22. Bound to BurnRafael
Twenty Two
Bound to Burn
Rafael
M y hands scrape against the clay. My fingers shape the curve of her neck, the delicate rise of her collarbones, the soft swell of her breasts. I don’t need a picture of her to guide me—I have every inch of her memorized.
The wedding is tonight, and I’ve made sure there won’t be any surprises. No chance for her to run, no chance for Milos to pull some last-minute stunt.
The door creaks open and I throw a tarp over the statue. It’s too intimate, too real for anyone else to see. It’s for my eyes only.
“Congratulations, groom,” Anatoly says, his voice laced with mockery as he steps inside.
I scoff, shaking my head as I go to the sink to wash the clay off my hands. The water runs red-brown as it spirals down the drain. When I return, Anatoly is sprawled in a nearby chair.
“So,” he starts, trying for nonchalance but failing miserably. “What made you change your mind?”
I grab a rag, wiping my hands before tossing it onto the table. “She didn’t care enough about me marrying her sister. She doesn’t get to just walk away, live her life without consequence. I’ll make sure she can’t forget me. If she’s mine, I’ll be her cage. Her prison. ” I say coldly. “This is what she deserves—being stuck with me. Paying for the past every single day.”
“Ah, I see. A mix of spite and punishment. Very noble of you.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “So it’s not because you realized she wasn’t swearing off men? That she has options? That she could date and love after you?”
My control snaps. My fist slams against the table. “Goddamn it,” I snarl, the rage surging through me. She’s mine. Mine. Mine.
“No,” I spit, trying to reel myself back in.
“Maybe next time you say that, don’t leave her hair lying around.”
My gaze snaps to him, and then to the strand of her hair on the corner of the table, barely noticeable. My jaw clenches.
“I know what she’s done,” he whispers.
“And how, exactly?” I bite out.
Anatoly doesn’t answer right away. My mind races—possibilities turning into accusations. Did Mila tell him? Did she whisper her secrets to him in the dark? Did they get close enough for her to trust him with that? My chest tightens at the thought, my possessiveness clawing to the surface.
“Layla,” he says finally.
I’m on him in a second, my hand grabbing his collar and yanking him to his feet.
“Close enough to talk about family secrets, huh?” I hiss, pulling him close enough to see the flicker of surprise in his eyes. He knows better than to challenge me on this. Layla doesn’t matter, not to me, not the way Mila does, but the principle does. The respect does. If my most loyal man has so much as breathed in the wrong direction, I’ll break him.
“My loyalty lies with you,” Anatoly says firmly. “Always. I would never disrespect you like that, Pakhan. ”
“You’d better not,” I growl, pointing a finger at him. “Because if you did—”
“I didn’t, you know me better than that.”
I let go of his collar because I believe him. He’s one of my most trusted men and my instincts never lie.
Anatoly shifts where he stands. “Rafael,” he says quietly, like he’s treading on thin ice, “she was just a child.”
I know. Or else she would have at least remembered.
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It should matter,” he insists, and I don’t miss the exhaustion in his eyes. “You’re hurting her, Rafael. And whether you want to admit it or not, you’re hurting yourself too.”
I bark out a short, bitter laugh. “Hurting myself?” I echo. “You think this is something we can just fix with a little heart-to-heart?”
“Why not try?” he presses. “This revenge, this back and forth—it’s going to destroy both of you. Just talk to her. Work it out like adults instead of—”
“Enough,” I snap, cutting him off. My patience is gone. “You don’t understand, and I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
Anatoly stares at me for a moment, his mouth pressing into a thin line. He exhales heavily and finally nods, backing off. “As you wish,” he mutters, turning toward the door. Before leaving, he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “Congratulations again, Pakhan,”
I step into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me. Turning the tap, I let the water scald my hands before dragging it over my face.
She’s going to be my wife tonight. My wife.
The words replay in my head as I strip off my shirt and turn on the shower. I brace myself against the wall, the tiles cold against my palms, but it’s not enough to cool the fire inside.
This pull I feel toward her—irrational, consuming, maddening—will finally be justified. She’ll be mine in every way that counts. No one else will get to touch her, hold her hand, claim her the way I do. No other prick will get to see her smile the way I do. No other fucker will get to hear her laugh, or see her in those quiet moments when she lets her guard down.
Tonight, there won’t be any question about it. I’ll put a ring on her finger, and the world will know what I’ve always known. Mila belongs to me, and God help anyone who dares to forget it.
My breathing is uneven. My hand slides down the slick wall as I try to will away the thoughts that flood my mind.
