15. Katarina
KATARINA
M y back presses against the cool sheets of my bed, but I can’t find rest. Every time I close my eyes, I see Erik’s face twisted in anguish as he speaks about his mother. The vulnerability in his voice haunts me.
I trace my fingers over the marks he left on my skin. Each bruise tells a story of possession, of need, of something darker that calls to parts of myself I never knew existed.
“Damn it.” I roll onto my side, curling into myself.
The practical part of my brain screams at me to focus. There’s a guard change at two AM. The security cameras have a three-second delay. I memorized the compound’s layout days ago. All the pieces for escape sit ready, waiting for me to make my move.
But my chest aches when I imagine leaving. The way Erik’s hands trembled when he touched me in the forest and how his voice cracked as he told me about the accident—revealed the man beneath the soldier. A man who just wants to be seen.
I press my face into the pillow, inhaling deeply.
It still carries his scent from earlier when he fucked me before returning to his own room.
After I wandered out of the compound, he decided sleepovers in his room were off-limits.
My body responds instantly, remembering the weight of him, the demanding press of his fingers.
“This isn’t Stockholm Syndrome,” I whisper to myself. But isn’t that exactly what someone with Stockholm Syndrome would say?
I sit up, running my hands through my tangled hair.
The truth burns in my throat—I’m falling for him.
Not because he’s my captor. Not because of some twisted trauma bond.
But because in those unguarded moments, when he lets his walls crack, I see a soul that matches my own darkness.
Someone who understands what it means to be caught between duty and desire.
My fingers find the tender spot on my neck where his teeth mark me.
The sharp sting grounds me in reality. This isn’t some romance novel where love conquers all.
He’s still an Ivanov. I’m still a Lebedev.
And no matter what my heart wants, our families’ blood feud won’t simply disappear because we’ve shared our bodies and our pain.
I pad down the hallway in bare feet, my silk robe whispering against my thighs. The kitchen light spills into the dark corridor, and I pause. Someone’s already there.
Erik slumps at the counter, a bottle of whiskey beside him. His usual rigid posture is gone, replaced by something loose and dangerous. The glass in his hand tips precariously.
My stomach clenches. I should turn back, but my feet betray me, carrying me forward.
His head snaps up at my entrance, those dark eyes finding mine. “Katarina.” My name rolls off his tongue so easily.
“I was just...” I gesture vaguely at the fridge. “Hungry.”
“Hungry.” He repeats the word, testing it. The glass hits the counter with a sharp clink. “Or running?”
I take a step back. “I should go?—”
Erik moves faster than any drunk man should, blocking my retreat. His hand wraps around my wrist, not hurting but firm enough that I can’t pull away. “Sit.”
“Erik—”
“Sit.” The word carries more weight this time, an edge that makes my spine straighten. He pulls out the stool next to him.
I perch on the edge of the chair, my heart hammering against my ribs. The scent of whiskey fills my nose. Erik’s thumb traces circles on my captured wrist, sending shivers up my arm.
“I said sit, not hover like you’re about to bolt.” His other hand finds my hip, tugging me fully onto the stool.
The counter’s cold under my elbows as I settle. Erik hasn’t released my wrist, and I don’t dare pull away. Not when he’s like this—all coiled tension and unpredictable edges.
The tense silence stretches between us as Erik releases my wrist and slides the bottle across the counter. He stands abruptly, moving to sit directly across from me. The kitchen island becomes a battlefield, with him on one side and me on the other.
He doesn’t speak. Just watches me, his dark eyes reflecting the overhead light as he takes another slow sip of whiskey. The liquor doesn’t seem to dull his alertness—if anything, it intensifies the predatory focus he trains on me.
“If you’re not going to talk, I’m going back to bed,” I say, but make no move to leave.
His throat works as he swallows. “I tried to stay away tonight.”
The confession hangs in the air. I can see the war behind his eyes—duty versus desire.
“And yet here we are,” I whisper.
Erik’s knuckles whiten around his glass. “I shouldn’t want this.” There’s self-loathing in his voice. “Shouldn’t want you.”
