Page 87 of Nemesis

His intense, blue eyes slice into mine, wind on the fading embers of my fight. My determination returns.

“I never knew you were such a poet.”

His large body is stretched over mine, one hand securing my wrists above my head, and his thighs keeping mine pressed apart. Were it any other man on top of me right now, I’d probably be losing it. My pathetic mind wouldn’t even allow me to try fighting back with some of the moves we’ve been learning. I’d slip into that familiar, frozen state.

It’s not any man, though.

He smirks. “I’m a multidisciplinary coach, remember⁠—”

I bring my elbows down and in before he finishes his cocky response, dislodging the hold on my wrists. Rather than freeing my legs, too, I wrap them tighter around his thighs and use every last bit of strength to roll him to his back. He releases a low grunt as we switch positions, me landing on the cradle of his hips.

I can’t help the proud smile that pulls my lips at his surprised expression below.

“I told you that you weren’t failing,” he whispers, irises glittering up like I’m his entire sky. His rapt attention is intoxicating.

No wonder he talks so much shit. Sitting here and looking down at the grown-ass man at my mercy, I feel invincible. I lean forward, trailing one hand to the inked expanse of his throat. My fingers wrap around his skin, covering as many inches as I can.

“How does it feel?” I taunt, leaning even closer to his panting mouth. “Being the one on their back for once?”

His next exhale is shaky and warm, brushing right against my cheek. “I think you should get off.”

“Why’s that?” I say, gripping my hand tighter around his throat. “You don’t like being dominated in a fight?” A gust of wind ruffles my sweaty braid, sending stray curls into my face. That’s what’s causing the chill on my skin, I tell myself. Not the fact that I’m touching every hard plane and ridged scar along his body.

“No.” His throat moves beneath my palm, working through a thick swallow. “I think you’ll find that I don’t mind being dominated one bit, as long as you’re the one doing it.”

I frown. How very un-Bratva-soldier of him. I’m about to tease the big, scary mob interrogator below me when I feel it. His hips press up the slightest bit, just enough to feel his hard presence between my legs. My mouth dries even as my hips instinctively lower, seeking more contact. His eyes flit closed as I do, something between a groan and a sigh leaving his throat. The sound lands deep in my stomach, melting everything it touches.

I don’t remember leaning forward. The movement is subconscious, as familiar as it is foreign. My lips brush his in the lightest touch. Just enough to feel the heat of his mouth. The birds’ low chirp and the rustle of trees in the wind disappear entirely, leaving me with nothing but a low vibration overtaking every single one of my senses.

In the span of my next heartbeat, his head dips, one arm threading behind my head to guide me closer. He deepens the kiss, sucking my lower lip between his in a silent fight for dominance. My fingers tighten around his neck in an unconscious flex. When his tongue slides between my lips, begging for entry, my limbs writhe. His low groan when I open up to him reverberates deep in my stomach.

Then the contact is torn away.

My eyes snap open to a swirl of grass and sky, and all the air leaves my chest as I land on my back.

I wheeze.

Did he just…

“Like I said,” he says with a smirk as he locks me into a hold. “You can dominate me any time you want.” His head blocks out the sun above, casting me in a cold shadow that does little to extinguish the fire still burning in my veins. “But domination is earned, zlaya.”

My fingers are still clutched around his inked neck in a mockery of control. He leans into the touch to lower his chest onto mine.

“Earn it again.” He spreads his swollen lips into a challenging smile. “I dare you.”

My thumb brushes the smooth mahogany edge as I study Dad’s speculative expression across the table. Furrowed brows shelve those hooded, green eyes, forming a pronounced divot in the center of his tanned forehead. The polished wooden bishop flips over in the crook of my palm.

It’s been a month since I made the deal to train with Vasiliy, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’ll never feel like the girl I was in New York. The realization arrived with a surprising measure of peace. Each time I clawed my way out of bed and got dressed for training, the load I was carrying felt a little lighter. These days, I actually look forward to Vasiliy appearing in the morning with a fresh cup of coffee and two hair ties to braid my hair with.

I can tell Dad’s pleased with the progress as well. It’s not so hard anymore to leave my room and look him in the eye. He’s not disappointed, Vasiliy must have said a hundred times. He’s only worried about you. I’m not sure when I actually started to believe the words.

I used to believe dancing was the only thing keeping me alive. But that Octavia, the one who was the first to enter the studio and pin up her hair, died in the dark corner of the cage. Her cheek was unmarred. She could only dream of killing the men who haunted her nightmares.

“Octavia.”

Dad’s mouth moves around each syllable of my name before tugging down into his trademark frown.

“Hm?”