But it’s useless. It’s always her.
Her lips—soft, plush, the way they move when she speaks, taunting me with every word. Her face—those piercing blue eyes. Her body—every curve, her smooth skin.
My hand moves downward to wrap around my cock. I close my eyes, and there she is—standing in front of me, her voice whispering my name, laced with venom and heat.
I pump slowly at first, my grip tightening as the images of her become dirtier, filthier. Her mouth parted as I feed her my dick. The way her skin feels beneath my hands, like she was made just for me.
My pace quickens as I lose myself in her. Her nails digging into my shoulders, her legs wrapping around me, her voice in my ear—angry, breathless, mine. Always mine.
I let out a low growl. The pressure builds, and her name slips past my lips like a prayer and a curse all at once.
And then I come undone, my release spilling into the heat of the shower. But it’s not enough. It never is.
No matter how much I take, no matter how much I claim, she’s still out there, untouchable, unreachable. But not for long.
Tonight, everything changes. Tonight, she becomes mine in every way that matters. And I won’t stop until there’s nothing left of her that doesn’t bear my mark.
I step out, water running down my skin, dripping onto the tile. I dry off, dragging the towel over my arms, chest, and legs.
I pull on a pair of black pants first before wearing a white button up, and I throw a jacket over them. I rake gel through my hair, slicking it back. A quick spray of cologne. Done.
Anatoly is already at the car, the engine running. He doesn’t say a word as I slide into the back seat, and I don’t expect him to. There’s nothing to talk about. The drive to Milos’s mansion is quiet. My fingers tap against my thigh, but it’s not nerves. It’s anticipation.
We pull up to the mansion. The guards at the door don’t meet my eyes as they open it. Smart. I walk in without a word, the sound of my shoes echoing through the empty halls.
The salon is just ahead. It’s just her father, Layla, and Anatoly. It’s all I allowed them.
And then I see her.
Fuck.
She’s standing there, and for a second, everything stops.
The dress hugs her perfectly, white and covered in pearls that catch the light. Her short hair is pinned back, soft strands framing her face. No elaborate makeup, just her. Pure, stunning, and more than enough to knock the breath out of my chest.
Her hands grip a bouquet of white flowers. They’re trembling slightly. I notice everything about her. She’s nervous.
I move closer, my eyes locked on her. She doesn’t look away. There’s fire in her gaze. She’s bracing herself, thinking she can stand her ground.
She can’t.
When I stop in front of her, I don’t speak. I let my eyes drag over her, from the bun in her hair to the tight dress and the trembling hands holding those flowers. She’s gorgeous.
She opens her mouth like she’s about to unleash hell, but all that comes out is a flat, “Let’s get this over with.”
I chuckle, low and dark. It’s such a Mila thing to say, biting even when she’s cornered. She doesn’t want to show a crack, but I see right through her. She’s not as unaffected as she’s trying to be.
The papers are on the table. It takes a couple of signatures and no more than a few minutes. That’s it. Done. Final. My name is scrawled beside hers, and just like that, she’s mine in every way that matters.
I glance at Milos. He’s trying to keep a lid on it, but it’s all over his face. Pissed as hell, his jaw tight, his hand twitching like he wants to grab something—or someone. And he can’t stop looking at her.
Good. Let him stew.
All you get is looks, motherfucker.
I step closer to him, leaning in so only he can hear me. My voice drops to a growl.
“She’s mine. Every inch of her, every gasp, every moan—mine. Remember that the next time you think about laying those pathetic eyes on her. She’s Mila Ivanov now, fucker.”
I pull back slowly, my expression blank, and watch the flicker of rage in his eyes. He doesn’t move. He won’t. Yes, he’s her father, but the way he looks at her… It’s anything but paternal.
I extend my arm to Mila, and she hesitates for just a second before she takes it, her spine stiff, her head held high. We walk out together.
Anatoly is waiting by the car, holding the door open. She slides in first, refusing to look at me. That’s fine. She’s got time to adjust to the reality of being my wife.
I get in beside her, and the door closes with a soft thud. The car starts and the mansion fades in the rearview mirror. She’s silent, staring out the window, gripping the bouquet like it’s a lifeline.
This is just the beginning. She’ll fight me, of course, she wouldn’t be Mila if she didn’t. But it doesn’t matter. Because she’s coming home with me.
When we arrive, she stares at the mansion like it’s some kind of nightmare come to life. Her legs shake, and for a second, I think she might bolt—if she even had anywhere to go. Her eyes glisten, but she blinks it back, straightening her shoulders. She always has to look strong, doesn’t she? Even when she’s breaking inside.