I recognize the pull between us—this magnetic force dragging us together despite every reason to resist. The same force keeps me here instead of plotting my escape.
He takes another drink, longer this time, like he’s trying to drown whatever churns inside him. When he sets the glass down, a drop of amber liquid clings to his bottom lip. I watch, transfixed, as his tongue darts out to catch it.
“Tell me to leave you alone,” he says suddenly, the words raw. “Tell me to stop coming to your room, to stop touching you.”
But I can’t form the words. Because despite everything—despite the captivity, despite our families, despite knowing better—I don’t want him to stop.
“You can’t say it either,” he murmurs, understanding dawning in his eyes. “We’re both prisoners now.”
The truth of it settles between us. Erik’s gaze never wavers from mine, drinking me in like I’m more intoxicating than the whiskey in his hand.
“Come here.” Erik’s voice cuts through the silence, no longer a request but a command.
My body responds before my mind can protest. I slide off the stool, and the floor cools the bottoms of my bare feet as I round the kitchen island. Each step toward him feels like moving through deep water—deliberate, weighted with consequence.
His eyes track my approach hungrily. The whiskey has loosened something in him. This Erik is all raw edges and exposed nerves.
I stop just out of reach, holding onto some last illusion of choice. “Erik, I?—”
His hand shoots out, fingers circling my wrist with bruising intensity. One sharp tug is all it takes to break my fragile resistance.
The world spins as he yanks me into his lap, my knees falling to either side of his hips on the stool. My silk robe parts, exposing the bare skin of my thighs where they press against his.
“Enough talking,” he growls, one hand tangling in my hair while the other grips my hip, anchoring me against him.
His mouth crashes into mine with brutal force, nothing gentle in the way he claims me. He tastes of whiskey and desperation, of anger and need. My gasp is swallowed by his kiss, giving him access to deepen it.
I should push away. I should remember who he is, who I am. Instead, my hands find his shoulders, nails digging into the hard muscle as I arch against him.
His grip tightens in my hair, angling my head exactly how he wants it. I’m helpless to resist the heat unfurling in my belly, the shameful rush of wetness between my thighs.
When he breaks the kiss, we’re both gasping for air. His forehead presses against mine, our shared breath hot and ragged. The hand at my hip slides lower, finding the bare skin where my robe has ridden up.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, echoing his earlier challenge, even as his fingers trace dangerous patterns on my skin.
But I’m melting against him like I was made to fit in his lap.
The tension between us snaps. Erik’s fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, and with one brutal tug, the delicate fabric tears away. The sound of ripping lace echoes in the kitchen, followed by the metallic clink of his belt buckle.
“I need you,” he growls, his voice rough with desire as he unfastens his pants. “Now.”
My body responds instantly to his demand, a rush of heat flooding between my thighs. But when I expect him to take control—to position me how he wants, to dictate our pace as he always does—he surprises me.
His hands settle on my hips, but they’re not dominant. They’re waiting.
“Show me,” he whispers, his dark eyes locked on mine. “Show me how you want it.”
Something shifts inside me. The perpetual power imbalance between us tilts, not completely, but enough. I place my palms against his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heart beneath my fingers.
“You’re letting me lead?” I ask.
His jaw tightens, but he nods once. “Yes, but hurry up, or I’ll change my mind.”
I lift myself slightly, positioning my body over him. When I sink down, taking him inside me completely, we both gasp at the sensation. The fullness, the perfect stretch of him filling me, makes my head fall back.
My hips begin to move, finding a rhythm that builds the pleasure coiling inside me. For the first time since meeting him, I’m the one setting the pace, deciding how deep, how fast. Power surges through me, intoxicating and fierce.
“Fuck,” Erik groans, his hands tightening on my hips.
He tugs at the tie of my robe, parting the silk to expose my breasts. His mouth finds my nipple, drawing it between his lips as his tongue circles the sensitive peak. The heat of his mouth sends lightning through my veins, making my movements stutter.
His kisses trail upward—across my collarbone, my throat, my jaw—each one reverent, worshipful in a way I never expected from him. When his lips finally meet mine, there’s something different in the contact. Not just lust. Something deeper that makes my chest ache.