Chapter 21
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
VIKTOR
Jonah is still awake when I return home.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed with a book closed on his lap and a blanket pulled around his legs.
His head lifts the moment the door clicks.
The sight of him there is the first thing that actually makes the adrenaline from the basement start to level out.
“Viktor.” His eyes go straight to the blood on my face. “Are you okay?”
I shut the door behind me. Today was a good day. We took three men out in total. Soon news of Sokolov’s death will move through the streets and Sergei will know his nephew didn't just escape. He’s claiming his throne back.
“It’s past one. You should’ve been asleep,” I tell him.
“I tried, but you didn't come back.”
I walk closer, taking in his eyes as they track every movement.
He doesn't shrink from the blood and doesn't flinch when I stop in front of him. I can still smell the iron scent of the basement on my skin. I bet he can too. I’m still covered in the reality of what I just did, and he’s sitting there in the middle of my bed like I am a man worth waiting for.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Is Sokolov dead?”
“Yes.”
He swallows. I see his fingers twitch like he’s stopping himself from reaching for me.
Then he does that thing with his hair I like too much, dragging his palm through it to push the strands back and putting that gorgeous face on display.
It lights a hunger in me and my pent-up anger shifts fast into something visceral.
“Come shower with me.” Sliding my jacket off, I pull my shirt over my head. Jonah’s gaze flicks over my chest, and his tongue licks his lips before he can stop himself.
“You shouldn't.”
“I should. Now.”
I stalk to the bathroom without looking over my shoulder.
When I hear him hurry after me, my lips curl.
My dick perks up because I’m going to fuck Jonah until he can't think straight. Until he remembers who he belongs to. I’ve never been a man who wonders much about feelings because I never cared for them.
Our inner circle was what mattered. But Jonah is different.
He’s a gravity I haven't learned how to fight.
My ribs twinge, a sharp reminder to tone the arrogance down. The room tilts for a second and then steadies. I take the rest of my clothes off and step under the hot spray.
“Viktor?”
“Step inside, krasavchik.”
He does what I order, stepping in behind me and reaching for me.
“Let me wash you.” He doesn't wait for my approval because he doesn't need to.
I watch as he works the lube and gel into his palms, sliding his hands through the foam, over my pecs, down my sternum, and over my stomach. The sensation of his soap-slicked palms is a clean strike to my nerves, washing away the grit of the docks.
“Touch it, Jonah.”
He flushes and a small smile pulls at his lips, but he still hesitates.
His skittishness is a fucking turn-on. Jonah traces a finger over my erection, toying with the slit, and I hiss while I brace a palm against the tile as need tightens low in my gut.
His touch is tentative, a sharp contrast to the way I just held the knife.
“I never thought of a dick as pretty,” he murmurs. His eyes stay focused on my cock as he tightens his grip and strokes me. His hand falters for a second when he looks up at me, then higher, to my hair. “You have blood in your hair. How did you kill him?”
“I gave him the courtesy of choosing the knife.”
Jonah flinches, but he still says, “Good. Let me take care of you. Let me wash your hair first.”
I dip my head forward and give him access.
I watch the water swirl red around my feet, the basement floor rinsing off me in a steady stream.
I am washing away the grit of the docks, but the iron scent of the kill is already under my skin, and the way Jonah watches the red circle the drain tells me he’s stopped looking for a way to stay clean. He’s choosing the stain.
“Feels good?” His fingers keep moving. “I’m glad.”
He finishes and rinses my hair clean, pressing his thumb just behind my ear. Water slides past us, carrying the last few weeks down the drain, and for the first time in too long, I feel a little like myself again.
“If you believe I’m a weak man, you’re wrong, krasavchik.”
“I don't, Viktor. But that doesn't mean it can't be hard to kill a man you once considered a friend.”
“A friend?” I bare my teeth at him. “A friend?”
“I might come from a very different world, but I know what it’s like to be betrayed by people you care for. People you trust.”
He isn't wrong. Sokolov was Father’s man and he betrayed him.
I don't care what bullshit story he gave me because he helped Father into his grave and gave Sergei the throne.
I trusted him. My palms reach out to touch Jonah, circling his delicate throat.
