♛Chapter Twenty♛
Lola
I trip over a canvas. Again. “Fuck.”
My fingers cramp, my back aches, and I swear, if I smell turpentine one more time, I’ll lose my goddamn mind.
Canvases lean against every available surface.
Half-dried paintings are stacked in chaotic piles.
My workstation is cluttered with brushes I haven’t even had time to clean.
I need to finish these commissions. I need to send them off.
I groan, rubbing my temples, stepping over another goddamn painting when—
A shadow moves.
Ice crawls up my spine as my gaze snaps to the figure standing in the middle of my goddamn apartment.
Mikhail.
My lungs seize before everything explodes out of me at once. “What the fuck?!” I scream, grabbing the nearest thing—a paintbrush. Useless, but it’s something. “Will you stop sneaking into my apartment?”
“I knocked.”
“No, you fucking didn’t!”
His lips twitch. “Not my fault you didn’t hear me.”
I throw the paintbrush at him. He dodges it, looking mildly entertained. I am going to kill him.
“Get dressed,” he says smoothly. “We have somewhere to be.”
I plant my hands on my hips. “Oh, do we?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you, Mikhail.”
He charges at me. One second I’m standing, glaring at him. The next, I’m upside down over his fucking shoulder. I shriek, pounding my fists against his back. “Put me the fuck down, you psycho!”
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
“I hate you.”
“Mm.” He carries me like I weigh nothing, heading toward my bedroom. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be clenching your thighs around me like that.”
I freeze, mortification searing through me.
“I will bite you.”
“Go ahead.” His hand smooths over my calf, slow and possessive. “Might even like it.”
Heat flares up my spine. I swear, I’m going to kill him. But I can’t lie to myself, I’m not really fighting anymore. My struggles went weak the moment he touched me, the moment he spoke in that low, patient tone that makes my insides coil.
I hate that he does this to me.
I sag against his shoulder with a loud, dramatic sigh. “Fine.”
He stops. “Fine?”
I groan. “I’ll get dressed, you absolute menace.”
I feel the rumble of his laughter before he finally sets me down. “Good girl.”
I flip him off and stomp to my closet, pretending I don’t feel the heat crawling up my neck.
***
The drive is silent.
Not tense. Just… charged.
Mikhail drives like he does everything else: calm, patient, completely unbothered by my very obvious attempts to ignore him. The car slows. I glance out the window, frowning. “Why are we here?”
He gets out, rounds the car, and opens my door, offering me his hand.
I don’t take it. I step out, arms crossed, watching as he leads me to the building in front of us.
It’s modern and sleek, with massive windows lining the front.
My eyes catch the sign with my name on it above what looks like an art studio.
My stomach twists. I look up at him, something thick and heavy clogging my throat.
“It’s yours.”
“What?”
“This place. It’s yours.” He gestures at the studio, so casual, like he didn’t just—just—
I swallow. “You can’t—”
“I can. And I did.”
“I never asked for this.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I force my face into a cold mask. “It won’t make me forgive you.”
He lifts a brow. “No?”
“No.”
“I won’t stop, sweetheart.”
“Stop what?”
“Loving you.”
Hearing him say he loves me stirs a spark in me. But there’s a barrier between us, something holding me back from fully trusting his words. Does he really mean it? I’m not sure I believe him yet.
I hold on to my harshness. “You really think you can buy my forgiveness?”
“No,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “But I will earn it.”
I let him lead me because, well… what the fuck else am I supposed to do? The moment we step inside the building, heads turn.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Boss.”
“Mr. Volkov.”
He doesn’t even acknowledge them, just keeps walking. Shoulders squared, grip steady on me like I’ll bolt if he lets go. He’s not wrong.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Your company?”
“Smart, isn’t it?”
“Oh, brilliant.” I roll my eyes. “How utterly fucking convenient that my studio is in your construction empire.”
He hums, dragging me past another set of glass doors. “You sound ungrateful.”
“Oh, not at all.” I gesture vaguely. “I love the idea of you lurking around while I work. Watching and meddling.”
It doesn’t matter that I did it first. He doesn’t get to do it now, not after what he said.
“I do enjoy watching you.”
I wrench my wrist free. The studio is huge, with high ceilings and natural light.
Every artist’s wet dream. And yet, the only thing I can focus on is him.
He’s setting something up in the corner.
I stalk closer, peering over his shoulder.
