Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
FIONA
The wedding ends, but the night isn’t over.
The bedroom door shuts behind us with a soft click, and just like that, we’re alone. In his house. In his room. Our room.
And the very thought is suffocating.
My things have already been unpacked, tucked into drawers and hung in closets by his maids like I belong here. Like I’ve always belonged here.
A princess in a castle built on blood and power. And he’s the warlord who claimed it all.
Aleksei shrugs out of his jacket, watching me the entire time, his gaze heavy enough to feel like a touch. He begins to unbutton his shirt, and I can’t look away even when I want to. Each flick of his fingers pulls at something inside me, something hot and wanton and almost cruel.
The fabric parts, and I see the tattoo inked across his chest. That lion, feral and victorious.
It’s violent. Beautiful. Terrifying. A perfect reflection of the man himself.
It stares at me with bared teeth and wild eyes, tearing into the wolf’s flesh the same way he’s torn into every fabric of my life.
But as I look closer at the artwork, I see something I never saw before. Beneath the ink, beneath the sharp lines and vivid colors, are scars—round and raised ridges clawing across his skin like some monster tried to tear its way out and failed.
My stomach twists. I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t feel this strange tug in my chest. Not pity, but something deeper. I shouldn’t be wondering if he got the tattoo to hide the scars, or what hurt him enough to leave it there. Yet I do.
There’s a part of me—some stubborn, idiotic part—that wants to reach out. To let my fingers skim over the marks and ask how they happened. Who made him bleed. Or maybe who he bled for.
But I don’t. Because no matter how human those scars make him seem, he’s still who he is. And I’m still the woman trapped in his empire, pretending I don’t feel the walls closing in.
He stands across from me like the king of all things dark, and for the first time, I understand why people follow him, fear him. He doesn’t have to command power. He just is.
And that might be the most dangerous thing about him.
He catches where my attention falls, his jaw gritting tight, and I instantly look away. Flicking my hair over my shoulder, I sink onto the edge of the chaise, tugging at the straps of my heels.
“Jesus,” I mutter as one finally slides off. “Whoever designed these should be tried in international court.”
He pauses halfway through unbuttoning his shirt, that razor-sharp gaze cutting straight through the dim light. “Do your feet hurt?”
I nod, already starting to rub them, but the relief is barely there.
He doesn’t wait for permission. His shirt hits the floor in an instant, leaving only the dark slacks riding low on his hips and the kind of temptation that makes it hard to think.
When he starts toward me, something tightens in my gut, hot and wild and a little afraid.
Not of him, but of how badly I want him to keep walking.
To reach me. To touch me. To ruin everything just by looking at me like that.
He lifts my foot into those rough, calloused hands that have broken men, pressing into the arch. My head tips back, a shameless sound of pleasure slipping out of me.
“Better?” his deep voice whispers.
I can’t even find words. Just a breathy moan that barely qualifies as a yes. Because it’s not just relief flooding me. It’s desire. Twisting. Thrumming. Alive.
My eyes fall to a close as he moves to the other foot, his touch firmer now, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. What I like. When my lashes flutter open, his stare is there waiting—dark and seared on mine.
And I know what he’s thinking.
I’m not supposed to want this. I promised myself the last time was it. But how am I supposed to hate the way he makes my body feel when he touches me this way?
I want his hands slipping under my dress. I want to feel free and alive, the way only he can make me feel.
And as soon as the thought comes, I curse myself.
What the hell is wrong with you? You’re here because he threatened your parents and forced this on you. Not because of the way he touches you or how good it feels.
Except good doesn’t even cover it. It’s addictive. Dangerous. Life-altering.
Reckless. You forgot reckless.
I squeeze my eyes shut and groan internally, from frustration this time. Because I already know I’m losing this fight.
“Get up,” he says as he stops the massage, and my gaze lifts on instinct.
I don’t even ask why. I simply obey as though something in his tone tugs at me like a thread being pulled tight.
He doesn’t move at first, just watches me standing there in my dress like I’m on display. Like he’s carving this moment into memory, as though he wants to own it too. His hands land on my shoulders, turning me around slowly as he steps behind me.
And suddenly he’s everywhere—his chest brushing my back, his breath grazing the shell of my ear, warm and unsteady like he’s holding on to the last bit of restraint. Rough hands trail down my arms. A firm drag of his palms over skin, like he’s reminding me I’m his now.
