The shower door grinds open. A beat of silence. Then the hiss of water hitting tile.
I close my eyes and exhale a breath that feels like it’s laced with broken glass. My body is a traitor. I am hard—aching, pulsing, stone-cold hard—and it’s a physical weight that makes every muscle in my torso corded with tension. I should have stayed atthe estate. I should have put her in a separate wing, a separate city, a separate life.
But what she said earlier, it’s clawing at me.The estate is my prison. Here, I can pretend.
She’s right. Back in Moscow, I am her captor. I am the man who took her, the man who keeps her, the man she stares at with a hatred so pure it feels like a physical brand. But here, in the dim glow of a five-star hotel, the lines are blurring. I don’t see a captive. I don’t see a strategic marriage. I see a woman who makes my blood boil with a need that has nothing to do with power and everything to do with possession.
The water stops.
I listen to the rattle of the rings as she pulls the curtain back. Footsteps again. Then the door opens.
Lena stops just past the threshold, freezing when she sees I’m still awake, still watching. She’s wrapped in a white plush hotel towel that looks absurdly large on her small frame, tucked precariously over her chest. Her skin is flushed pink from the heat, glistening with stubborn droplets of water that refuse to leave her.
I find myself irrationally jealous of those droplets. I want to be the one sliding down the curve of her shoulder, tracing the dip of her spine.
“I…I realized I didn’t bring my change of clothes in there,” she murmurs, her voice small and fractured. She looks toward the suitcase at the foot of the bed then back at me. Her hair is a damp, dark halo around her face.
“Get your clothes, Lena,” I say, my voice sounding like I’ve been swallowing gravel.
She nods once and starts to pad quickly toward her box. She’s in a hurry—running from the tension, from the way I’m looking at her. Her damp feet hit a slick patch of hardwood where the carpet doesn’t reach.
Her heel skids. Her arms fly out for balance.
I’m off the bed before she even hits the ground. It’s instinct, pure and unfiltered. I catch her mid-air, my hands clamping onto her waist to steady her. But the momentum is too much. As I pull her flush against my chest to keep her from slamming into the floor, the towel gives up.
It hits the floor in a heavy, damp heap.
The air leaves the room.
Lena is naked in my arms. Her breasts are pressed against my dress shirt, the dampness of her skin soaking into the silk instantly. She is small, fragile, and utterly breathtaking. Her eyes are wide, searching mine, and for the first time tonight I don’t see the flash of memory in her gaze. I see the same fire that’s currently incinerating my self-control.
“Razvan,” she whispers. It’s not a protest. It’s a plea.
“Be still,zayka,” I growl, the endearment slipping out unbidden. My little rabbit. My prey. My wife.
The pretense—the “Republic of Lena,” the rules, the masks we wear in Moscow—it all collapses. I don’t think about the families downstairs. I only think about the fact that her skin is like velvet and she is vibrating against me.
I don’t let her go. My hands, large and scarred, slide from her waist down to the swell of her hips, pulling her so tight against my mounting heat that she gasps. I lean down, my lips hovering just an inch from hers.
“You’ve been running all day,” I mutter against her mouth. “Run now, Lena. If you’re going to go, do it before I lose what’s left of my mind.”
She doesn’t run. She tilts her head back, offering me the elegant line of her throat, her fingers curling into the sleeves of my shirt. “Don’t make me wait,” she breathes.
I don’t. I capture her mouth in a kiss that is less an invitation and more a conquest. It’s starving and deep. I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist instinctively, her damp skin clinging to my pants. I carry her the two steps to the bed and lay her back against the silk.
I don’t take off my clothes yet. I want her to feel the contrast—the rough fabric of my suit against her bare, sensitized skin. I settle between her legs, my weight pinning her down, and begin a slow, torturous exploration. I trail my lips from her ear down to her collarbone, my tongue licking away the stray water droplets I was jealous of moments ago.
“You’re so beautiful it’s an insult,” I whisper, my hand cupping her breast, my thumb teasing the nipple until it’s a hard, dark peak.
She moans, her head thrashing against the pillow. “Razvan…please…”
“Please what,zayka? Tell me what you want the murderer to do to you.”
“I want you inside me,” she sobs, her hands reaching for my belt, her movements frantic and clumsy. “I want to forget. Just for tonight, make me forget everything.”
I strip my clothes off with a violence that speaks to my desperation. The buttons on my shirt tear away. My belt buckle clatters to the floor. It’s frantic, chaotic—the fabric of my carefully constructed restraint shredded in seconds. When I stand naked before her, the air itself feels charged.
I return to her, bare skin to bare skin, and the friction is a shock to the system. Her skin is hot, damp, impossibly soft. Mine is rough, scarred. The contrast makes her gasp.
