“You feel that?” he growls, fucking me deeper, harder, until I’m clawing at the sheets. “That’s mine. Every squeeze, every drop—you give it all to me.”
I can’t even answer—just whimper, broken sounds spilling out of me while he keeps thrusting, dragging another orgasm right out of me when I thought I was empty. My pussy spasms again, clamping down tight, milking him, and I scream his name.
My body’s still trembling, pussy pulsing around Anton’s cock, his heat pressed against me, legs over his shoulder, our breaths heavy in the dim light. The sheets are damp, clinging to my skin, and I’m a wreck—alive, bold, someone I never thought I’d be. The nightmare’s gone, Evan’s ghost and Dave’s blood burned away by Anton’s touch, his want.
He pulls out slowly, his cock slick, leaving me gasping, my pussy clenching at the emptiness.
“Stay still,malyshka,” he says, voice low, rough, as he grabs a cloth from the bedside table. His fingers stroke my thigh, gentle but firm, wiping the mess of us from my skin, his touch tender against the raw sting of my spanked ass. It’s new—this care, this softness from a man carved from scars and steel.
But something’s off. He’s quiet. Too quiet. His jaw ticks, his eyes shadowed, like he’s already somewhere else. Like he’s thinking about something he won’t let me see.
I want to ask—what’s going on, what’s happening outside this room—but he won’t tell me. He never tells me. And I hate how much I wish he would.
I swallow, whisper, “Anton… is everything okay?”
His gaze cuts to me. Green, unreadable. For a heartbeat, I think he might answer. Instead, he brushes hair from my cheek, thumb dragging over my lips like he’s trying to erase the question.
Just then, the alarm on my phone shatters the silence—4:30 AM, shrill and unforgiving. I groan, burying my face in the pillow. He’s the one who made me set it, muttering last night,“Training starts before your excuses do.”So, like an idiot, I picked the earliest time I could think of. And now I’m half-dead with sleep.
I feel his hand tugging me upright. “Let’s go,malyshka. Up.”
“Anton,” I whine, sore in every inch of my body, “we didn’t even sleep. Can’t training start at… I don’t know, a humane hour? Like after work?”
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Survival doesn’t wait for your beauty sleep.” He pulls me to my feet, steering me toward the bathroom.
When I flop back down, refusing to move, he doesn’t argue. He just scoops me up, one arm under my knees, the other around my back, carrying me across the room like I weigh nothing.
“You’re insane,” I mutter into his chest. “And bossy. And—ow—sadistic. My legs don’t even work.”
“Good,” he says flatly as he shoulders the bathroom door open. He sets me on the counter and flips on the shower. Steam spills into the air. His gaze holds mine, sharp, unrelenting. “Then we train your upper body first.”
13
Anton
Idon’t make rookie mistakes. I don’t fuck where I work. I don’t blur the lines. That’s suicide in my world. Business comes first. Always.
Mary ruined that.
Last night I broke my own code. Slipped into her room, telling myself it was nothing—just a quick check, making sure the door was locked, the window secured. Bullshit. I stayed.
She was curled on her side, fists in the sheets like she was holding on to something slipping away. Her face pinched, her lips trembling, little whimpers breaking loose from her throat. Tears tracked down the side of her cheek, soaking the pillow.
I should’ve walked out. Shut the door. Left her to fight her nightmares alone. That’s what I do. I don’t comfort. I don’t soothe. Not my job. Not my place.
But I didn’t. I stood there in the dark, fists clenched, chest tight, wanting to fucking touch her. To brush those tears away, to crawl into that bed and make her forget whatever ghost she was chasing in her sleep.
It was worse than any bullet I’ve ever taken—realizing that this slip of a woman, who should mean nothing to me, makes me feel something. Makes me feel wanted. Like my presence matters. And that… that’s more dangerous than any enemy I’ve ever faced.
Now it’s morning. The gym smells like sweat, iron, and gun oil, the air sharp with disinfectant and spent shells. The Charleston range and training floor are quiet this early, just the hum of lights and the echo of her sneakers on the mat.
Mary’s in a gray hoodie that swallows her frame, black tights clinging to her legs. She looks soft, out of place here. Not a fighter, not a killer. But mine to harden, mine to train, mine to keep breathing in a world that eats women like her alive.
She’s already gasping through the circuit I set; jump squats, mountain climbers, burpees. Her arms shake as she comes out of a push-up, hoodie sticking to her back with sweat.
“You’re trying to kill me,” she pants, dropping to her knees. “This is not normal human behavior at—what is it—even six in the morning?”
“No excuses,” I say, standing over her. “Keep moving. Ten more.”
