Chapter 22 Elena
ELENA
Istare at Adrian's lips.
His thumb is still brushing along my jaw, and his dark eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my chest ache like it used to. The warmth of his palm against my skin pulls me back from the edge of panic that's been my constant companion for eighteen months.
But I need more proof.
My mind knows he's real now. I watched him break down that door. I felt his arms around me when I collapsed. I heard his voice promise me safety over and over again as I vomited up the poison.
But some part of me, the part that's been drugged and manipulated and told a thousand lies, that part still whispers, what if?
What if this is just another hallucination? A dream? What if I blink and he disappears, and I'm still in that basement in Moscow, and this is just my mind's desperate attempt to escape?
I lean forward. "I need to feel you," I say, my gaze locked on his mouth. "I need to know you're real."
He licks his lips, and I glance up to see the hunger and restraint all tangled together in his eyes.
I close the remaining distance between us and press my mouth to his.
The moment our lips touch, the world shifts, or maybe it returns.
Heat floods through me, sharp and aggressive. His mouth is warm, softer than I remember, and the sensation is so vivid, so real, that tears prick at my eyes.
This isn't a hallucination, and I'm crazy to think it could have been.
This is Adrian. My one true love and protector.
Now I just need my trauma-filled brain to finally catch up and process it.
His hand tightens on my jaw, his fingers sliding into my hair. His other hand comes up to cup the back of my neck, holding me steady, holding me close to him.
The scrape of his stubble against my chin sends warm chills through my body. It's rough, masculine, so distinctly him that my heart feels like it'll burst with recognition.
I remember this. The way he used to kiss me in the mornings before he shaved, the way I'd complain about the scratchy feeling and he'd laugh and do it again just to tease me.
I remember the way his hands felt on my skin, the way he'd cradle my face like I was his precious girl, something worth protecting.
The contrast between his touch and everything I've endured for the past year and a half is staggering.
Maxim's hands were cold, possessive in a way that made my skin crawl. His touch was a reminder that I was property, that my body wasn't my own.
But Adrian's hands are warm and careful. He holds me like I might break, but also like he'll never let me go.
The kiss deepens, and I feel his thumb stroke along my cheekbone, a small, tender gesture that makes me remember that this is the man who promised me forever under a starlit sky.
I press closer, my hands finding the front of his shirt, my fingers curling into the fabric. His chest is solid beneath my palms, and I cling to him like he's the only thing keeping me upright.
His mouth moves against mine, and I taste him. It's familiar, comforting, and for a moment, his tongue makes me forget everything else.
I forget the pills. I forget the cold concrete floors and the locked doors and the voices that told me I was nothing.
For this one moment, I'm just Elena, and he's just Adrian, and we're just us.
Adrian's hand slides down to my waist, his touch like fire, and it sends a jolt of awareness through me, right to my center. My body responds before my mind can stop it, and I feel myself getting wet and aroused.
I want this. I want to lose myself in him, to let him erase every terrible memory, to feel something other than fear and shame and numbness.
But as his hand tightens on my waist, something shifts, and not in a good way.
My body tenses, every muscle locking up, and suddenly, I'm not in this safe house anymore.
I'm back in the suite at the chateau. I'm back in the bedroom in Moscow. I'm back in the van with the needle in my arm and the rough hands holding me down.
Panic flares, and I pull back suddenly.
"Leni?" Adrian's voice is low, concerned. "You okay?" he asks as his hands immediately loosen their grip.
I press my palm to my chest, trying to steady my breathing, my voice catching. "I'm sorry," I choke out, my throat tight. "I'm sorry, I just..."
"Shh. Don't," he says, his voice firm but gentle. "Don't apologize."
I swallow hard, trying to find the words. "I want this so badly, Adi. God, I want this. But..." I take a shaky breath. "We need to go slow."
His dark eyes hold mine, patient, waiting.
"My brain is screaming that all I want is to feel you," I continue. "But I don't, I don't feel like myself yet."
He nods slowly, his thumb still tracing gentle patterns along my jaw. "Then we go at your pace. Whatever you need."
I bite my lip, my heart pounding. Maybe there's something I can try, something that might help me feel like I have control again.
"Can I..." I pause, gathering courage. "Can I trace my fingers over your tattoos like you used to love?"
His expression softens. "Of course."
"Take off your shirt."
Adrian doesn't hesitate. He reaches behind his neck, pulls his shirt over his head, and tosses it aside.
My breath catches.
I've seen him shirtless a thousand times, but it's been so long that I'd almost forgotten. The broad expanse of his chiseled chest, the defined muscles of his stomach, the tattoos across his skin.
He's beautiful, and he's mine.
I reach out tentatively, my fingertips hovering just above his chest. Then I make contact, and the warmth of his skin sends electricity through me.
I slide my fingers slowly across, exploring the hard, defined lines of his muscle, tracing a tattoo, and just enjoying the way his skin feels under my touch.
Adrian doesn't take those dark eyes off me, but he stays perfectly still, letting me take my time.
My hands travel up to his shoulders, then down his arms, feeling the strength there. I trace the line of his collarbone, then move up to his neck, keeping my fingers gentle.
His jaw clenches slightly, but he doesn't move.
