I stop, looking into his eyes, and he takes that moment to thrust inside of me. I gasp at the intrusion. There is a shock of pain, and a brief moment when I have to force my mind not to flash back to that awful night. But opening my eyes I see the possession in his. He said I was his now, but I don’t think I really understood what he meant until now. It’s almost terrifying the way his eyes stare into mine as he begins to thrust.
He holds my hands, pressing them above my head, resting against the mattress. My body is completely at his mercy, and I don’t care. His cock is magic, hitting spots inside of me I never knew existed, his pelvis hitting my clit with each thrust.
This is not perfect. Not the romantic ideal from movies. It's messy and desperate and tinged with grief and guilt and the knowledge this probably ends in blood. But it's real.
Soon I’m coming again, clenching around him so tightly he grunts in pain. I send him over the edge with me, feeling his body tense with pleasure as he releases a groan so delicious I already can’t wait to hear it again.
Afterward, he disposes of the condom, and we lie tangled together, the bed a mess around us. I lay with his arm under my head and stare at the ceiling, trying to pretend like the entire world hasn’t just shifted.
Deciding to rip the Band-Aid off, I ask, "Will they connect it to me?" We both know I’m referring to Igor.
"No. I’m the only one who knows who you are. There is no reason anyone would suspect a dancer from Lush.”
I should ask more questions, demand details, but exhaustion pulls at me. Igor's death. The emotional breakdown. The orgasms with the man I'm supposed to kill. It's too much.
"Sleep," Volk says. "We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."
"I can't stay here.”
You are.” His voice is hard as steel. His arms tighten around me. Protective. Possessive. Dangerous.
I should argue with him, put distance between us, and remember he's an obstacle between me and my revenge. But I'm so tired. Just for tonight, I’ll let myself have this. Let myself pretend that maybe, just maybe, revenge doesn't have to cost me everything.
And hope that tomorrow I'll be strong enough to face the consequences.
CHAPTER 11
Volk
SONG: REDRUM BY BAMBIE THUG
A few dayslater I’m standing in the Pakhan's office, which reeks of cigar smoke and rage. I stand with my hands clasped behind my back, the stance of a loyal soldier waiting for orders. My face shows nothing—years of practice have made it a mask that reveals only what I want. Right now, the appropriate amount of anger at this affront to Bratva authority.
Inside: fucking chaos.
Igor's body was found three hours ago. He bled out on a warehouse floor like a pig at a slaughterhouse. This kind of death is personal. This is from rage that's been simmering for years.
The kind of rage Sofiya has.
The Pakhan paces behind his desk, back and forth, back and forth. A caged animal that's forgotten it holds the keys to its own cage. He looks like he aged overnight. Gray threads through his hair, deep lines carved around his mouth, and the weight of his empire is slowly crushing him from the inside out.
Good.
"Igor," he snarls, the name comes out like a curse. "Someone killed Igor."
"Yes, Pakhan." I keep my voice neutral, respectful, everything he expects from his second in command.
"They put him down like a fucking dog!" He slams his fist on the desk. Expensive liquor sloshes in crystal decanters. "This feels like a message. Someone is making this personal."
My pulse doesn't quicken. My breathing doesn't change. I've spent fifteen years learning to lie with my body. To present calm when everything inside is screaming.
"But who?" I ask. There is no scenario in which he thinks Yelena is alive.
The Pakhan stops pacing and looks at me with those ice-chip eyes that have ordered countless deaths. The eyes that watched his wife die and sent a fifteen-year-old girl into the desert to be tortured and killed.
“We both know what Igor did. You were there. Why else would someone spare the other men while killing him? The Italians, the Romanians, the Irish, none of them would have left a single man alive. This has to do with Yelena,” he growls, running his fingers through his hair.
Fuck. I should have killed the others instead of knocking them out. Hearing her name sends a jolt through me. He never says her name. Never speaks about what happened ten years ago. Just another body in a long line.
