Chapter 22
ANNA
"Get on the bed."
Darius's command cut through the silence the moment we crossed the threshold. No preamble. No tenderness.
I stopped in the center of the room, my bare feet sinking into plush carpet. "No."
A lie. We both knew it.
He moved behind me, close enough his breath stirred the hair at my nape. "No?"
"I'm not—" My voice cracked. "I can't be another thing you take."
His fingers found the belt of the robe, tugging it loose with one sharp pull. The cashmere whispered against my skin as it loosened. "You think I'm taking?"
"Aren't you?" I wrapped my arms around myself, trapping the edges of the robe to hold it closed. The necklace was gone, but the phantom pressure still pressed against my throat. "You always take."
"Look at me."
I didn't want to. Looking at him made everything harder. Made the want sharper, the self-hatred deeper.
His hand closed around my jaw, firm but not cruel, turning my face to his. Those penetrating eyes stripped me bare more thoroughly than his hands ever could.
"I could," he said, voice dropping to growl. "I could lay you out on that bed and fuck you until you forget your own name. Until the only name on your lips is mine." His thumb traced my bottom lip. "Would you fight me?"
My breath stuttered. "Yes."
"Liar."
Heat flooded my cheeks because he was right. I wouldn't fight. I never fought when it mattered.
"But that's not what's happening tonight," he continued, releasing my jaw. He moved away, sitting on the edge of the bed, forearms resting on his thighs. Watching. Waiting. "Tonight, you choose."
Panic clawed up my throat, my trembling fingers reknotting the robe’s belt in a vain attempt to regain a semblance of calm. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Give me a choice." The words ripped out of me, raw and desperate.
"Don't make me responsible for this. For wanting you when I shouldn't.
For—" I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes, but the tears came anyway.
"I can't be the girl who wants the man holding her hostage. I can't be that broken."
"Anna—"
"My mother was right." The admission burned. "I ruin everything I touch. I'm weak and selfish and—"
"Stop." Steel in that single word.
"Why?" I dropped my hands, meeting his gaze through blurred vision. "It's true. You know it's true. You're using it against her. Against me."
He stood, closing the distance between us in two strides. His hands framed my face, forcing me to look at him. "Your mother is a venomous bitch who wouldn't know strength if it slit her throat."
I flinched.
"You want to know what I see?" His grip tightened, not painful but inescapable.
"I see a woman who looked at a bomb around her neck and still had the spine to defy me.
Who breaks apart and puts herself back together every single time.
" His forehead pressed against mine. "That's not weakness, little one. That's survival."
"Then why does it feel like dying?" The question came out broken.
His jaw clenched, muscle ticking beneath scarred skin. "Because you're fighting the wrong battle."
"What battle should I be fighting?"
"The one between what you've been told to want and what you actually need." He released me, stepping back. Creating space I didn't ask for and couldn't bear. "So here's your choice. You can walk out that door. Sleep in the other room. I won't touch you. Won't come near you."
My heart lurched.
"Or you can stay. You can stop pretending this is something I'm forcing on you. Stop lying to yourself about what you want." His eyes burned into mine. "But if you stay, you don't get to hide behind my control. You don't get to pretend you're a victim of circumstance."
"That's not fair."
"Nothing about this is fair." He sat back down on the bed, pulling me onto his lap but otherwise not touching me. He leaned back on his elbows. Giving me space. Giving me power I'd never asked for. "But it's real."
I expected him to lay me out on the bed, for his hands to be everywhere, holding me down, pinning me in whatever position he wanted me in as he used my body. But he didn’t.
I didn't want the choice. I wanted him to take me hard and fast. To take choice off the table, so I could lie to myself and pretend it wasn't what I wanted.
With one look in his eyes, I understood. He wasn't giving me what I wanted. He was giving me what I needed. Or at least pretending to.
The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Outside, the city lights glittered against the black sky. Beautiful and indifferent.
My hands shook as they moved to the robe's collar. The fabric was impossibly soft against my fingers. Butter-soft cashmere that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
I thought about running. About locking myself in the bathroom and searching for something, anything, to use as a weapon or a way out.
But I didn't want out. That was the poisonous truth corroding everything I'd believed about myself.
I placed a sweet, chaste kiss on his lips before I got off his lap and stood in front of him.
