Chapter 25
Izzy
“Don’t kill him—please, don’t—”
I jolt awake, gasping. My hands are tangled in sheets damp with sweat, heart hammering like I’ve run miles. The nightmare clings—Gerald’s eyes going dark, the gunman raising his weapon, my finger on the trigger, the recoil kicking through my arms, blood blooming across his thigh.
Except in the dream, it wasn’t his thigh. It was his chest. And he didn’t fall wounded.
He died.
“Izzy.” Sergei’s voice cuts through the panic, rough with sleep. His hand finds my shoulder. They’re warm and solid. “Breathe, kotyonok. You’re safe.”
“I shot him.” The words tumble out, jagged and raw. “I pulled the trigger and didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Just—” I press my palms against my eyes. “I hurt someone, Sergei. Put him down like you taught me. And I don’t feel guilty.”
The silence stretches. Outside, rain still patters against the windows—softer now, steady instead of violent. I expect him to tell me guilt will come later, that adrenaline masks emotion, that I’m in shock.
Instead, he pulls me against his chest. His heart beats steady beneath my cheek, his arms iron bands around my ribs.
“Good,” he says.
I lift my head, searching his face in the darkness. Grey eyes watch me, no judgment, no horror. Just understanding.
“Good?” My voice cracks.
“You defended yourself. Protected what’s yours.” His thumb traces my jaw, the touch deliberate and claiming. “That’s not something to feel guilty about. That’s survival. That’s strength.”
“I don’t feel like myself anymore.” The confession spills out before I can stop it. “A few months ago, I was picking out shoes for charity galas. Now I’m shooting people in alleys and planning corporate coups and—” My breath hitches. “I don’t recognize who I’m becoming.”
“I do.” His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back. The intensity in his gaze makes my stomach flip. “You’re becoming exactly who you were always meant to be. Not some polished doll your mother tried to shape. Not a pawn in your uncle’s games. You’re becoming dangerous. Powerful. Alive.”
“Is that what you see when you look at me?” The question comes out smaller than I intend. “Someone dangerous?”
“I see my Wolf.” His voice drops lower, rougher, sending heat spiraling down my spine. “My equal. Someone who doesn’t need saving because she’s learned to save herself.”
The words hit something deep in my chest. My Wolf. Not his responsibility, not his burden. His equal.
“Sergei—” His name catches in my throat.
“You shot a man today,” he murmurs, thumb brushing my lower lip. “Didn’t flinch. Didn’t freeze. You saw the threat and eliminated it. Do you know how rare that is? How extraordinary?”
“It doesn’t feel extraordinary. It feels—” I search for words. “Necessary. Like breathing. Like survival.”
“Because it is.” His forehead rests against mine, breath mingling with mine in the darkness. “Welcome to my world, kotyonok. This is what it means to stop being prey. To become predator.”
Something shifts between us. The air thickens. It’s charged with more than just attraction. This is recognition—two people who’ve crossed the same line, who understand what it costs and what it gives.
“I’m not afraid,” I whisper. “I should be afraid of what I’m becoming, but I’m not.”
“You shouldn’t be.” His mouth hovers a breath from mine. “Fear is for people who still think they can go back. You can’t. Neither can I. So we move forward.”
“Together?”
“Together.” The word is promise and threat wrapped in one.
Then his mouth claims mine, and the world narrows to this—his hands in my hair, my fingers digging into his shoulders, the taste of him familiar and addictive. This isn’t a desperate collision from. This isn’t grief-driven need or adrenaline-fueled escape.
This is something else entirely.
This is two people who’ve seen each other’s darkness and decided to dive deeper instead of running away.
My robe falls open as he rolls us, his body covering mine, weight delicious and overwhelming. His hands map every curve, every hollow, like he’s relearning what’s already his. My hips arch against his, seeking friction, seeking connection, seeking anything to bridge the last gap between us.
“Please—” The word escapes as a gasp when his mouth trails down my throat, teeth scraping my pulse point.
“Please what, Isabelle?” His voice is rough with want. “Tell me what you need.”
“You.” I pull his mouth back to mine, kissing him like he’s oxygen.
“I want to taste you.” I push against his shoulders, rolling us until I’m straddling his hips, his hands gripping my waist. His pupils are blown black with need, his breathing ragged as I slowly work my way down his chest, tasting salt and skin and Sergei.
“Jesus—Isabelle—” His fingers tangle in my hair as I reach his waistband, teasing the fabric with my tongue.
I pull his sweats down, freeing him. He’s hard, thick, already weeping with want, and the sight sends a fresh wave of desire through me. I wrap my hand around him, stroking slowly, watching his face contort with pleasure.
Then I take him in my mouth.
Sergei groans, low and guttural, his hips bucking involuntarily. I work him with everything I have—tongue, teeth, hands—learning his responses, memorizing what makes him curse, what makes him gasp, what makes him lose control.
I lick his balls, sucking them into my mouth one at a time, my hand stroking his shaft. His hands fist in my hair, holding on, and the edge of pain only fuels my hunger.
“Isabelle—stop—I’m going to—” His warning comes out strangled.
I don’t stop. I take him deeper, swallowing around him as he comes with a hoarse cry, his body arching off the bed. I swallow everything he gives me, not releasing him until his last shudder subsides.
Then I crawl back up his body, settling my chest against his as his breathing gradually returns to normal.
His eyes are closed, his expression one of pure, sated bliss. I trace the tattoos covering his forearms—the snarling wolf, the Cyrillic words I still don’t understand but now feel intimately connected to.
“God, woman.” His voice is rough, wrecked. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“I’m just returning the favor,” I say, then give him a wicked smile. “Besides, I’m not done with you yet.”
