Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
FIONA
Morning light spills through the tall windows, casting long streaks across the marble as I make my way downstairs. I’m already dressed for work, just hoping to grab a quick bite before heading out. I sigh as I turn toward the kitchen, already knowing he won’t be there.
Last night, I could’ve sworn I felt him near me. Or maybe that was just a dream. A hazy impression I can’t quite remember, but can’t fully shake either.
Then I walk into the kitchen and stop cold.
He’s seated at the counter, looking like something out of a magazine.
Navy trousers hug his powerful thighs, and his pale blue shirt stretches just enough across his shoulders to make me stare longer than I should.
The sleeves are rolled to his forearms, veins on display, a diamond-studded watch catching the sunlight.
He looks like power. Effortless, commanding power. And way too good-looking for my sanity.
Jesus. Why does my husband have to be so hot?
Not a thought I ever imagined having, but here we are.
“Good morning.” His mouth lifts by a fraction. A hint of a smile, nothing more.
“Morning,” I manage, keeping my voice casual.
He doesn’t get to hear whatever cracks underneath, or how some part of me might have…missed him. If that’s what this is.
Before I can sit, he rises and moves toward the stove.
“Tea?” he asks.
I nod, not sure what to think as he grabs a green tea bag and wraps it around a spoon before pouring steaming water into a mug. He crosses the room and holds the cup out to me just as I lower myself onto the seat beside his.
His fingers faintly brush against mine when I take it. It’s nothing. Just a touch. Barely there. Yet it moves through me like a current, seeping into every corner of my body and lighting up places I’ve tried to keep dark.
His eyes flick, catching mine. Searching, maybe seeing too much.
I drop my gaze and busy myself with straightening my napkin like it suddenly matters.
He doesn’t move. Just stands there a beat too long, close enough that I can feel the weight of his stare on my skin. Then he steps back, returning to his seat, his chair scraping against the floor cutting through the silence.
But before he sits, his eyes drop to my left hand. “You’re not wearing your ring.”
The rough way he says it makes my body prickle, tone dripping with that quiet kind of dominance that always gets under my skin.
I shrug, flat and unapologetic. “Nope.”
His gaze doesn’t leave my hand. “Where is it?”
“In the nightstand. Where it belongs.”
He doesn’t move at first. Just peers at me in that calculating way, like he’s debating whether to punish me now or later.
He suddenly pushes his chair back in a way that makes me tense. “I’ll go get it for you.”
“Don’t.” I lift my hand up. “I’m not wearing it to work. And that’s final.”
His jaw flexes. “Then you’ll wear it at home. And everywhere else.”
“That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“It is now.” He pulls himself in, grabbing his coffee mug, calm as ever. “Next time I see that finger bare, I’ll glue it on myself. Do you understand me, Ms. Prosecutor?”
My mouth parts, ready to argue, to remind him that he doesn’t own me.
But the words never make it out. Not when his voice sounds like that.
Possessive in a way that slides down my spine and twines deep.
Like every line I’ve drawn is just waiting to be erased.
And a big part of me doesn’t even want to stop it.
We eat in silence, the clink of silverware the only sound between us. I try to focus on my breakfast, pretending I don’t feel his eyes on me every few minutes.
“I won’t be home for dinner tonight,” he finally says.
I don’t know what I expected. Something meaningful, maybe. Something real. But it’s not that. Just more distance and disappointment. More of this hollow ache I hate admitting he causes.
My fork stalls halfway to my mouth. “Oh, really? Working late again?”
Or fucking someone else?
“Yes.” His response is clipped, not even an ounce of warmth. “Is that a problem?”
No. Of course not. I don’t care what you do, or who you do it with.
But the thought of him with another woman, touching her the way he touches me, sends a hot, bitter rage tearing through me.
I shake my head, gripping the fork painfully tight. “No problem at all. The less I see of you, the better.”
I mean to sound indifferent, but it doesn’t come out that way. It feels like something splinters in my chest as the words leave my mouth. Something I won’t be able to glue back together.
He doesn’t answer right away, just looks at me. Long enough that it punctures something raw inside me.
“I’m glad.” His lips wind a fraction. “I’m here to make you happy, lyubov moya.”
What the hell does that mean?
I really need to start learning Russian.
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a black credit card, placing it on the table between us. “This is for you. Use it for whatever you need. Go shopping. Take a spa day. Buy a new car if you want to. It has no limit.”
I stare at the card like it’s some kind of insult. “I don’t want your money.”
He leans back, something close to amusement tugging at his lips.
Without hesitation, I shove the card back toward him. His gaze darkens as he rises and closes the space between us. That familiar scent of his cologne clings to him as he stops in front of me, tipping my chin up between his fingers and forcing my eyes to meet his.
“Like it or not, you are a Marinova now. You represent me. So act like it.”
I force out a humorless laugh. “And what exactly does that mean? What do I represent? A violent man who terrifies everyone who crosses his path? A man who traps a woman in a marriage she never wanted?”
His eyes narrow, the warning in them unmistakable, but I don’t care. I’m too tired of holding my tongue.
“You’d rather see me miserable than let me go,” I press, my voice trembling with something too jagged to name. “And for what? Because I did my job? Because I put people like you in prison?”
I stand slowly, lifting my chin, and those deep, dark eyes never leave mine. The air between us thickens, charged with something volatile. One wrong word, and this entire moment could ignite.
His nostrils flare, but he doesn’t say a word. He just stands there, all silent and still, watching me with that unreadable expression like he’s already dissected everything I just said. My ribs tighten around each breath, the heaviness of his silence more unnerving than any threat.
