The ruined dress falls away easily, the destroyed lacework offering no resistance. I stand before him in just my white lace lingerie, and his sharp intake of breath makes me feel powerful despite my vulnerability.
"Bozhe moy," he breathes, his accent thick.
His hands slide up my sides, feeling the curve of my waist, the swell of my hips. When he cups my breasts through the lace, I arch into his touch with a moan I can't suppress. My body has been craving this, craving him, despite every logical reason I should maintain distance.
Roman's mouth claims mine with devastating precision, and I taste champagne and something darker, more dangerous. His tongue slides against mine, demanding and possessive, and I respond with equal hunger. My hands work the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin, to touch the hard planes of his chest.
When we finally tumble onto the bed, there's no desperation tonight. No anger or fear driving us together. Roman takes his time, his hands and mouth worshipping my body with a reverence that makes my chest ache. He traces every curve, kisses every inch of exposed skin, murmurs Russian endearments against my throat that I only half understand but feel in my bones.
When he finally enters me, it's slow and deliberate, his blue eyes holding mine as he fills me completely. We move together with a rhythm that feels ancient and new all at once, two people discovering each other without barriers, without the weight of circumstances crushing down on them.
I come apart in his arms with a cry that echoes through the master bedroom, and Roman follows moments later, my name on his lips like a prayer. We collapse together, our bodies still joined, both breathing hard.
As we lie tangled in the expensive sheets, Roman's hand drifts to my stomach, his palm warm against my skin. "My wife," he murmurs, the possessive satisfaction in his voice unmistakable. "My child. Mine."
The words should feel like a cage. Instead, they feel like safety.
And that's when it hits me with devastating clarity.
I've fallen in love with Roman Sokolov.
The realization crashes over me like ice water, stealing my breath, making my heart pound with something that feels like terror. I love this dangerous man. This Pakhan who kills without hesitation, who runs an empire built on blood and violence. I love the way he looks at me like I'm something precious. The way his hands are surprisingly gentle despite the violence they're capable of. The way he protects what's his with ruthless efficiency.
I love him.
And it scares the absolute shit out of me.
44
ROMAN
Dawn breaks through the master bedroom windows, painting Eva's skin in shades of gold and rose. I've been awake for over an hour, watching her sleep beside me, and I still can't quite believe she's real. My wife. The word sits heavily in my chest, equal parts satisfaction and something deeper.
She's sprawled across my bed, the white sheets tangled around her naked body in ways that make my cock stir with interest despite how thoroughly I took her last night. Her blonde hair fans across my pillow, no longer confined in that maddening bun. One arm is thrown above her head, the other resting protectively over her stomach where our child grows. The morning light catches the platinum wedding band on her finger, and possessive satisfaction surges through me so powerfully, it nearly steals my breath.
Mine.
I trace the curve of her hip with my gaze, remembering how it felt beneath my hands last night. How she gasped my namewhen I entered her. How her brown eyes went dark with pleasure when I made her come apart. My hand drifts toward her, wanting to touch, to wake her with my mouth between her thighs like I've been fantasizing about for weeks.
But I force myself to stillness. She needs rest. The pregnancy, the stress of the wedding, the chaos with Irina. Eva's been running on fumes for days, and watching her sleep so peacefully makes something uncomfortable twist in my chest.
This isn't just lust anymore. It hasn't been for a while, if I'm being honest with myself. Somewhere between her stubborn defiance and quiet strength, between watching her handle crisis with grace, I've fallen for Eva Markova. Eva Sokolov now.
The realization should terrify me. Sentiment is weakness in my world. Love makes you vulnerable, gives enemies leverage, and clouds judgment when you need clarity most. But looking at her now, at the slight curve of her belly and the way her lips part slightly in sleep, I can't bring myself to regret it.
I love her.
Blyat.I'm completely fucked.
Eva stirs, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks before those brown eyes open and find mine. For a moment she looks confused, disoriented by waking in my bed instead of the guest room she's been hiding in. Then memory floods her expression, and heat creeps up her neck as she realizes she's naked beneath the sheets.
"Good morning,solnyshko," I murmur, my accent thick with the desire that's been building while I watched her sleep.
"Morning." Her voice is rough, sexy in a way that makes my cock harden fully. She stretches like a cat, the movement making the sheet slip lower, revealing the swell of her breasts. My gaze drops automatically, and I see her nipples tighten beneath my attention.
"How do you feel?" I ask, though what I really want to know is if she's sore from last night, if her body can handle my taking her again right now.
"Good." Eva's brown eyes meet mine, and I see desire flickering there despite her exhaustion. "Really good."
