What the fuck did I just do?
I lost control. Completely. Crossed every line I’d drawn for myself about patience and strategy and giving her time to adjust.
The worst part?
I’m not sorry.
I’m shaken by how good it felt. How right. How desperately I wanted her response—not submission, but active participation. Her hands in my hair, her legs around my waist, her body meeting mine thrust for thrust.
That’s what I wanted. What I still want.
Chapter Nineteen - Elena
I don’t sleep after what happened in his office.[11]
Can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I feel it—his hands on me, his mouth, the weight of him between my legs. The way my body responded despite everything, despite my hatred, despite knowing this was exactly what he wanted.
I lie in his bed—our bed—feeling his cum still leaking out of me, sticky and undeniable. He told me to leave it. To feel it. To remember.
As if I could forget.
My body aches in unfamiliar ways. I’m sore between my legs, tender where he gripped my hips hard enough to bruise. Evidence of what we did. What I let him do.
What I wanted him to do, if I’m being honest with myself.
That’s the worst part. Not that he took. That I gave.
When dawn finally breaks, I force myself up. Shower until my skin is raw, trying to wash away the evidence and the memory. Neither will budge.
I dress carefully—modest clothes, high neck, nothing that reveals the marks I can feel but not see. Armor against the reality of what’s changed between us.
Aleksandr is gone when I emerge. Already left for his office or wherever he goes during the day. I should feel relieved.
Instead, I just feel hollow.
***
The unease doesn’t fade. It sharpens.
Over the next few weeks, I start noticing things I’d ignored before. The way Aleksandr’s men watch me differently now—not with the careful neutrality of guards, but with something that looks like expectation. The way conversations cut off when I enter rooms. The medical appointments that appear on calendars I don’t control.
“Mrs. Sharov has an appointment at two,” Irina mentions casually one morning.
I look up from my breakfast. “What appointment?”
“WithDr. Kuzmin. [12]Standard checkup.”
“I didn’t schedule a checkup.”
“Mr. Sharov arranged it. He insists on regular health monitoring.” She says it like it’s normal. Like I shouldn’t question it.
I do question it, though. I’m not sick, haven’t asked for a doctor, and the timing—right after what happened in his office—feels too convenient to be coincidence.
“I’ll skip it,” I say.
Irina’s expression doesn’t change. “I’ll let Mr. Sharov know you declined.”
The threat is subtle but clear. Refuse, and he’ll know. Refuse, and there will be consequences.
