17. Katarina
KATARINA
T wo days. It's been two days since I've seen Erik's face, felt his hands, heard his voice. Not that I'm counting.
I pace my room for the third time today, irritated at myself for even noticing his absence. The marks he left on my skin have faded to ghost-like reminders. I brush my fingers over a yellowing bruise on my hip, remembering the way he gripped me in the kitchen.
Is that why he's gone? Did I push too far when I climbed on top of him? When I made him surrender to me?
“Damn it,” I mutter. “Stop thinking about him.”
This captivity is messing with my head. Stockholm syndrome, that's all this is. A psychological response to trauma. Nothing more.
But I can't stop replaying everything. The way his walls crumbled when he told me about his siblings. The vulnerability in his eyes when he let me take charge. The change in his kisses—from possessive to something dangerously close to reverent.
I need to move, to exhaust my body until my mind shuts up.
The gym. I change into the workout clothes they provided—black leggings and a fitted tank top—and request permission to go.
Twenty minutes later, I'm alone, with only a guard positioned outside the door.
The space is impressive—complete with a full-weight section, cardio equipment, and even a sparring area with mats.
Of course, the Ivanovs would have a professional-grade setup.
Men like them, like Erik, are weapons first, humans second.
I start with a punishing pace on the treadmill, pushing until sweat drips down my spine. Each thudding step helps drown out thoughts of him.
But as I move to free weights, grabbing dumbbells that strain my muscles, I catch myself wondering if this is where he works out every morning. If he's lifted these same weights. If he's avoiding me intentionally.
“Focus,” I hiss, forcing my attention to the burn in my shoulders as I complete another set.
I hate that I miss him. I hate that I care where he is. I hate that my body betrays me with every memory of his touch.
I throw myself into a series of burpees, pushing until my lungs scream for mercy.
I collapse onto the mat, lungs burning. My workout clothes stick to my sweat-soaked skin. Perfect. This is exactly what I wanted—to be too exhausted to think. Too drained to obsess over a man who's kept me prisoner, who's marked my body, who's somehow wormed his way under my skin.
Five more minutes of lying here, then shower. I stare at the ceiling, counting my heartbeats as they slow from racing to merely quick. My limbs feel like lead weights, pleasantly heavy with fatigue.
Viktor appears in the doorway. “Finished?”
I nod, not bothering with words, and push myself up with shaking arms.
“I'll escort you back.”
The walk to my room feels longer today. Each step sends little twinges through my overworked muscles. Good. Physical pain is easier to process than whatever emotional mess I've tangled myself in.
Viktor stops outside my door. “Dinner in two hours.”
I mumble something that might be agreement and push the door open, already imagining the hot water cascading down my back, washing away sweat and confusion and?—
My steps falter.
Erik sits in the armchair by the window, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, hands clasped loosely in his lap. The evening light catches the sharp angles of his face, turning his eyes to dark pools.
Two days of nothing. Two days of silence. And now he's just... here.
Heat flares through my exhausted body, a confusing cocktail of anger, relief, and want.
“Where the hell have you been?” The words tumble out before I can stop them, revealing too much.
Erik doesn't answer my question. He unfolds from the chair with that predatory grace that makes my pulse quicken despite myself. His eyes never leave mine as he crosses the room in measured steps.
I take an instinctive step back, but there's nowhere to retreat. My back hits the door as he reaches me, his hands finding my hips with unerring precision. His fingers press into the same spots where fading bruises mark his previous claim.
“I asked you a question,” I say, trying to sound demanding rather than breathless. “Two days, no word, and you just show up?”
Still, he says nothing. His thumbs trace slow circles over my hipbones, his gaze dropping to where my tank top clings to my skin. Heat crawls up my neck despite my exhaustion.
“I need a shower,” I protest, suddenly hyperaware of how I must look—hair plastered to my forehead, workout clothes drenched in sweat. I push against his chest. “I'm disgusting right now.”
One corner of his mouth lifts in that barely-there smile that does dangerous things to my insides.
“Good,” he finally speaks, his voice lower and rougher than I remember. His hands slide from my hips to my waist, pulling me closer despite my sweaty state. “We can shower together.”
The suggestion sends a jolt through me, vivid images flashing behind my eyes—water cascading down his scarred body, his hands slick with soap as they move over my skin.
“I don't—” I start, but the protest dies on my lips as his fingers slip under the hem of my tank top, brushing against the heated skin of my lower back.
Before I can form another protest, Erik bends slightly and sweeps me off my feet. His arms cradle me against his chest, one arm supporting my back, the other under my knees. The sudden shift leaves me momentarily breathless.
“Put me down,” I demand, but there's no real force behind my words. My body betrays me, automatically curling into his warmth despite my sweaty state.
Erik says nothing as he carries me toward the bathroom, his stride confident and purposeful. His heartbeat thuds steadily against my ear, a rhythm that somehow both soothes and excites me.
I should be putting a stop to this. Two days without a word. Two days wondering where he was, if he regretted what happened between us, if he'd decided I wasn't worth the complication. Two days of fighting my own thoughts, only to have him stroll back in like nothing happened.
“You can't disappear and then come back expecting—” I start, but my voice catches as he kicks the bathroom door open with his foot.
The rational part of my brain screams at me to demand answers, to make him explain where he's been. To punish him for making me wonder, for making me miss him. For making me care.
But his arms around me feel like the only solid thing in my upended world. The heat of his body against mine awakens every nerve ending, and I can barely string thoughts together beyond wanting his hands on me again.
“I should be furious with you,” I whisper against his neck, inhaling his scent—cedar and something uniquely Erik.
His chest rumbles with what might be a suppressed chuckle. “You should be.”
