"Then own me, Konstantin," she demands. Her hips press up against mine, sealing the friction between our bodies. "Claim what you bought. Show me I was worth it."
My control snaps completely.
I grab the hem of her ruined, soot-stained blouse and pull it up hard. The buttons pop off and scatter across the concrete floor. I tug her skirt up, my rough hands gripping her bare thighs. When I lift her off the floor, she wraps her legs around my waist, locking her ankles tight at the small of my back.
I rip my belt open, freeing myself, desperate for her heat. But even through the red haze of my lust and my anger, a protective instinct screams in my head.
She’s bruised.
My cock hovers at the tip of her wet entrance, but I don’t push any further.My muscles tremble with the strain of holding back. I grip her hips firmly, supporting her entire weight so I don't crush her bruised ribs.
"Am I hurting you?" I ask, searching her face, hyper-aware of the deep tissue bruising the doctor warned about. "Tell me if I'm hurting you."
She lets out a frustrated sigh and reaches down, grabbing my hip with her bandaged hand before pulling me forward.
"No," she gasps, her eyes burning into mine. "Don't stop."
I drive into her.
She cries out, throwing her head back against the glass as I push all the way in.
I set a hard, relentless rhythm. Every thrust is a physical claim that she is mine. She takes every ounce of brutality and matches it.
Ecstasy flashes through my veins as she bites down on my shoulder, sinking her teeth into my skin and stifling her moans against my shirt so the armed men below won't hear. Her muscles clench around me, drawing me deeper, demanding more, taking everything I have to give.
Breathing hard, I drop my forehead against hers and gaze deep into her eyes, watching the pleasure and the pain of the night crash through her. I'm erasing the Foundry, Moretti's knife, the violence, the darkness. I’m burning it all away until there’s nothing left inside of her but me.
"You’re mine," I growl. "My wife."
“I’m yours,” she echoes before the climax hits her. A split-second later, she shatters around me, her body bowing againstthe glass. My name erupts from her lips, filling every inch of the quiet office.
I follow seconds later, my grip tightening on her hips as the last of my control breaks.
I slow my rhythm, burying my face in the curve of her neck to absorb her tremors until they fade into exhausted, heavy breaths.
When she’s had enough, I untangle her legs from my waist and lower her gently to her feet. She sways, adrenaline drained now, and I wrap her in my arms.
"I've got you," I murmur.
For a moment, we stay locked in the embraced. Locked in each other. Then I pull away and adjust my clothes before pulling her ruined shirt back over her bare shoulders.
Without a word, I guide her away from the glass and into the small, private washroom attached to the office. Inside, I lift her onto the edge of the marble counter and run the sink until the water is warm, then take a clean hand towel and gently wash the black soot, ash, and dried blood from her face.
I wipe the dirt away with slow, careful strokes, making sure not to bump her bruised ribs or the fresh bandage on her thumb. She leans into my touch, her eyes heavy. The terror is gone, replaced by exhaustion.
"It's past midnight," I tell her softly, brushing a damp strand of hair behind her ear. "You need to sleep."
Her nod is lazy, like she’s already dozing off. So, I keep as quiet as possible as I carry her back to the office and set us both down on the deep leather sofa at its center. She curls into my lap, and I drape my ruined suit jacket over her shoulders like a blanket.
Within seconds, she goes limp. Her breathing evens out as sleep finally drags her under.
I sit in the quiet shadows, resting my chin on the top of her head, and look out of the glass wall at the armed soldiers pacing the warehouse floor below.
Moretti thinks he won tonight. He thinks he crippled the Bratva. He doesn't realize I planted a micro-tracker in that hardware. We have a narrow window before theAnastasiaturns around, and I intend to use every single second of it to hunt the Italians down, kill them all, and take back what’s mine.
Sure, Moretti has my tablet, but as I hold my wife against my chest, feeling the steady beat of her heart against mine, I know one thing for certain.
He doesn't have my soul.
