Natasha
For a moment there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing. The light casts a glow over the curve of his shoulder as he leans above me. I’m still pinned beneath him, legs tangled with his, mask half-slid off my face. My body trembles like it’s trying to remember which way is up.
The reporter in me is gone. There’s no notebook, no plan, no clever line of questioning. There’s just the echo of his voice, the weight of him still inside me, the warmth spilling low in my belly where he’s claimed me.
He shifts his grip so our fingers lace together. His head tips forward, forehead resting against mine. “You’re the only one,” he whispers, rough and raw. “The only one who could ever sate this hunger.”
Something twists deep inside me at the sound of it. It’s not a line. It’s not a threat. It’s a confession.
And it’s dangerous.
I stare up at him through the blur of my lashes, trying to anchor myself. My skin still tingles everywhere he touched me. My body still aches, sated and throbbing at the same time. But behind that, the questions are already creeping back in, sharp and bright.
What have I done?
I came here for a story. I came here to expose the Bratva, not to let one of its princes drag me into his bed and mark me like property. Every editor I’ve ever worked for would kill to have this scoop. But now the scoop is inside me, literally, and the cost of it is no longer theoretical.
I take a shaky breath, fighting for composure. “You think this makes me yours,” I manage, my voice rough.
His eyes darken behind the mask. “No,” he says quietly. “This makes you part of my world. You crossed the line the moment you walked in. This just sealed it.”
The words hit harder than his thrusts ever could.
Part of his world.
I feel the weight of it settle over me like a cloak. The story of a lifetime, yes, but also a cage. And for the first time since stepping into this masquerade, I understand exactly how high the stakes are.
Yet even as my mind races, my body betrays me again. His warmth still pulses inside me. My thighs still cling to his hips instead of pushing him away. My hands are still wrapped in his.
I close my eyes, a silent war raging behind them. I can walk away now, try to reclaim my mission. Or I can stay and get everything I ever wanted, at the cost of becoming the very thing I swore I’d expose.
When I open them again, he’s watching me, patient, unreadable, as if he knows the battle I’m fighting.
And the worst part is the tiny, traitorous voice whispering at the back of my mind: maybe you already chose.
All I can really hear is the blood rushing in my ears, the ragged scrape of our breaths. My body is limp against the sheets, still aching from the way he filled me, still trembling with aftershocks I don’t want to admit to.
I force my fingers to unclench from his, to push against his chest just enough to create space between us and straighten my mask. “If you want me to understand your world,” I rasp, “then start talking. You promised me the story of a lifetime. Prove it.”
His gaze sharpens through the mask, dark and unreadable. For a long moment he just looks at me, like he’s weighing how much truth I can handle. Then, finally, he sits back, dragging a hand down my thigh as he withdraws. The gesture is casual, possessive, and it makes me shiver all over again.
“I will,” he says. “But only when you understand the cost.”
My throat tightens. “The cost is being here. With you.”
“The cost,” he corrects, “is never leaving.”
The words hit like a sledgehammer. My heart stutters. Never leaving.
I want to laugh, argue, remind him that I’m not a possession, that I have a life and a career outside this room. But the protest dies on my tongue, because deep down I know he means it. He isn’t bluffing.
I draw in a shaky breath. “You think sex is enough to make me yours?”
He leans closer, his mouth grazing the shell of my ear. “Sex?” His voice is low, dangerous. “This isn’t sex. This is the start of a blood contract. You carry me now. And soon, you’ll carry my heir.”
Heat shoots through me, unwanted and overwhelming. I clench my thighs together as if that could stop the rush of sensation. My mind screams at me to fight back, to push away, but my body arches instead, desperate traitor that it is.
I want to snap at him, to demand names and facts and evidence like the reporter I’m supposed to be. But what comes out is a whisper, raw and aching: “And what if I don’t want that?”
His hand slides up my throat, tilting my chin until I have no choice but to meet his eyes. “Then you wouldn’t have walked in here.”
The conviction in his voice makes my stomach drop.
Because the truth is, he’s right.
I could have walked away, but I didn’t.
And now, I know I never can.