“I know.” The words come out rougher than intended. “I know what I am. I know the calculations I make are the kind that should make you run. I’m not going to pretend I’m something else just to make this easier for you to accept.”
“I don’t want to accept it.” She tries to pull away; I tighten my grip slightly. “I want to hate you cleanly, without this… this need that makes me weak.”
“You’re not weak.” I release one wrist to cup her jaw, forcing her to meet my eyes. “You’re surviving in a world that’s tried to destroy you multiple times. That takes strength I respect more than you know.”
“Don’t.” Her voice breaks. “Don’t try to make this about respect when we both know you see me as possession.”
“I see you as mine.” The distinction matters even if she can’t recognize it. “That includes respect, protection, and a level of devotion that’s become operationally irrational. It doesn’t erase what I did to position Rudenko interests after your brother’s death.”
Diana stares at me, tears still streaming, her expression shifting through emotions too fast to track. Then she pulls free from my grip and shoves me hard enough that I have to step back.
“I hate that I need you.” She advances on me, each word landing like a physical blow. “I hate that when I found those files, my immediate reaction was wondering if you’d still want me after I confronted you. I hate that I’m standing here devastated by your betrayal and all I can think about is how much I want you to touch me.”
I catch her waist and pull her against me roughly, eliminating distance she’s trying to maintain. “Then let me.”
“This doesn’t fix anything.” Her hands come up to my chest, pushing without real force. “Sex doesn’t make you less complicit in Ethan’s death.”
“No.” I slide one hand into her hair, angling her face up. “It’s what we both need right now.”
She makes a sound between fury and surrender, then kisses me with bruising intensity. There’s no tenderness in it—just desperation and grief and need that’s as much punishment as desire.
I respond in kind, backing her toward the couch while my hands work at her clothing with less finesse than I usually maintain. She tears at my shirt, buttons scattering across hardwood, her nails scraping against skin hard enough to leave marks.
We collapse onto the couch together, mouths never separating, hands mapping each other with possessive urgency. When I finally get her jeans off and position myself between her thighs, she’s already trembling.
“This is a terrible idea,” she gasps against my mouth.
“Probably.” I enter her in one hard thrust that makes her cry out.
The encounter is nothing like our wedding night. There’s no gentleness, no careful attention to her inexperience. Just raw need and anger and grief channeled into physical connection that borders on violence.
I drive into her with a rhythm that’s too hard, too fast, driven by the need to prove she’s mine despite the betrayal she’s just uncovered.
Diana meets every thrust with equal intensity, her nails raking down my back, her mouth finding my throat and biting hard enough to bruise.
“I hate you,” she sobs against my skin, even as her body tightens around me in ways that suggest she’s close.
“I know.” I shift the angle slightly, hitting the spot that makes her gasp. “Hate me all you want. It makes this even hotter.”
The possessive claim pushes her over. She comes with my name torn from her throat, clenching around me in waves that trigger my own release. I finish inside her with a groan that sounds more like pain than pleasure, collapsing partially on top of her while we both struggle to breathe.
The aftermath settles heavy and uncomfortable. My cock is still inside her, our bodies tangled together on the couch, sweat cooling in the air-conditioned room. Diana’s hands rest against my shoulders, no longer clawing, just holding me there.
“This doesn’t change anything,” she whispers eventually. “I still can’t reconcile what you did.”
“I know.” I press my forehead against hers, accepting the truth. “But you’re not leaving.”
“I can’t leave.” Her voice cracks. “That’s the problem. I’m trapped here with you, hating what you’ve done and needing you anyway.”
I pull back enough to meet her eyes, seeing the devastation still raw in her gaze. “I won’t apologize for choices I’d make again, but I am sorry they hurt you.”
She studies my face for a long moment, then pushes at my chest weakly. “Get off me.”
I withdraw carefully and help her sit up, both of us disheveled and exposed in ways that go beyond physical.
Diana reaches for her discarded clothing, dressing mechanically while I do the same.
The scattered documents still cover the coffee table—evidence of complicity neither of us can unsee.
