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My teeth sink into my lower lip hard enough to sting, anything to stop myself from dragging her back against me and sucking her beautiful clit back into my desperate mouth.

“Sergei?” There’s so much disbelief in her voice, she cannot help but scoff, finally grasping my intentions. “Are you serious?”

I straighten slowly, wiping the corner of my mouth with my thumb while trying not to react to the sight of her looking completely wrecked because of me.

Her legs finally touch the floor again, though she still looks unsteady.

The disbelief on her face starts melting into hurt when I take a deliberate step back instead of reaching for her.

“You think I can’t make myself come?” she challenges, arms crossing over her chest even as too many emotions flicker across her face too quickly to name.

Hurt. Embarrassment. Pride.

And finally, defiance settling stubbornly in her green eyes.

“Oh, you can, baby.” I step closer, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But you won’t.”

“Oh yeah?” Her brow arches. Before I can answer, she brushes past me and climbs back onto the counter, chin tilted up as she slowly, deliberately spreads her legs wide.

My gaze darkens.

“You won’t if you ever want my dick.” I reply before her hand can slip between her thighs and finish what I cruelly denied her.

She hesitates, fingers hovering dangerously close as she chews the inside of her cheek, frustration written all over her face.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks.

For leaving me.

For hurting yourself. For bleeding.

For nearly dying.

For choosing death over me.

I blink hard and turn away before any of it can show on my face, reaching for my discarded t-shirt instead.

My jaw tightens as I drag a hand through my hair, trying to steady myself.

“For being a brat.” I grunt in an attempt to yank the t-shirt over my head when soft fingers splay on my back.

“S-Sergei…d-did you—why…why do you have new scars on your back?” Her voice reaches my ear, the question lacks its previous acerbity, replaced instead by concern.

I grit my teeth instantly, the fabric falls from my hands as I turn around slowly to face her, every muscle in my body tense.

Her eyes are fixed over my shoulder.

“Because I don’t fucking lie.” I tell her.

“H-how did you get forty new cuts on your back?” she shouts, but I don’t respond.

I should’ve known better than to think she wouldn’t count them.

I’d hoped the scars would heal long before she ever noticed, but I lost every shred of sense the second the need to fuck her outweighed everything else.

Kieran Orsini was more than glad to hurt me when I met him to hand him the file of Maria Reed. The Italian motherfucker didn’t even ask me why I wanted to get the shit beaten out of me.

Roman and Aleksandr wouldn’t have agreed to hit me Vasily style; they are too sensitive.