His eyes were fiery as he watched every move I made, but he didn't leave the bed. After taking a few steps back, my cheeks warmed as I thought about what I was going to do.
My mother's voice echoed in my skull, sharp and cutting. Disappointment. Disgrace. Destroyer of everything good.
I shoved it down. Drowned it out. This wasn't about her, and it wasn't about the woman she wanted me to be. It was about the woman I wanted to be. And that was the question. What did I want?
"Anna?" Darius asked as he sat up.
"Don't," I said. "Don't move."
Leaning back on his elbows, he gave me space without actually moving away from me. I appreciated the gesture even if I didn't fully trust it. I took a second to center myself, to take a deep breath in and out, and to look around the room.
He didn't have to take that necklace off of me. He chose to.
Tonight I was here because I wanted to be, not because I was under threat.
And then there was him. Darius Ivanov. Still wearing his tuxedo pants, his shoes had been kicked off at some point, and so had his socks, leaving his feet bare.
His jacket had been discarded a while ago, and his silver bow tie lay open around his neck.
The black shirt sleeves were surprisingly fitted, highlighting the sharp angle from his broad shoulders to his tapered waist. The cuffs had been rolled up, and even in the dim light I could see the lines of his tattoos.
Tribal markings that had a Slavic flair to them. They were harsh, but beautiful. Just like him.
I wanted him. God help me, I wanted him with a ferocity that terrified me.
I shouldn't want him, but I did. And tonight, even if it was just for this one night, I was giving myself permission. Permission to be not the girl my mother wanted, but the girl that I was, the girl I wanted to be.
I wanted to be confident, sexy, and I wanted to be the type of girl who knew what she wanted and how to take it.
My fingers found the belt of the robe again. The knot gave easily, and I let the cashmere fall open.
Cool air kissed bare skin. The robe gaped, revealing the valley between my breasts, the curve of my hip.
Darius's eyes took me in hungrily. He watched me as if he could devour me with a look alone. Every breath I took, every flutter of pulse at my throat—he tracked it all.
His hands flexed against the mattress. Tension coiled through his frame, predatory and patient.
I took another step back before letting the robe slide down my shoulders, stopping at my elbows. My entire body was exposed to him, but because I had asked him to stay, he stayed.
This wasn't about control. I couldn't control him. It was about his allowing this moment to move at my pace. I straightened my arms, the robe dropping to my feet as I stood completely naked in front of him.
His gaze carved paths across my body. Possessive. Hungry. But he remained still, every muscle locked in restraint.
I took a shaky step toward him, and then another until I was standing between his spread thighs. The outline of his hard cock tenting his pants. My hands shook at my sides, and I clenched them into tight fists, not letting the nerves show, not letting them win.
"Songbird?" he asked, and I shook my head.
Then, I reached out my hands, and this time they were steady. I touched him, starting at his shoulders then dragging my hands down his hard body, the rugged ridges of his abs warm under the silky shirt. I trailed my fingers down until I got to his waist.
Heat radiated through the expensive fabric. His abdomen contracted beneath my touch, muscles jumping.
With my teeth sinking into my bottom lip, I pulled his shirt from his pants and started undoing the buttons one by one. He allowed it to happen, allowed me to explore at my own pace, and I intended to take full advantage of it.
My knees weakened, but I ignored them. My heart raced, but I paid no attention to it.
Instead, I pushed his shirt off his shoulders and ran my hands over his warm, inked skin.
I traced the distinct lines of his tattoo with my fingertips, his abs flexing under my touch.
When I looked back up, the intensity in his eyes bore into mine.
His own hands were fisted in the bedsheet next to his hips as he refused to move.
His breathing had gone rough, each exhale controlled. Measured.
He was letting me explore to my heart's content.
I leaned down and kissed him, a soft, sweet, almost tender connection. And when he opened his lips to me, I licked out and tasted him. The warm, spicy, masculine flavor that was all him. And I had to know if the rest of him tasted as damn good.
I kissed his jaw, then kissed a line down his neck to his collarbone. His skin was warm against my lips and surprisingly soft.
Salt and heat. My tongue traced the hollow of his throat, and his pulse hammered against my lips.
"Let me touch you," he rasped.
It wasn't a request.