"You didn't just win," he growls, lifting me up. "You reigned."
17
KONSTANTIN
Helena is pressed tight against me. Her legs are wrapped around my waist, nails digging into my shoulders like she’s trying to anchor herself in a storm.
But I’m the storm.
For a moment, I forget the digital map burning in my mind. The shipment cutting through black waters toward the open sea disappears.
I forget the Bratva Elders who just vanished into the elevator.
All that exists is the heat of her skin and the frantic rhythm of her mouth on mine. The woman in my arms isn't the trembling hostage I brought here weeks ago.
She’s the only person in this city who stood in front of the Council and didn't flinch. In a world of cowards and sycophants, she’s the only thing that feels real.
She’s a weapon. And God help me, I’ve never wanted anything more.
"You didn't just win," I growl against her lips, the vibration humming between our chests. "You reigned."
She smiles against my mouth, grinding down on me. The friction sends a shockwave of need straight to my groin.
My grip on her thighs tightens, hard enough to bruise. I want to take her right here. I want to press her against the glass, high above the city that tried to break her, and show her exactly who she belongs to.
But the predator in me, the cold part that's kept me alive for years, snaps its jaws shut.
Not yet.
Sokolov is waiting. The old man might have left the room, but he hasn't left the building. I know how the Council works. They're downstairs right now, picking apart every word spoken at dinner, waiting to see if I'm distracted by the pretty little bird I married.
If I don't solidify this victory now, the dinner meant nothing.
I tear my mouth from hers.
Helena lets out a small, frustrated sound as her eyes flutter open. They're wide, dark with arousal. She’s beautiful.
"Konstantin?" she whispers.
I set her down. It takes every ounce of discipline I have to unclasp her legs from my waist and place her feet back on the floor. She sways slightly, hands still clutching my jacket.
"Go to the room," I say, voice rougher than I intend.
She blinks, confusion cutting through the lust. "What?"
"The night isn't over," I say, stepping back. I put distance between us. If I stay close, I won't leave. "I have to finish with the Council. They need to know that the new Mrs. Morozov isn't just a trophy."
She straightens. The confusion vanishes, replaced by that mask of cool composure she wore at dinner. It's terrifying how quickly she learns.
"I thought they left," she says, smoothing the front of her dress, though her chest is still heaving.
"They left the table," I correct her. "They didn't leave the war. Go to the master suite,. Wait for me."
I pause, letting my eyes rake over her one last time. "Do not lock that door."
A flush rises on her neck, but she doesn't look away. "Don't make me wait too long," she murmurs.
Then she turns and walks toward the hallway. Her stride is steady, her hips swaying with a new arrogance. She walks like she owns the penthouse.
