The question hit harder than any bullet.
I wanted to say it—the words that sat heavy on my tongue, burning to get out.
You still have me.
But I couldn’t force the words past my teeth. Because the truth was uglier, more complicated. She didn’t want an empire. She wanted her father. And I would take that from her without hesitation if it meant keeping her alive.
“Then you’ll have to live with my hands soaked in his blood,” I said instead, my voice deadly quiet. “Because I won’t choose him over you. Not ever.”
Something broke in her expression. Rage and grief and desperation all tangled together. She shoved at my chest hard enough to make me step back.
“You bastard—”
I grabbed her wrists before she could shove me again, pinning them against the wall above her head. “Say it again.”
“You’re a callous bastard and I—”
I kissed her. It was hard and bruising, swallowing whatever she’d been about to say. She tried to fight it for about three seconds before she was kissing me back just as ardently, her teeth catching my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
The fight turned to fire between one breath and the next.
I released her wrists only to grip her hips, lifting her against the wall. Her legs wrapped around my waist on instinct, her fingers tangling in my hair and pulling hard enough to hurt. Good. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted to feel something, anything, other than this sick fear that I was losing her to a ghost.
“I hate you,” she gasped against my mouth.
“I know.” I bit down on her throat, right over one of the marks from last night, and she moaned. “Hate me more.”
I carried her down the hall toward our room, but we didn’t make it that far. I couldn’t wait that long. I pressed her against the wall outside the study and yanked my shirt up her thighs, finding her already wet for me despite her anger.
“Alexei—”
“Tell me to stop.” I freed myself from my pants with one hand, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. “Tell me you don’t want this.”
She glared at me, eyes blazing. Then she reached down between us and guided me to her entrance. “Shut up and take me.”
I slammed into her with enough force to rattle the painting on the wall, both of us groaning at the impact. This wasn’t gentle. This was war translated into flesh. It was anger, fear, and desperate need all tangled together until we couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
I fucked her against the wall like I was trying to prove something—to her, to myself, to the universe. That she was mine despite her lies. She was mine despite her doubts. That she was mine even when she hated me for it.
“You’re mine,” I growled against her throat, my accent thickening with each brutal thrust.“Always mine.”
She couldn’t speak, she could only hold on as I drove into her harder, faster, chasing something I couldn’t name. Her nails raked down my back through my shirt, leaving marks I’d feel for days. Which was perfect, considering that I wanted to wear her violence the way she wore mine.
When she came, it was with my name on her lips and her body clenching around me like a vice. I followed seconds later, burying myself as deep as I could go and spilling into her with a groan.
We stayed like that for a long moment, both breathing hard, her legs still wrapped around my waist. When I finally set her down, her legs were shaking so badly she had to hold onto me for balance.
I straightened her shirt, smoothed her hair, gentle in the aftermath the way I couldn’t be during. She wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Mila—”
“Don’t.” Her voice was hoarse. “Just… don’t.”
I cupped her face, forcing her to look at me. “I’m not sorry.”
“I know.”
“And I won’t apologize for protecting you. Not from your father, not from anyone.”
