Chapter 26 Cressida
twenty-six
Cressida
The city feels like the air’s been stretched too tight and is one wrong breath away from splitting.
Maybe it’s me.
Maybe it’s her.
Giselda’s shadow doesn’t loom anymore. Now, that bitch breathes down my neck. And the bond won’t stop pacing, like it knows something wicked is inching closer with a smile full of teeth.
Konstantin thinks iron gates and Bratva muscle are enough to keep me safe.
That our house, with its history of blood-soaked walls and legacy ghosts, is a fortress.
That he can shoulder the war while I sit behind locked doors like a fairytale footnote.
But I can feel her trying to get through the cracks, in the heat behind my eyes, in the copper tang that coats my tongue when the wind shifts wrong.
And in the fucking pressure every time she tries to dig her claws into my head.
It’s almost terrifying how easy it would be if I weren’t someone stronger.
Giselda is coming.
And I’m not about to play the princess in a tower while someone else writes the last page of my story.
So, tonight, I’m metaphorically lifting my middle finger in the air as we attend some overblown mafia gala thrown by an arms broker whose last name I don’t even remember.
I refuse to stop living my life because an old friend refuses to let go.
Two months married and rooms still rearrange themselves when we walk in together.
Crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes, and a ballroom full of families who smile with daggers in their eyes.
They turn their heads when Konstantin and I cross the threshold, their conversations dipping like a bowstring pulled too tight.
Their eyes flick to Konstantin first and then to me, cataloguing whether the Bogeyman’s bride bleeds or bites.
Everyone’s trying hard to pretend they’re not criminals in overpriced suits.
I loop my hand through Kon’s arm and lean in enough to appear docile. Let them choke on their assumptions. I can be a good little accessory when I want to be. It’s the role they want me to take—clueless mafia wife—because sometimes it’s easier to wear the lie than to rip it off.
But under the mask I wear, my gift is pacing, eager to consume all the lies I can feel in the air around us. It crackles under my ribs, snapping like tension cables, feeding me pulses of truth and treachery. Each time a lie begins to take shape, a warning flares beneath my skin.
It makes the whole night feel as if I’m standing in the shallow end of a thunderstorm.
I drag a nail across Konstantin’s arm in a signal we set up before we came. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t blink, but his mouth tilts just enough to cut tension in half and the conversation dies before it even begins.
We’ve become fluent in silence as we move through the gala in sync.
We’re a waltz that’s choreographed in warnings. A duet with a body count.
“Cressida,” purrs a man with silver temples and a scent like wealth and rot, cornering me near the Champagne tower. “Your husband is a . . . formidable man.”
“That he is,” I reply sweetly.
I send a plea to Konstantin to rescue me just as my nerve endings tighten. Electricity lights up my body, my hair rising on my arms, as the poison from the lie the man’s about to speak coats my mouth.
He’s about to lie.
I push the thought toward Konstantin, still not used to communicating with him this way.
Konstantin appears at my side before the man can even open his mouth.
One hand rests at the small of my back, his presence very much a threat in a custom-tailored suit.
The man’s smile falters, and I sip my Champagne as I pretend not to notice.
He stammers something about needing fresh air and retreats, his dignity left behind.
Kon’s hand squeezes my waist once, praise and promise wrapped together.
Good girl.
It whispers through my mind, and I shiver.
Eventually, all the snakes slither away, and we’re forced to separate and mingle because apparently that’s what power couples do.
I get trapped with some old money creeper who reeks of cigar smoke and misogyny.
He drones on about supply chains and the ‘good old days’, which were probably just as fucked-up but with worse hygiene.
My eyes shift toward Konstantin, and I snap straight.
He’s been cornered by a woman in scarlet satin with a slick smile and fingers that trail a little too long down Konstantin’s arm.
Then, before I can cross the room, she wraps her arms around him like she’s some kind of unpaid rent collector on his affection.
She. Hugs. Him.
And he lets her.
He. Lets. Her.
The bond snaps sharply. Every cell in my body goes up in flames. My jaw tightens, my vision sharpening, as my fingers curl around the stem of my glass so hard I’m one flex away from shattering it.
There’s no way he doesn’t feel the white-hot spike of jealousy slicing through my chest that drips with possessiveness. Or the way I want to rip her extensions out one by one.
Because there’s no fucking way she doesn’t know I’m not standing in the crowd somewhere. The bitch just didn’t care.
Stupid, really, playing with her life like that.
Konstantin stills then pulls back from her with all the elegance of a man unsheathing a blade. There’s no mistaking the message—he’s not hers to touch anymore.
His gaze, dark and dangerous, locks on mine from across the room.
Yours, they promise.
But the copper taste in my mouth doesn’t fade when I turn away.