I bring my hand up to his face, my thumb brushing across his cheekbone, then down to his mouth. My finger traces the line of his lips, and I watch as his eyes darken with barely restrained desire.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says, his voice rough. "If you're okay, I'm okay."
I smile and nod.
I move my hands back down his chest, over his abs, and then lower. My fingers find the waistband of his pants, and I hesitate.
"Leni," he says, his voice strained. "You don't have to—"
"I want to," I interrupt, my voice cracking slightly. "I need to."
I need to reclaim this. I need to choose this.
My hand slides down his thigh, feeling the hard muscle beneath the fabric, and then I move back up. I can feel the heat of him through his pants, and when my palm presses against the hard length of him, he exhales sharply.
"Fuck," he breathes.
He helps me push down his pants just enough for me to reach inside and wrap my fingers around him.
His cock is hard and thick in my hand.
I stroke him slowly, watching his face for his reaction.
His eyes are closed, his jaw muscles flexing, his breath coming in bursts. He's holding himself back, I can tell.
I stroke him a little firmer now, and a low groan escapes his throat.
The sound sends heat flooding through me, and for the first time in eighteen months, I feel powerful.
Not powerless or broken.
I continue stroking him, finding a rhythm, and his hand comes down to cover mine.
"Leni, stop," he says, his voice dark.
I freeze, panic rising. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No," he says quickly, his eyes opening to meet mine. "God, no. You're perfect. But this isn't about me."
I blink at him, confused.
"I want to please you," he continues, his hand still gently holding mine. "I want to show you what it's like to be worshiped like the queen you are. My queen."
"I don't know if I can..."
"We'll find out together," he says. "Trust me to take care of you."
He leans forward and kisses me, slow and deep, and I feel the tension in my body start to ease.
His hands move to my waist, and he guides me back onto the bed, his body hovering over mine.
"Tell me if you need me to stop," he says.
I nod, my heart racing.
He starts at my neck, pressing soft kisses to my skin, then moves to my shoulders. His lips are warm and gentle, and I close my eyes, focusing on the sensation.
He kisses down my chest, then across to the curve of my breast. His mouth is reverent, careful, like I'm something precious.
When his lips close around my nipple through the fabric of my shirt, I gasp.
"You're so beautiful," he says.
I don't feel beautiful. I feel damaged, broken, like something that's been used and discarded.
But the way he touches me, the way he kisses me, makes me wonder if maybe I can be beautiful again.
I then feel his hands sliding up my thighs.
"Can I take these off?" he asks, his fingers hooking into my waistband.
I hesitate for a moment, but then I nod.
He slides them down slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, and then he tosses them aside.
His hands push my thighs apart gently, and he leans down, pressing soft kisses to my inner thigh.
The sensation makes me gasp, and I feel my body responding, heat pooling low in my belly.
He kisses higher, closer, and then his mouth is on me.
I moan, my back arching off the bed.
His tongue is warm and wet, and he licks me slowly, like he's savoring every second.
"Adi," I gasp, my hands fisting in the sheets.
He doesn't stop. He just keeps going, his tongue working me over, sliding up and down and in and out of me.
I start to squirm, and his hands grip my thighs to hold me in place.
The pleasure builds almost instantly. It's been a long time, and I feel like I'm going to explode.
"Adi, I can't. I don't know if I can..."
"All you have to do is try, my angel," he says against my skin, and then his mouth is back on me, his tongue circling my clit, flicking, driving me higher.
I take deep breaths, forcing myself to focus on him, his tongue. I tell myself to relax and let go. I'm safe with him.
Once my headspace is solid, I feel every muscle in my body start to tense up. My toes start to tingle, and for a split second, I feel like I'm on fire.
The pleasure rushes over me, and I bite my lip to hold in a scream. I grab the back of his head, and he takes that as a sign to move faster.
My legs start to shake, and my eyes roll back. I tense up, and then I shatter.
I come with a force that pushes the breath from my lungs, my body convulsing as wave after wave of sensation crashes over me.
For a moment, everything else disappears.
The chateau. Moscow. The drugs. The fear.
All of it replaced by nothing but heat and light and Adrian.
When I finally come back to myself, I'm gasping, my body trembling, and Adrian is kissing his way back up my body.
He settles beside me, pulling me into his arms, and I bury my face in his chest.
"Just so you know," he says, his voice low and rough, "I have never stopped loving you. Not for a single second." He kisses the top of my head. "I love you more now than I ever did before. I love you, Leni."
I pull back and look up at him. "You mean that? Really?"
"Every word," he says, his voice firm. "I love you, and I will protect you for the rest of my life. No one is ever going to hurt you again. I promise you that."
The weight of his words settles over me, and for the first time since this nightmare began, I feel something that's been locked away for so long I almost forgot it existed.
Hope.
"I love you too," I say, my voice shaking. "I never stopped either. How could I?"
Adrian nods and pulls me closer against him.
"Then we're going to be okay," he says. "I promise you, Leni. We're going to be okay."
I nod, and I tuck my head under his chin, settling as close as I can against him.
The survivor's guilt doesn't disappear completely, but it eases enough.
And as Adrian holds me, his arms warm and solid around me, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, we're going to make it past this.