I shake my head, turning to walk past him. “I’m done here.”
“But I’m not,” he growls.
Before I can take another step, his hand wraps around my wrist and I’m yanked forward and spun into him so fast my breath catches.
My chest collides with the solid wall of his body as he pins me there, one arm banded tight around my back, the other gliding up, fingers tipping my chin until his mouth hovers near my ear.
“You really don’t know what you do to me when you talk like that.” His warm breath tickles against my skin. “So bold. So defiant.”
I swallow hard, every nerve ending on fire.
“But watch how you speak to me, moya ptichka. Because there are consequences.”
“And what are those?” My pulse thuds in my throat.
His gaze flicks to my mouth. “I’ll punish you for it.”
Heat slams through me.
“And you will love every second,” he adds, grip tightening at my waist like he knows, like he feels it too. That pull. That need.
Something reckless twists through me.
“Maybe you should kill me.” I brush my lips over his before nipping his lower one, just hard enough to draw a groan. “It’s the only way I’ll get out of this marriage anyway.”
His laugh is low, rough, as he grabs a handful of my ass and pulls me against him.
“That would be too easy.” His mouth ghosts over mine. “This…” His gaze dips to where our bodies meet. “…is a lot more fun.”
Yes. That’s right. That’s all we are. This passion, this intensity, is nothing more than skin and flesh.
My throat tightens from the tornado of emotions crashing against one another—rage, fear, desire, and confusion, all twisted into one impossible knot.
His thumb drags over my lower lip. Testing. Teasing. And neither of us moves or wants to run. Not from this. My back is against the wall before I can convince myself to stop, and my body—that traitorous, aching thing—is responding to him in ways my mind can’t control.
“Say it again.” He wraps his fingers around my throat.
“Say what?” I breathe, my nipples pebbling beneath my bra.
“That I should kill you.”
My chin lifts, a half-smile pulling at my lips. “Kill me and get it over with.”
His growl is low and full of something feral. “I don’t want to do that.”
Then his lips find mine, fierce and desperate, like he’s trying to erase the space between hate and want. And I kiss him back like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.
His fingers thread into my hair, tugging just enough to tilt my head, to deepen the claim.
The kiss tears through every wall I’ve built, and I melt into it, gasping when he grinds against me, his arousal thick and unmistakable through his slacks.
His other hand fumbles at the buttons of my blouse, roughly popping them open until the cool air hits my skin, my bra exposed under his gaze.
“I hate you,” I whisper against his lips.
Hate the way you undo me. Hate how much I want you.
“Good.” His growl vibrates against my skin as he drags his mouth down to my throat and bites. “Hate me harder.”
He yanks the zipper of my skirt, tugging it down before his belt clatters to the floor. I don’t remember how we got here, but it’s the only thing I want. He lifts my legs around his waist, shifts my panties aside, and drives into me in one hard, greedy thrust.
I gasp, clutching at his shoulders, the stretch of him dizzying, overwhelming, perfect.
“Blyat, I’ve missed you,” he mutters against my neck, and I have to choke back the stupid rush of pleasure that comes with hearing it.
Maybe he only means the sex, but the rough scrape of the words cuts deep, curling around something inside me that refuses to believe he didn’t mean more than that.
A raw and needy moan slips from my throat, my nails raking up his back when he circles his hips.
His muscles tense beneath my fingers, the only warning before he drives into me harder, deeper, his rhythm brutal and unrelenting.
“Oh God,” I cry out, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world gone sideways. “Don’t stop.”
And he doesn’t. He only picks up the pace, pulling back to peer into my eyes. Forcing me to see him. To feel all of it. I drown in the storm of him, every thrust unraveling me until I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t be anything but his.
The walls shake with the force of his body, with the sound of us. Anyone in this house knows exactly what’s happening, and I don’t care.
His hand finds the space between us, fingers circling my clit, and I detonate. A strangled cry tears from my throat as I come undone, biting down on his shoulder just to keep from screaming. He follows with a guttural curse, ramming deep like he’s trying to brand this moment into both of us.
Then it’s over.
When he lowers me, the silence, the distance…it all returns with a vengeance. Without a word, he steps back, refastens his clothes, and hands me my skirt with barely a glance, raking a hand through his hair like I’m nothing.
I’m still leaning against the wall, blouse open, body trembling, lungs clawing for air, but he doesn’t even look at me. Just turns and leaves. The silence he leaves in his wake wraps around me like a chokehold.
Because I don’t know what I hate more: that he walked away like I mean nothing, or that some part of me wanted him to stay.
ALEKSEI
It’s only supposed to be sex. A release. A means to an end.
That’s what I tell myself as the door clicks shut behind me and I slide into the car, her taste still on my tongue.
But it isn’t. And that’s the goddamn problem.
I drop my head back against the seat, knowing I should’ve stayed away. It’s the only option left to make it through this marriage without losing control.
She’s my wife on paper. My enemy by design. But every time she looks at me—unflinching, furious, daring me to strike first—something in me cracks. Everything I was taught, everything I’ve lived by like a code of honor, starts to slip.
Because she doesn’t just make me forget the rules. She makes me want to break every damn one.
I drag a hand over my jaw, still hard and strung tight with the memory of her pressed against me, her body soft, but her eyes fighting every second of it. She never fully submits. Not even when she’s trembling, gasping my name, and shaking apart around me.
That’s what makes her dangerous. Not her job. Not the way she tried to destroy me in court. The way she feels: too real in my arms.
This was supposed to be revenge. Now I’m not sure who’s paying the price.