His eyes open, grey and hot. “Is that so?”
“Mmm.” I move closer to whisper into his ear. “I want to sit on your face.” His hips buck against mine. “And then I want you to fuck me. Hard. Until I can’t remember my name.”
Sergei growls, and then the world tilts as he rolls us. In seconds, he’s arranged us how I requested—me straddling his face, my hands braced against the headboard as his hands grip my thighs.
Then his mouth is on me.
He devours me with practiced skill. His tongue traces patterns. His lips suck. His teeth graze exactly where I need it. My head falls back, a gasp tearing from my throat as he builds me higher, higher, until I’m trembling uncontrollably, hovering on that knife’s edge between pleasure and pain.
His tongue enters me, deep and hot, and that’s all it takes. I shatter with a cry that probably wakes the entire neighborhood, my body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure washes over me. Sergei keeps going, working me through it, until I’m begging him to stop, oversensitive and wrung out.
But he’s not finished.
Before I can recover, he’s moving me, positioning me on my hands and knees. He kneels behind me, his hands gripping my hips.
“Remember what you said about hard?” He leans down, his chest against my back, voice hot against my ear.
I nod, unable to form words.
“Good.”
He thrusts into me in one smooth, deep movement that steals my breath. He’s not gentle. He’s not slow. He takes me with the kind of primal need that’s been building between us for weeks, setting a punishing rhythm that has me seeing stars.
My fingers scrabble at the sheets, my body pushing back to meet each thrust. It’s raw and possessive and exactly what I need—this claim, this ownership, this reminder of what we are to each other.
His hand finds my hair, wrapping in the strands and pulling just enough to arch my back, changing the angle so he hits that spot deep inside that makes me see God.
He buries himself hilt deep over and over again. The sound of skin slapping skin, our gasps and groans, fills the room. My body is on fire, nerve endings alight, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in my core.
He slaps my ass hard enough to sting. “Come for me, Isabelle. Again.”
The command, combined with the stinging pain, sends me over. I come with a scream that’s part pleasure, part agony, my body convulsing around him as he drives into me, harder, deeper, until with a guttural groan, he finds his own release, pouring into me, his body trembling against mine.
I collapse onto the bed, sweaty and satisfied.
But Sergei’s not done with me. He turns me around so that my back is against his chest. His hand is between my thighs, his fingers entering my pussy, which is still wet with our mixed releases.
His other hand plays with my clit, rubbing circles, sending me climbing toward another peak, but this time it feels different, sharper, more intense.
My toes curl, and I’m arching back against him, moaning his name.
I come for a third time, my body shaking uncontrollably, my breathing ragged.
I collapse against him, my body limp and boneless. For a long time, the only sound is our ragged breathing, the hammering of my heart against my ribs.
Dad’s lighter sits on the nightstand where I left it. The gold catches ambient light from the window—streetlamps and rain creating patterns on metal. Unlit, but gleaming.
Sergei’s fingers trace lazy patterns on my spine. “You still thinking about the nightmare?”
“No.” I press my lips to the scar bisecting his ribs—white line against olive skin, knife fight from fifteen years ago. “I’m thinking about Matthew and my mother and everything we’re going to burn down.”
His hand stills on my back. “You sound eager.”
“I am.” I lift my head, meeting those grey eyes. “They killed my father. They’ve been stealing from his legacy for years. They tried to force me into marrying that pig Cal Reznick. They sent men to kill me today.” My voice hardens. “Yeah, I’m eager. I want to watch them lose everything.”
Something like satisfaction crosses his face. “My Wolf.”
The nickname makes warmth bloom in my chest. Not kotyonok—little kitten, affectionate and gentle. But Wolf. Equal. Dangerous.
Partner.
“I want them to know it was me.” The words surprise me with their venom. “When it all comes crashing down, I want them to see my face. To understand that I’m not the stupid girl they thought they could control.”
“They’ll know.” His hand slides into my hair, grip firm. “We’ll make sure of it.”
Outside, thunder rumbles—distant now, the storm moving on. But inside, in this fortress Sergei built, I feel the storm just beginning. The one we’re going to unleash on everyone who thought I was weak.
Who thought I was prey.
I reach for the lighter, thumb working the mechanism.
Click snap ]
Click snap.
The familiar rhythm grounds me, connects me to Dad, even though he’s gone.
“He’d be proud of you,” Sergei says quietly. “Your father. What you’ve become. What you’re about to do.”
“You think?” My voice catches.
“I know.” He pulls me closer, until I’m tucked against his side, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. “He built an empire and protected it fiercely. You’re doing the same, just with sharper teeth.”
I flip the lighter open one more time. The flame catches, small and defiant against the darkness. Dad’s fire, alive in my hands.
I’m coming for them, Dad. For everyone who took you from me. And I’m going to win.
The flame dances, casting shadows across Sergei’s face—all sharp angles and dangerous beauty. He watches it with me, understanding what it means. What it represents.
Legacy. Vengeance. Survival.
Power.
I let the lighter click closed, setting it back on the nightstand. The metal gleams even without fire—scratched and scorched but unbroken. Just like me.
“I’m done being afraid. Done running. Done letting them control my life.” I look up at him, this man who’s taught me to fight, to shoot, to survive. This man who sees my darkness and calls it strength. “They created a monster when they killed my father. Now they get to meet her.”
His smile is slow and dangerous. “My Wolf.”
“Your Wolf,” I agree.
We fall asleep like that—tangled together, the lighter gleaming on the nightstand next to us, two predators planning tomorrow’s hunt.
Outside, the rain stops.
Inside, we sharpen our teeth.