He breaks the kiss, lowering his head, and finds the hollow of my throat, tracing the erratic pulse there with his teeth.
"Mine," he grunts, the possessive claim a low, primal vibration against my skin that somehow makes me feel grounded.
I watch his hands rip at his clothes, all discarded with the same ruthless efficiency he uses to dispose of a threat.
He is built like a weapon. Every muscle is carved, honed, and corded with power—the hard planes of his chest, the taut lines of his stomach, the lethal curve of his biceps. A faint trail of dark hair feathers down his abdomen, disappearing below the tight band of his boxer briefs. It’s raw, intimidating, and so utterly masculine that it steals the air from my lungs. The sight of him, unburdened by the layers of control, is just as terrifying as it is alluring.
The huge, marble bathtub is already filling, hot water rushing from the spout. He takes off his boxers and steps into the risingwater, pulling me with him. The heat is immediate, shocking, sinking into my trembling muscles. I gasp as the water reaches my waist.
He lifts me, my back pressing against the cool, wet marble of the tub, and hoists my legs high around his waist. The slickness of the water makes the contact instantaneous, an intense, shocking slide of skin against skin.
He drives his hips forward, a sudden, powerful thrust that pushes the warm bathwater up and over the rim of the tub. When he finally enters me, I cry out, a sharp, choked sound that’s half relief, half agony. The air leaves my lungs in a ragged gasp.
“Look at me,” he mutters against my cheek, breath hot and uneven.
My eyes meet his. There’s no tenderness left, only the raw, urgent need to collide. The rush of the hot water, the sudden, violent filling of the space between my legs, and the terror still burning in my chest fuse into a single, overwhelming sensation. I am utterly consumed by the feeling of being filled—owned, protected, alive.
He plunges into me with a desperate, frantic pace, driving deep, sinking to the hilt. Every powerful stroke is a sharp, desperate necessity, like he's trying to purge the violence and the fear that saturates the room through me. The sheer, overwhelming size of him stretches me past my limit, demanding my complete attention.
“You feel that?” he growls, voice low, rough. “Fuck, you’re so hot.”
My hips rock uncontrollably to meet his relentless force, chasing the friction, needing the rhythmic impact to anchor me, to possess me entirely. His control is gone, replaced by a deep, guttural sound in his throat that echoes the chaos in my mind.
“That’s it,” he whispers against my ear, almost a plea.
His eyes are shut, his jaw clenched hard enough to fracture bone, and I can see the sweat mixing with the water and running down the corded muscles of his neck. I clutch his broad, wet shoulders, my nails digging deep into the tense, scarred muscle, grounding myself in his pain, in the brutal, beautiful reality of this moment. I hold on, desperate for him to keep moving, needing him to prove we survived.
The water rushes over our skin, reflecting the chandelier light, a chaotic, silver film over the desperate act. With every thrust, the water ripples violently, splashing against the marble sides of the tub, the sound echoing the primal intensity of our collision.
He changes the angle, his powerful hands gripping my waist, tilting me back to reach something deeper, something vital. The pressure builds—a painful, exquisite knot of tension that demands immediate release. I gasp his name, a broken prayer, the sound muffled by the steam.
“That’s it…,” he breathes, voice thick. “I need to hear you.”
I finally shatter, my entire body convulsing against the cold marble and the hot water. The climax is a wave of pure, white-hot release that tears through the terror. I scream his name when I shatter, the sound loud and ragged, my head tilting back and striking the marble with a dull thud I barely register.
He follows immediately after, a guttural groan ripping from his chest as he empties into me, his body rigid and shaking. He collapses forward, burying his face against my neck, his breath coming in hot, shallow bursts. He is heavy, exhausted, and completely spent. For one impossible moment, he is just a man clinging to survival.
His forehead rests against mine, both of us breathing hard, both of us quiet. For the first time since I met him, he doesn’t look like the man who controls everything. He just looks tired. Human.
He brushes a wet strand of hair from my face. “You’re safe,” he says.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Artyom
I barely slept. Not because of the attack, or the body on the floor that Mikhail dragged away with a grin like he’d just been handed a late birthday gift—but because of her. Because Kira slept next to me, naked, curled against me and smelling like soap.
I finally manage to doze for a few hours at dawn. I wake up later than I had planned and quickly go downstairs in the dining room trying to look like a man who’s in control of his life and not one who spent half the night checking if the woman in his bed is still breathing. Mikhail is already halfway through a plate piled so high it makes me nauseous just looking at it. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like he was raised in a barn.
“So,” he says, stabbing a fork into a piece of cheese, “cleanup was beautiful. Real clean, despite the mess of blood you left.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Misha. It’s breakfast.”
He smirks like he lives for the moment he can disgust me.
I try to focus on the food in front of me, but my appetite is gone. My brain is still stuck somewhere between last night’s adrenaline and the memory of her shaking in the bathroom, as if I can still feel her skin under my hands when she looked at me like she couldn’t tell if she wanted to run or hold on to me.
I’m halfway through my coffee when I see movement at the entrance.