Cotton pads. Alcohol. Two stools. My brows furrow. “What are you—”
He turns, something small and mechanical in his hand. A tattoo gun. “I owe you an apology for calling your work average.”
That fucking night. Those words. That sting I try so hard to pretend doesn’t cut me open. “You should be apologizing for a lot more than that.”
“I know.”
I frown at the tattoo gun. “And what—this is your grand apology?”
“No.” He holds it up. “This is how I prove it. You think I don’t see it? What you do? What you create?” His fingers brush the inside of my wrist, his touch searing. “It’s exceptional. So put it on me.”
“Huh?”
“Your talent. On my skin. Carve it into me so I never forget how fucking wrong I am.”
My lips part, but no words come out. Because what the fuck? Because this is—this is insanity. Because he’s standing there, broad, unshaken, waiting for me to mark him. This is another way of him saying, I belong to you.
God help me, I might just do it.
He presses the tattoo gun into my hand. “Come on! Claim me. Carve your talent into me. Make me the luckiest man alive.”
I shove the gun back at him. “I don’t even know how to turn this fucking thing on.”
“I’ll guide you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
My fingers curl around the handle. “Fine. But if you end up with a shitty tattoo, that’s on you.”
“Nothing you do is shitty.”
I flick the machine on. It hums to life, vibrating against my fingers. I swallow thickly, pressing the tip to his skin. I start slow. Then I get used to the way the needle presses, the way the ink settles, the way it resembles a brush against canvas.
I focus, lock in, barely registering the deep, satisfied noise that rumbles from his throat. “Fuck, yes…” His breath is ragged. “That’s it, baby. Claim me. Mark me so deep no one can touch me without seeing you.”
I pretend his words aren’t coiling around my spine.
“I should’ve done this sooner,” he rasps. “Should’ve begged you to make me yours in ways I can never undo. If I could carve your name into my fucking heart, I would.” His free hand grips the edge of the stool, knuckles going white.
I bite the inside of my cheek when I notice how hard he is, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing what this is doing to me. I refuse to admit that his obsession, his madness, his fucking worship— is undoing me. I finish the last stroke, the needle humming as I lift it from his skin.
I don’t want to toot my own horn, but damn. The skull sits perfectly on his forearm, a gun threading through its teeth like a wicked grin. He looks down at it, dragging his fingers across the fresh ink.“Fuck,” he rasps. “You have no fucking idea how beautiful your talent is.”
I wipe down his arm. “You say that like you weren’t—”
The scrape of metal unbuckling cuts me off.
I glance up, just as he slides his belt free, the leather hissing through the loops. He stands, pushing the stool back with his knee. His fingers work the button of his slacks, his eyes never leaving me. He pulls himself out, thick and aching in his palm. He starts jerking off to the tattoo. To me.
“I should have done this sooner.” His voice is gravel. “Should have let you mark me, ruin me,” he breathes.Heat flashes up my neck, my fingers tightening around the bloodied cotton pad. “Touch me. Give me something.” He pleads.
I don’t move. Because if I do, I lose.
“I haven’t touched myself since you left,” he rasps. “Not once.”
“Bullshit.”
“It felt like a betrayal. My own fucking hand, Lola. Even that felt like I was cheating on you.”
“And Lara?”
I still haven’t forgotten. Lara came to clean my apartment yesterday, and she was so fucking sweet I couldn’t even be cruel to her without feeling like I’m a bitter spare. She was just so shy, meek, and timid, that I would have hated myself for making her cry. She doesn’t owe me anything.
“Lara?” He snarls. His hand jerks faster, sharper, his body locked in a tension so violent I almost take a step back. “She never touched me. No one fucking touches me but you.”
He pants through his teeth, his cock throbbing in his palm, but his rage only fuels him, makes him lose control.
His free hand flies out, knocking over a jar of ink, sending it crashing off the table.
“You think I could even look at another woman? Fuck another woman? I can’t even breathe without you.
” He’s so fucking dark like this. “I destroyed everything after you left. Shattered my goddamn apartment into pieces because I couldn’t fucking stand it without you in it. ”
A rough, shattered groan rips through him as he spills over his own hand. For a moment, the room is thick with nothing but heavy, wrecked breaths. His eyes snap back to mine, hooded, burning, dangerous. “She only cleaned my apartment because I destroyed it,” he growls.
He wipes himself off.“You think this is over? I will never stop. I will ruin myself over and over again, until the only thing left of me is the man you deserve.”