Page 90 of His Contract Queen

Ihold Katerina tight to my chest.

Behind her shoulder, Alina is already stepping aside, her dark eyes flicking from me to Katerina as a small smile tugs at her lips.

She knows it’s time to leave us for a while. Of course she does. She’s seen this kind of desperation before, has felt it in her own bones when Sasha rescued her from her own father months ago.

She doesn’t speak. She simply presses a hand to my shoulder as she passes in a brief, silent acknowledgment, then closes the doors behind her with a soft click that echoes in my ears.

When I pull back to look at Katerina, I cup her face with both of my hands. Her hair is wild, strands of it plastered to her forehead with dried sweat. Her eyes are huge, glassy with shock and unshed tears, but they lock on me like I’m the only thing left in this world that tethers her to it.

She’s alive.

The relief hits me like a freight train, stealing the air from my lungs. My hands move before I can think.

I let go of her face and reach for her arms first, my fingers wrapping around her wrists as my thumbs press against the pulse points there, feeling the frantic thud that matches my own. Next I walk them up her forearms to her biceps, feeling no broken bones or hidden bullet holes. I slide my palms over the faint red marks where someone gripped her too hard—a detail I file away later to punish the enforcer who was stupid enough to do that to her—then down again to check for anything else I missed.

Her legs next.

I drop to my knees in front of her and run my hands along her calves, her thighs, pushing the hem of her nightshirt higher without thought while searching for blood, cuts, anything that would tell me she’s dying and I was too late.

But there’s nothing.

Just smooth skin with faint bruises that look old.

When I stand, I cup her cheeks with both hands again, my thumbs brushing the tear tracks that cut clean paths down her skin. Her lips are swollen, probably from chewing on it while she waited for my return. I trace the injury with the pad of my thumb, gentle, careful, like she’s made of glass.

“You’re okay,” I rasp. My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, raw with emotion.

She nods, the motion jerky. Her hands are on me next. Her fingers curl into the front of my shirt, gripping so hard the fabric bunches. She yanks it up to reveal the blood marring my skin,though none of it is mine. Her eyes latch onto the bandage at my side covering the wound Sasha stitched up days ago.

Her eyes widen briefly before she snaps. “You reckless idiot, you got yourself shot?”

The scolding should amuse me. Normally, it does.

This time, it doesn’t, though. It cracks something wide open inside my chest.

“It’s old. I’m fine,” I tell her.

“You’re not fine.” Her voice rises, trembling around the edges. “You could havedied.”

The terror in her eyes is unmistakable. She’s not angry at me. She’s terrified of losing me.

The realization steals the last of my restraint.

I surge forward, mouth crashing into hers.

The kiss is messy and desperate, tasting of salt and the copper tang of blood. She meets me with equal force, hands fisting in my hair, pulling me down until we’re tangled together on the floor and I’m half kneeling between her thighs.

My hands move on instinct.

I hook my fingers under the hem of her nightshirt and lift it over her head, parting only long enough to tug it off her before replacing my mouth on hers again. My hands run over her bare shoulders, breasts, her stomach. She doesn’t stop me. She helps, lifting her hips when my hands wander down to the shorts still covering her so I can shove the fabric down past her thighs and toss it aside.

I strip out of my own shirt, kicking off boots and pants in a frantic tangle until there’s nothing between us but skin and heat and the frantic thud of two hearts trying to prove they’re still beating.

I push her back down onto the rug in front of the fire, covering her body with mine. My weight pins her. She arches beneath me, legs wrapping around my hips, heels digging into the backs of my thighs.

I enter her in one hard thrust.

She gasps, nails scoring down my back, leaving fresh welts over older bruises. I don’t care. I need this. Need to feel her clench around me, need to hear the broken sounds she makes when I fill her to know she’s alive and warm and here choosing me.