Chapter 20 #2
Because beneath the nausea, beneath the scream clawing at the inside of my throat…there is something else. Something worse.
Satisfaction? Some twisted form of relief?
He did this for me. He killed someone who hurt me.
And the craziest part? It doesn’t scare me.
Not him. Not the gun. Not the blood soaking the grass.
What scares me is the part of me that feels avenged. The part that whispers he was right to do it. Because if this doesn’t repulse me, if this feels like justice, then maybe the monster isn’t just standing in front of me.
Maybe she’s already inside.
ALEKSEI
She hasn’t quite grasped the depth of my depravity. Not until now.
She looks at me like I’m something out of a nightmare. And she’s not wrong. I am.
Only she still doesn’t see the full picture. She doesn’t understand that when I destroy a man for touching her, it’s not just brutality. It is sending a message the world won’t forget.
Cross this line, and you don’t crawl back.
And today, she learned that lesson firsthand.
Aleksei Marinov doesn’t forgive. Doesn’t forget. Never lets anything go.
I saw the horror in her eyes as I carved screams out of him. I saw the way her throat worked like she couldn’t swallow, the way her fingers trembled as she tried not to break in front of me.
But under all that fear, there was something else. It flickered in her pupils, in the way she couldn’t look away, in the breath that hitched not just with disgust, but with a raw, ugly want she’ll never admit out loud.
She liked it.
That alone should make me stop and push her away. But all it does is feed the psychosis she’s injected me with.
I run a hand down her back as she lowers herself back to the bench, no longer appearing sick. When I saw her that way, I almost regretted the whole thing. I should have let her rest longer before I ended him. She’s still carrying the residue of what that bastard pumped into her veins.
And yet I almost wish he was still alive. Just so I could take my time and really make him understand what happens when someone touches what’s mine.
One of my men steps forward, offering a damp washcloth, and I drag it across my hands. The blood smears before it fades, then I toss the ruined cloth on the grass.
She looks up at me, and the vulnerability there, the way her hands knot together on her lap, nails digging into her palms… She doesn’t know whether to run or thank me, and I can taste the war inside her.
I crouch in front of her, letting my knuckles brush along her jaw, soft enough to be mistaken for tenderness. “Are you feeling better?”
She nods, her chest swelling up and down, and my eyes can’t help but track the movement. I can’t stop the way my body reacts to being this close to hers.
“Come.” I take her hand, easing her to her feet.
She’s barely upright before my arm slips under her legs and I lift her against me. Her brows arch, lips parting like she wants to argue and tell me to put her down, but no words come out. Instead, she lays her head against my chest like she belongs there.
And that’s the problem. Because the second she rests against me, that vicious instinct flares. To hold her tighter. Shield her from the world I just blew up.
It makes no sense to have this urge to soothe her when I’ve spent so long creating chaos in her life. But when I saw the way she reacted to what I was about to do to him, I couldn’t do it. It was like something cracked in me.
I tell myself it’s not kindness or concern. It’s about being the one who can help her. That power.
But the lie sits heavy. Because the truth is uglier.
I just wanted to help her. It always seems to come back to that.
My father would be ashamed. He raised us to be strong, ruthless, untouched by weak emotions. And Fiona is the one thing that shatters every lesson he ever drilled into me, the kind of temptation that makes me forget the man I was meant to be.
But none of that matters. This marriage is nothing more than payback. A reminder that I hold her future in my fist and I always will. And I’ll make damn sure she never forgets it.
I carry her through the house and up the stairs, straight into my bedroom. Into my bed. I should’ve taken her to a guest room. But the thought of her lying anywhere else made something twist in my chest.
“If you want to sleep some more, I will get you one of my shirts again.”
She nods, and I help her sit on the edge of the bed before moving to the drawer. I hand her a clean T-shirt, and she accepts it quietly before I turn away, giving her privacy. If I don’t, I’ll end up forgetting my manners, and the last thing she needs right now is me inside her.
I should’ve brought her clothes here. Something soft and comfortable instead of those pants and silk blouses she wears. The ones I fantasize about tearing off her every time she looks at me like I’m the enemy.
Even now, while I wait facing the wall, all I can think about is chasing her through the woods, pinning her to that tree, and taking every inch of her.
But what follows isn’t lust. It’s the memory of her whispering my name after I tended to her wounds. The way she thanked me when I didn’t deserve it. The way it felt to take care of her, for no other reason than wanting to.
“Okay. You can turn around now.”
Her voice is small. Worn down to the bone. And all I can think about is how much I miss the woman who gives me hell. The one who fights me with every breath. The one I can hate.
Because this quiet version of her? This girl in my shirt, in my bed? She scares me more than anyone ever has.
I help her settle against the pillows, adjusting them until her body sinks into the mattress just right. She doesn’t speak, just watches me with those guarded eyes that used to burn with defiance.
Now they search mine like they’re trying to figure out if I’m the monster she should fear or the one who just saved her.
I pull the comforter up, tucking it snug around her like she might slip through my fingers if I don’t. My hand stalls at her shoulder, then drifts higher, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her chest rises with a shallow breath, like she’s afraid I’ll pull away if she moves.
If only it was that easy to resist her. My life would be so much simpler.
“I’ll see you later.” The words are dry on my tongue.
I turn and close the door behind me before she can answer, the latch clicking into place. But I can’t seem to move, back against the door, like some magnetic force is keeping me here.
Seconds tick by, and I’m left thinking about her on the other side, in that bed alone, pretending she’s fine.
“Blyat…” I mutter as violent inhales rival through me, my hand snapping to the knob.
I shove off the door, taking a step away, then stop, my fists clenching. And without stopping myself, I twist the handle and push the door open just in time to catch her wiping a tear from her cheek.
She freezes.
“Were you crying?” My voice cuts sharper than I mean it to, but it’s too late to soften the edge.
“What? No. I…” She clears her throat, the lie landing thick between us.
But I see it. The tears still clinging to her lashes. The flush in her cheeks.
I move on autopilot, lifting the comforter and sliding in beside her.
She startles, peering at me with a twist of confusion. “Wha–what are you doing?”
I don’t answer because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing at all. I just know I need to be here, need to hold her.
My arm finds its way under her, pulling her in tight. Her body goes still for half a breath before she settles, pressing into me with a soft groan.
When her arm curls around me, I stop thinking and let myself feel. The weight of her in my arms. The way her breath syncs to mine. The quiet, unbearable peace.
And for the first time in longer than I care to admit, sleep doesn’t feel like something I have to fight for. It just takes me.
Because when she’s here, the war quiets.
And I hate how much I need that.