I excuse myself from the old misogynistic bastard with a tight smile and head straight for the bar. A moment later, Konstantin appears beside me, smelling like mint, sandalwood, and unfortunately, her.
“You smell like disappointment and poor choice,” I murmur, swirling my drink.
“Jealous, Lisichka?”
“I’m not sure if I should be,” I reply, my voice light but sharp as the blade at his hip. “Is it allowed when my husband gets groped by Botox Barbie?”
His chuckle is dark and wicked as his hand snakes around my waist. “You’re encouraged to be jealous.”
As he leans toward me, I get a whiff of the perfume that still clings to his suit jacket and step back with a growl.
“You still smell like her,” I snap.
“Do I?” he asks, his mouth twitching.
“You know you do.”
There’s a tilt of his jaw as a dangerous grin spreads across his face. “Then let’s fix it.”
His hand tightens around mine and we vanish from the crowd like shadows slipping into the dark.
The door to the loo clicks shut behind us, and he snaps the lock.
Then I barely have time to gasp before he’s pushing me back against the basin.
His arms cage me in, his eyes dark with heat and possession.
“You think I’d let her touch me willingly?” he asks, his voice low and lethal.
“You didn’t stop her fast enough,” I retort, my temper still high.
His laugh scrapes against my ear as his hands tighten with the ownership that’s always been his language. “She didn’t matter.”
“She touched you,” I snarl.
“This what you need, little fox?” he growls. “Need me to remind you who I belong to?”
“Yes,” I breathe, my fingers fisting in his vest.
His mouth crashes into mine, bruising and hungry.
The vanity unit digs into my back as he pushes me farther against it.
His thigh shoves between mine, forcing them open, making space he doesn’t ask for.
His hands roam, possessive and unrepentant, dragging the silk of my dress up as his fingers carve heat into my skin.
Turning me fast, he presses my hands flat to the cold basin, his eyes meeting my wide-eyed gaze in the mirror.
“Look,” he growls against my ear.
His hand tangles in my hair and yanks my head back until my throat arches. Teeth scrape against my neck, biting just enough to mark. “See who I belong to. Look at what only you do to me.”
The mirror doesn’t lie and neither does he.
He’s flushed and wild-eyed behind me, breathing like a man only seconds from snapping. The burn low in my belly burns as I take in our reflections. A man who terrifies half the country and a woman whose smirk refuses to apologize.
He grinds against me. “You think some little reminder of my past could ever come close to this?”
I whimper, arching into him. “Prove it.”
Konstantin holds me in place by my hair while the other drags my knickers down in one slow, deliberate tug, until they hang at my ankles. “Say it,” he orders low, not cruel but utterly without compromise.
“Mine,” I let out on a ragged breath.
“Again.”
This time, my voice is stronger. “Mine.”
“Good girl,” he purrs.
He enters me without mercy, the mirror catching the moment my soul fractures open. His eyes burn into mine, refusing to let me go, letting me see exactly what I do to him.
The rhythm is brutal, holy, the smacks of our skin meeting creating a filthy song recognizable to anyone who hears it. My nails scrape the porcelain basin as his hands hold me in place while he drives into me with vicious precisions. Each thrust is a vow, a punishment, a plea.
“You burn for me,” he groans.
“I’d raze fucking kingdoms, monster man,” I pant, “but you’d salt the earth.”
He slams so deep that I cry out. “For you? Every fucking time.”
The world narrows to choppy breaths and wicked heat and the reflection of a man who terrifies everyone but kneels at my feet.
When it’s over, we stay tangled with his body draped over mine, our reflection ruined and perfect.
The vanity unit and mirror are smudged with my fingerprints.
My hair is a riot, my lipstick’s gone, and the bite on my neck sticks out proudly.
A flush sits high on both of our cheeks as he slides out of me.
He turns me slowly, reverent now, as he straightens my dress and stuffs my knickers in his pocket. He rests his forehead against mine, our soft breaths mingling together, his hands anchoring at my hips like he can’t let go.
“Only ever yours, Lisichka,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss against my forehead.
It’s not just a promise.
It’s a confession.
Then he pulls back with a wicked smile, and I turn to the mirror to fix my makeup the best I can. “Next time someone touches me, Kisa, don’t get jealous.”
I don’t why my pulse beats erratically when he uses a shortened version of my name that only he gave me.
“Oh, no?” I ask, my hands pausing in my hair.
“No.” He kisses my nape, his teeth nipping lightly. “Just remind me to fuck you sooner.”
A laugh rips from me, not even surprised. My dramatic monster man.
“Oh, your cock is that magical, huh?”
“I don’t know. Ask your pretty little cunt if it is,” he says with a wink.
My husband.
My monster.
My Bogeyman.
Just mine.
All mine.
And he seems to wear the title proudly.
Who the hell knew I was so damn possessive?