Daniil
The basement’s cold air clings to my skin as I watch Sienna’s fingers linger on the pistol, her touch steady, like she’s done this before.
It stirs something fierce in my chest. She’s no stranger to this world, and the sight of her standing in my armory, surrounded by steel and bullets, makes me want her all over again.
But there’s no time to lose myself in her; the clock’s ticking, and her father’s lies are spreading faster than I can track.
I grab a burner phone from a locked box on the shelf, punching in a number I’ve used only once before, a direct line to someone close to Roman Vasiliev.
“It’s me,” I say when the line clicks, keeping my voice low, my eyes on Sienna as she tests the weight of a knife in her hand.
“I need to meet with Roman and Maksim. Tomorrow, neutral ground. Sienna’s with me, and we’ve got the truth about Andrey Leskov.
Her father’s spinning a story, and we need to set it straight, but I want reassurances. ”
The voice on the other end grunts agreement, promising to arrange it, and I hang up, slipping the phone into my pocket. Sienna looks up, her eyes sharp, questioning, and I nod.
“It’s set. We’ll meet them at a diner off the highway, noon tomorrow.”
We climb back upstairs, the trapdoor thudding shut behind us, and the cabin feels smaller now, the walls pressing in with the weight of what’s coming.
I lead her to the kitchen, pulling out a map from a drawer to mark the meeting spot, a rundown joint called Marty’s that’s far enough from the city to avoid prying eyes.
“Your cousins will listen,” I tell her, spreading the map across the counter where we’d lost ourselves earlier. “They’re not idiots. They’ll know your father’s full of shit once we lay it out. Andrey’s history, the deal, your self-defense.”
She leans over the map, her hair brushing my arm, and I feel that pull again, the heat of her presence threatening to derail my focus.
I point to the diner’s location, tracing the route we’ll take, but my eyes keep drifting to her lips, the curve of her neck, the way my flannel hangs loose on her frame, hinting at the body I’ve already claimed.
She catches me staring, her lips twitching into a small, knowing smile, and the air shifts, charged with that same electric hunger from before.
“You’re supposed to be planning,” she murmurs, but her voice is low, teasing, and she steps closer, her fingers brushing my wrist. My pulse kicks up, and I’m done pretending I can focus on maps when she’s this close.
I turn, pinning her against the counter, my hands framing her face as I kiss her hard, tasting the defiance and desire that’s become my addiction.
I deepen the kiss, Sienna's taste flooding my senses, sweet and fierce, pulling me under like a riptide I don’t want to fight.
Her nails scrape my skin through my Tee, sending sparks down my spine.
I can’t stay here in the kitchen, not with the need clawing at me to have her fully, to lay her out and worship every inch.
I lift her off her feet in one swift motion, her legs wrapping around my waist as she gasps into my mouth, her body molding to mine like she belongs against me, always.
The cabin's dim light blurs as I carry her down the short hallway, kicking open the bedroom door with my foot, the hinges creaking in protest. The room is simple, a king-sized bed dominating the space, sheets smooth from disuse. The air cooler here, scented with wood and dust, but it doesn’t matter; all I see is her, all I feel is the heat building between us.
I lower her onto the bed, her back hitting the mattress with a soft thud, and she pulls me down with her, our bodies tangling in a mess of limbs and urgency.
Her fingers twist in the fabric of my T-shirt before she pulls it up and over my head, exposing my chest to the chill air.
Her touch is fire, tracing the lines of my tattoos, the scars from old fights.
I tug the flannel open, buttons popping free, revealing the torn remnants of her dress beneath.
I don’t hesitate, ripping the fabric away until she is bare before me, her skin flushed, marked by my earlier claims.
She arches up, her breasts pressing against me, and I capture one nipple in my mouth, sucking hard.
My tongue swirls as she moans, the sound raw and needy, vibrating through my bones.
My hand slides down her body, fingers dipping between her thighs, finding her already wet and slick with want.
I stroke her slowly, teasing, building the tension until she is writhing beneath me, her hips bucking against my palm.
She reaches for my belt, her movements frantic, undoing it with a clink that echoes in the quiet room.
I help her shove my jeans down, kicking them off as I settle between her legs.
Her eyes lock on mine, dark and heavy, filled with the same hunger that is consuming me.
I position myself at her entrance, the head of my cock brushing through her folds, teasing until she whispers my name like a plea.
I thrust in deep, filling her completely, and she cries out, her nails digging into my back and drawing blood that only heightens the pleasure.
I move with a rhythm that is punishing, each stroke claiming her, binding her to me in this shadowed room where the world outside fades to nothing.
Her walls clench around me, and I growl against her neck, nipping the skin there, leaving marks that tell everyone who sees that she is mine.
The bed creaks under us, the headboard thumping against the wall, but I don’t care; all that exists is her, this connection forged in blood, and I am lost in it, pushing us both toward the edge with every desperate thrust.