I reach for her hand, locking my fingers around hers. She doesn’t pull away, but it’s reluctant. I tug her forward, but her steps are hesitant, her heels digging into the gravel.
I stop, turning to her. “Do you know what tradition says, Mila?”
Her throat bobs as she swallows hard. “What?”
“The bride should be carried into her home.”
Before she can respond, I bend, sliding one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, hauling her up into my arms. She gasps, clutching the front of my suit jacket for balance.
“Put me down,” she demands, her voice sharper now, but there’s no real heat behind it.
“No.” My tone leaves no room for argument.
Her fists tighten against me, but she doesn’t fight further.
I walk up the steps, her weight in my arms, and push the door open with my shoulder. The mansion is dark, silent, waiting. It swallows her gasp as we cross the threshold, and the door closes behind us with a solid, final thud.
“Welcome home, wife .”
“Where’s the bedroom?” she asks, I can tell she’s trying to hold it together.
I nod toward upstairs. “Follow me.”
She trails behind. Her gaze darts around, studying the place like it might bite her. When we reach the door, I push it open and step aside, letting her go in first.
She pauses on the threshold, eyes scanning the room. A soft sigh escapes her, and then her hands rise, fingers brushing over the walls.
Her lips part, a hint of confusion crossing her face. “This… this is your old room?”
“It’s still my room, Kroshka .”
“Oh.” She takes a hesitant step further inside.
“Don’t worry, it’s just as big as the master bedroom that belonged to my father.” I deliver the dig. We couldn’t afford to move out after the fire. The mansion was a ruin. So, we stayed, repaired it brick by brick, room by room.
I never had the heart to move into his old bedroom. It didn’t feel right—like stepping into something haunted, something that belonged to another life. This mansion is part of me, just like every scar left behind by that night.
I can see the apology forming in her eyes. “I didn’t mean—” Her voice falters, but then she changes the subject. “We’re… we’re going to share a room?”
“And a bed,” I hiss.
Her gaze flickers around again, but then it lands on the wall beside the bed. Her breath hitches. Her entire body tightens, like she’s bracing for something.
“Did…” She stutters, swallowing hard before trying again. “Did the fire… touch this room too?”
“No,” I snap. The question digs at something raw inside me.
She nods, her face unreadable, and steps closer to the wall. Her hand reaches out, fingertips grazing the smooth, white surface.
I know what she’s looking for.
“It’s gone.”
I don’t respond.
She doesn’t turn to look at me, just keeps her palm pressed against the wall where the childish drawing used to be—the one she scribbled with crayons, a picture of us.
“It’s just a wall now,” she says softly, almost to herself.
Her shoulders sag when I don’t tell her otherwise, and her fingers trail off the surface. Her eyes fall to the mirror on the opposite side of the room. Turning her back to it, she fights with the zipper on her dress, her movements jerky and impatient.
I lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching her struggle. Her fingers fumble, pulling, tugging, getting nowhere.
Minutes pass.
“Aren’t you going to ask for help?”
She whirls her head around, glaring at me with eyes that could burn the place down. Again. “No.” The word is sharp, venomous, and her expression says she’d rather drop dead than let me help.
I shrug. “Suit yourself.”
She keeps at it, muttering curses under her breath as the zipper refuses to budge. Finally, she stops, her head dropping forward.
“ Can you help?”
I push off the wall and approach her, slowly. “Ask nicely, Kroshka .”
Her eyes roll so hard I think she might sprain something. “Can you please help me, Rafael?” Her tone is drenched in sarcasm.
“Good girl.”
Standing behind her now, I grip the zipper, my fingers brushing her back. The moment I touch her, she stiffens, her breath catching just slightly. I pull the zipper down, deliberately slow. My thumb grazes her skin as I work.
The room feels charged, every second dragging like a slow-burn fuse. Her scent wraps around me, sweet and infuriating.
Just as the zipper reaches the small of her back, my fingers mere inches from the curve of her ass, she steps forward abruptly, clutching the front of her dress to her chest.
She strides to the bathroom. At the door, she pauses, turning to throw me one last look, finger pointed toward the couch. “For your information, I’ll be sleeping there.”
I grin. “We’ll see.”
She slams the door behind her.
I barely have time to blink before the door flies open again. “And I’m not sleeping with you either!”
Before I can respond, she slams it shut again.
“We’ll see about that too,” I mutter to myself.
This fight between us is far from over.