I don't squeeze to hurt. I squeeze to feel the thrum of his life against my hand.
I want to remind myself that while I just left a room full of corpses, he is here and he is warm.
I increase the pressure just enough to make his breath hitch. Jonah’s eyes go wide and his blown pupils swallow the iris as he looks up at me. He doesn't pull away, but instead leans into the weight of my hand while his erratic pulse jumps against my thumb.
“You once asked me if I’ve killed a man.
” Leaning closer, I watch the way his throat moves as he tries to swallow against my grip.
“Tonight I did. With my favorite knife. I heard him beg, then slit his throat. I watched him die at my feet. Give me one good reason why you’re not running from me, but washing blood out of my hair. ”
He fights against the lack of breath. Against his emotions. His tongue darts out and he swipes his bottom lip, eyes widening as he stares up at me. He doesn't stop me from squeezing his throat.
“I think I u—understand,” he finally whispers, his voice rasping from the pressure.
I click my tongue. “I don't think you do.”
Releasing his throat only to turn him, I press him until his cheek meets the cold tile with a gasp.
I keep one palm firmly on the back of his neck, pinning him there while the shower spray beats against our skin.
The stone is freezing against his face while I'm still burning with the adrenaline of the basement.
Cutting him off by nipping at his neck, I press my teeth in just enough to leave another mark. He shudders under me when I lick the sting away and nudge his legs apart with my thigh. “I’m going to fuck you, krasavchik, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”
Keeping my lips to his skin, I press a palm on the curve of his ass.
Jonah arches his back and bares his throat.
I nip at the skin, humming when he mewls.
This is how I ground myself. Using his body to erase the scent of Sokolov's fear.
Moving to the corner of his mouth, I lick his puffy lips and demand entry.
He opens for me with a moan as my tongue curls around his.
Grabbing his hips, I pull him closer until our bodies touch, then I press my cock between his cheeks and rub it over his rim while my hand searches for the lube.
He kisses me deeper. Water runs down our faces and our lips are sliding.
Moving my hand from his hip back to his throat, I keep my palm flat against his windpipe.
Leaning into him, I use my weight to pin him against the tile and restrict his breathing.
The air in the shower is already thick with heat, and my hand makes it vanish entirely.
“This is what danger feels like,” I murmur against his mouth.
Jonah’s eyes flutter. His fingers claw at my shoulders, not to push me away, but to find an anchor as his lungs labor for air.
The lack of oxygen makes his body go pliant, opening for me in a way he never does when he’s thinking straight.
I slide a slicked finger in. Jonah bucks his hips, rocking against me.
I don't give him time to adjust, sliding in a second finger and feeling the rhythmic pulse of him.
“Such a good boy,” I whisper against his ear. “That’s it. Relax for me. Let me in.”
Jonah moans, a long, low sound that vibrates against the tile. “F—fuck, Viktor.”
“I know what you need. We’re nearly there.”
I scissor him open, taking my time with the feeling of his hole sucking in my fingers. His muscles clench around me.
“Need you.” Jonah’s cheek is pressed to the tile as he lifts his gaze to mine. He looks wrecked already and I’ve barely started. His heart beats fast enough that I feel the vibration through the marble, a frantic rhythm that matches my own.
“I know, krasavchik.”
Pulling my fingers free, I slide them into my mouth, moaning as I lick them clean.
Jonah’s lips wobble. “You taste fucking divine.”
My grip on his throat tightens and the pressure cuts off his speech, but leaves enough room for him to gasp. I want him focused on the air and I want him focused on me. Leaning my weight into him, I pin his neck against the wall.
“You take everything I give you. You open for me and you listen because you’re so good for me.”
His face flushes a deeper red as his breath hitches. He claws at my forearm and his nails leave white lines in my skin. It isn't a fight, it's a plea. He’s chasing the high of the restriction. I watch his throat work as he tries to draw in a lungful of steam and water.
“Tell me,” I murmur, leaning my mouth to his ear while my other hand guides my cock to his entrance. “Tell me who you belong to while you still have the breath to say it.”
Jonah’s head thrashes against the tile. “You,” he wheezes.