He sets me down on my feet inside the spacious bathroom, but doesn't step back. His hands remain on my waist, thumbs stroking the strip of exposed skin where my tank top has ridden up.
“Two days,” I say, trying to hold onto my anger even as it slips through my fingers like water. “You owe me an explanation.”
His dark eyes search mine, something unreadable shifting in their depths. “Later,” he promises, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me.
He reaches behind me and turns on the shower, steam quickly filling the bathroom. His eyes never leave mine as his hands find the hem of my sweat-soaked tank top.
“Arms up,” he commands, voice husky.
I obey, letting him peel the damp fabric from my skin. His fingertips brush deliberately against my ribs and my sternum, leaving trails of heat despite their gentleness. My sports bra follows, exposing my breasts to the humid air and his hungry gaze.
“You're beautiful even covered in sweat,” he murmurs, thumbs hooking into the waistband of my leggings. He slides them down my legs along with my underwear in one smooth motion. I step out of them, now completely naked, while he remains fully clothed.
The imbalance sends a thrill through me, but it doesn't last long. Erik steps back and pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid movement.
God, his body. All reason escapes me as I take him in—the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, the intricate Russian tattoos decorating his right shoulder and part of his torso, telling stories I'm not yet privy to. Scars from his military days create a map of survival across his skin.
His pants and boxer briefs join the pile of clothes on the floor, and I can't stop my eyes from drifting downward. His cock stands thick and hard, already ready for me. My mouth goes dry with wanting him.
“See something you like?” His voice holds a hint of amusement.
“Everything,” I admit, too consumed with desire to play games.
Erik's eyes darken at my honesty. He steps forward, hands circling my wrists as he guides me backward into the shower. Hot water cascades over us as my back meets the cool tile wall.
“Hands above your head,” he growls, pinning my wrists against the wall with one large hand.
I gasp as his free hand grips my thigh, lifting it to hook around his waist. The position opens me to him completely.
“You've been thinking about this, haven't you?” His lips brush against my ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. “About me inside you.”
“Yes,” I breathe, arching toward him.
Without warning, he lifts me against the wall and thrusts into me, filling me completely in one powerful stroke. I cry out, my body stretching to accommodate his size.
“This is mine,” he growls, his hips driving relentlessly as he claims me against the shower wall.
Water streams down Erik's face, dripping from his eyelashes and his lips, catching on the harsh angles of his jaw. Steam clouds around us, making everything dreamlike and surreal.
“Fuck, Erik,” I gasp as he drives deeper, my nails digging into his shoulders. My legs tighten around his waist, drawing him impossibly closer.
His hand maintains its iron grip on my wrists above my head, the other supporting my weight as he pounds into me. The dual sensation of restraint and fullness makes my head spin.
“Two days,” he growls against my throat, punctuating each word with a thrust. “Two days thinking about nothing but this. About being inside you.”
His confession triggers something primal in me. I arch against him, meeting each thrust with desperate hunger. My breasts slide against his chest, nipples hardened and oversensitive.
“Tell me you missed me,” he demands, slowing his pace torturously.
I bite my lip, unwilling to give him the satisfaction.
Erik stills, completely buried to the hilt inside me. “Tell me.”
“I missed you,” I whisper, the truth spilling out before I can stop it. “I missed this.”
A triumphant gleam lights his eyes as he rewards my confession with a particularly deep thrust that hits exactly where I need him. My head falls back against the tile with a thud, a moan tearing from my throat.
“Again,” I beg, shame forgotten in the face of pure need.
He complies, angling his hips to hit that perfect spot repeatedly. The pressure builds low in my belly, a coiling tension that threatens to snap at any moment.
Erik releases my wrist and places his hand around my throat, driving into me with renewed vigor.
“Come for me, Katarina,” he commands, his voice rough with exertion. “Let me feel you.”
My name on his lips pushes me over the edge. I shatter around him, walls clenching rhythmically as pleasure crashes through me in violent waves. I cry out his name, the sound echoing off the bathroom tiles.
Erik's breathing is ragged against my neck as we both come down from the high. The water continues to cascade around us, washing away the evidence of our passion but not the memory of it. His forehead presses against mine, our breaths mingling in the steam-filled air.
Without warning, he captures my mouth in a kiss that's different from any we've shared before. There's a desperation to it, an urgency that speaks of more than just physical need. My hands find his face, holding him to me as I return the kiss with equal fervor.
He reaches behind me to shut off the shower, never breaking the connection between our lips. Then he's lifting me again, one arm beneath my knees, the other supporting my back, carrying me dripping wet from the bathroom.
I should protest—we're soaking the floor, we need towels—but I can't bring myself to care. All that matters is the press of his lips against mine, the solid strength of his arms holding me against his chest.
Erik lays me on the bed with surprising gentleness, following me down until his body covers mine. Water droplets fall from his hair onto my face, tracing paths like tears down my cheeks. He brushes them away with his thumb, his eyes searching mine.
The intensity in his gaze destroys me. There's an emotion there—raw and unguarded that makes my chest tighten painfully. Words hover unspoken between us, dangerous words neither of us is ready to voice.
I reach up to trace the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the slight rasp of stubble beneath my fingertips. His eyelids close at my touch, a vulnerability I never expected to see in this hardened warrior.
When he kisses me again, it's slow and deep, as if he's trying to tell me with his body what he can't say aloud. My arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, answering his unspoken question with one of my own.
We are enemies. We are captors and captives. We are from worlds destined to destroy each other.
Yet at this moment, with his heartbeat thundering against mine, with his lips moving in perfect sync with my own, none of that seems to matter. What passes between us transcends words, transcends logic.