained with him, so it is a business deal. ButRoman doesn't wait for permission. He captures my mouth with devastating precision, kissing me with a hunger that steals my breath and my resistance.
My body betrays me immediately. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer even as my mind screams that I should push him away. The kiss deepens, becomes desperate and consuming. His tongue slides against mine, tasting, claiming, and I respond with equal hunger despite the hatred still churning in my gut.
Roman's hands slide down my sides, feeling the curve of my waist, the flare of my hips. His touch ignites something primal in me, something that has nothing to do with love and everything to do with need. I arch into him, and he groans against my mouth, the sound vibrating through my chest.
He lifts me suddenly, pressing me against the door, and I wrap my legs around his waist with a moan I can't suppress. His hands slide beneath my skirt, pushing the fabric up my thighs, and I feel the hard length of him pressing against me through his pants. The friction makes me gasp, my head falling back against the door.
"Fuck, Eva," he mutters in Russian, his mouth trailing down my neck. His hands grip my hips with bruising force, and I love it, love the evidence that I affect him as much as he affects me. "You drive me insane."
His fingers find the edge of my panties, and I should stop this, should maintain some dignity, some control. But I don't. I pull at his belt with shaking hands, desperate to feel him, to channel all this fury and fear and impossible desire into something physical.
Roman helps me, his movements efficient despite the hunger in his eyes. Then he's inside me, filling me completely, and weboth groan at the sensation. He doesn't start gentle. He takes me against the door with a violence that matches my anger, each thrust deep and claiming, and I meet him with equal force.
It's not lovemaking. It's a battle, two people channeling everything they can't say into each other's bodies. My nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt. His teeth graze my neck hard enough to leave marks. We take and claim and punish each other with our bodies, and it's perfect and terrible all at once.
The pleasure builds with devastating speed, coiling tight in my core. Roman's hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit, and the dual sensation pushes me over the edge. I come with a cry I can't suppress, my body convulsing around him, and Roman follows moments later, burying himself deep with a groan that sounds almost pained.
We stay frozen like that, both breathing hard, our bodies still joined. Slowly, reality seeps back in. What we've done. What we've agreed to. The future we've just sealed with our bodies.
Roman lowers me carefully, his hands steadying me when my legs threaten to give out. We don't speak as we straighten our clothes, the silence heavy with everything we're not saying. My hands shake as I smooth my skirt, as I try to fix my hair that he's pulled loose from its bun.
But Roman isn't done. He pulls me to his desk, sweeping papers to the floor with one arm. Before I can process what's happening, he lifts me onto the polished surface, his hands already pushing my skirt up again.
"Once wasn't enough," he growls, his accent thick with need. His blue eyes are dark, hungry, and I see my own desperation reflected back at me.
This time is slower, more deliberate. He takes his time exploring my body, his hands and mouth worshipping me in ways that make my chest ache. When he finally enters me again, it's with a gentleness that feels more dangerous than the violence before. Because this feels like something more than anger, more than need.
This feels like something I can't afford to name.