“Let me take off this dress.” His fingers work the ties of the corset back. “I’m sure you want to slip into something more comfortable.”
Yes. You.
Bad Fiona. Very bad. You are to stay far away from your husband, especially in bed. As far as you’re concerned, he has crabs.
And yet…
My skin grows taut beneath his fingers, every glide of his hands setting off sparks I swore I was done reacting to. Each pull of the corset loosens more than the dress. It’s pulling apart my resolve, seam by seam.
I shouldn’t want this. But the second his fingertips trace down my spine, my body forgets every reason it’s supposed to resist. A shiver dances through me just as the final tie slips free…and so does my grip on sanity.
The bodice slackens. The dress surrenders, sliding down my curves until it gathers around my feet. I stand there in nothing but a lacy thong and bare skin, rooted in place by the weight of it all.
“Turn around,” he says, his tone humming with arousal as I step out of the dress. “Let me look at you.”
I obey before I can think better of it, facing him fully. My hands tremble slightly at my sides, but I don’t try to cover myself because there’d be no point.
He’d just take it. Like he took everything else.
ALEKSEI
She can’t deny it.
Whatever this is between us burns hotter with each moment, and now that she’s here in my home, in my space, she can’t avoid it.
She trembles when I touch her. Follows every command like it’s law. Like I’ve already rewired her from the inside out. And blyat, maybe I have. Maybe somewhere between hating me and giving in to me, she started craving the control. My control.
My gaze drags over the swell of her breasts, nipples tight and aching for attention.
Her lashes flick down when my fingers glide along her hips, ghosting over the skin she once tried to hide.
When my hand lingers on the paler patch at her side, she stiffens, like she’s bracing for rejection or for me to pretend I don’t see it.
Instead, I drop to one knee. My mouth grazes the spot, and she groans, fingers tangling in my hair, our eyes locked as I press a second kiss to the opposite side. Then another. And another.
By the time I stand, my cock aches to be inside her. To have all of her. But I pull her against me, my mouth just close enough to take everything I want.
I brush a strand of hair from her shoulder, letting my fingers trace the line of her collarbone before gliding down the center of her chest. She doesn’t pull away, watching me instead—eyes wide, lips parted, as though she’s daring me to go further.
My God, she’s so beautiful, it makes me violent. Brings out a need to mark her with something more than just my name.
My palms find her hips, guiding her backward until the backs of her knees meet the edge of the bed. One light press and she sinks down, her gaze never leaving mine.
“What are you doing?” She catches my wrist, staring up at me with breathless exhales as my fingers hook into the strap of her thong, needing it off too.
“Don’t play shy now, Ms. Prosecutor. I’ve seen and tasted every inch of you already.”
Her chest rises, her teeth pulling her bottom lip as I work her panties down, exposing her pink cunt. It glistens, slick with signs of her arousal, with the need she tries to bury. But it’s there, staring right at me, and all I want is a taste.
Her cheeks flush as my finger slowly drags through her slit, grazing her clit as she gives me a little moan. I tease her with it, opening her up and sinking inside her to my first knuckle until she’s writhing, her toes curling.
My mouth lowers to her bikini line, breathing her in before I drag my lips over her core. The tip of my tongue flicks her clit and her hands fist in the sheets, eyes squeezed shut like she’s trying to pretend it isn’t me making her feel this good.
“No. Open your eyes.” Thrust. “I want you to see who’s fucking you.”
Two fingers ease inside her just as she obeys.
“Keep them that way. From now on…” I sink deeper as she cries out. “You do not close them when I touch you.”
My thumb grazes her center and her body tenses, winding in pleasure.
The urge to take her, fully and without mercy, rips through me, consuming all reason. I want to bury myself inside her until there’s no part of her left. But I want her desperate first, begging for it like she did at the club.
The second my fingers leave her, her thighs clamp shut, denying me the view. It twists something vicious in my chest, the way she still pretends she can set the rules when the truth is every move she makes happens because I let it.
Heading to the dresser, I pick one of my T-shirts and hand it to her. She slips it on fast, tugging the hem down the middle of her thighs like I haven’t already memorized the terrain of her bare skin, mapping every inch of it with my hands, my mouth.