Chapter 13 #4
The fabric bunched under my hands as if I could anchor myself there.
“You didn’t even give me the benefit of a single doubt.
Not one. You punished me—relentlessly, mercilessly.
” My voice broke completely. “You made every day feel like drowning. Like I was dying slowly and you were watching it happen.” I sucked in a shaking breath. “And now you ask for forgiveness?”
He didn’t interrupt me.
He didn’t defend himself.
He just held me tighter, one hand cradling the back of my head, fingers threading gently through my hair, the other firm around my waist—steady, grounding, unwavering.
He let me rage. Let me cry. Let me bleed every truth I’d swallowed for years into the space between us.
“I hate myself for still loving you,” I whispered, the words muffled against his neck, raw with shame and grief.
His body jolted like I’d struck him.
His arms tightened convulsively, breath breaking against my hair. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, stripped bare of pride.
“I’ll take your hate,” he rasped. “I’ll live in it for the rest of my life if that’s all you can give me.
” His hand pressed more firmly at my back, not trapping—pleading.
“Just... let me stay near you. Let me be part of your world again.” His voice dropped to almost nothing.
“Even if it’s only as someone you tolerate. Even if I never earn more than that.”
He held me like he was afraid I was already halfway gone.
We stayed like that for long seconds, his heartbeat thundering beneath my ear, strong despite everything.
Then I pulled back just enough that our faces were inches apart.
Neither of us spoke.
We didn’t need to.
Our mouths met—slow at first, tentative, testing.
Then something broke open. The kiss turned hungry, desperate, edged with months of pain and longing and fury.
I devoured him like I’d been starving; he kissed me back with a ferocity that made the room spin, like he was drowning and I was air.
His hands hesitated at the hem of my blouse—uncertain, asking permission even now.
I answered by reaching for the buttons of his hospital gown, popping them open one by one until I could push the fabric off his shoulders.
Lean muscle still corded his frame, but the sharp edges of ribs showed beneath skin.
He helped me shrug out of my own top, fingers trembling. Then he stood—unsteady, but determined—scooped me up with surprising strength, and laid me back on the narrow hospital bed.
He stripped off the rest of his clothes quickly, climbing over me, skin fever-hot against mine.
“You haven’t eaten in three days,” I whispered against his mouth. “You’re sick. You just fainted.”
“I’m strong enough for this,” he growled, voice rough with need. “I’ve waited years for this.”
He slammed his lips back to mine, swallowing my moan.
The kiss turned wild—teeth and tongues and hands everywhere, relearning every inch we’d once known by heart.
His body pressed me into the mattress, careful of the IV line still taped to his arm, careful of me.
I arched beneath him, fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer, deeper, as though I could erase every wound we’d inflicted by sheer force of want.
The narrow hospital bed creaked beneath us, protesting the sudden shift of weight as Dmitri’s hands—rough from years of violence yet impossibly tender now—found the waistband of my panties.
He didn’t ask; he didn’t need to.
One sharp tug and the fabric tore away with a soft rip that sounded obscene in the sterile quiet of the room.
Cool air kissed my skin for half a heartbeat before he aligned himself and drove forward in one long, controlled thrust.
The intrusion was gentle in its aggression—deep, deliberate, stretching me open with a burn that bordered on bliss.
I cried out, a raw mix of scream and moan, the sound bouncing off the white walls.
He sank so far inside me I swore I could feel the blunt head pressing against the deepest part of my core, right up against my womb.
My back arched off the mattress; my nails dug into his shoulders hard enough to leave crescent moons.
His mouth crashed back to mine at the same moment his fingers found my nipple—pinching, rolling, tugging just enough to send lightning straight to where we were joined.
Then he began to move.
Slow at first—agonizingly slow—pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with punishing precision.
Each retreat left me aching, empty; each return filled me so completely I forgot how to breathe.
The rhythm built quickly. Harder. Faster.
The slap of skin against skin echoed louder than the cardiac monitor still beeping somewhere behind us.
“Dmitri—” His name tore from my throat on a broken moan. “Oh God... yes... fuck me... harder—”
I hooked my legs around his hips, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper.
My hands slid down to grip his waist, fingers splaying over taut muscle as I pulled him into me again and again.
I wanted him—needed him—like oxygen after years underwater.
Every thrust dragged a new sound from me: whimpers, gasps, pleas I didn’t even recognize as my own.
He kissed me like he was trying to consume me—teeth grazing my lower lip, tongue sweeping in to claim every corner of my mouth.
The aggression in his kiss matched the relentless drive of his hips.
I could taste salt—sweat, tears, the faint metallic edge of desperation.
Without warning he rolled us. The world tilted; suddenly I was on top, straddling him, his length still buried to the hilt.
He fell back against the pillows with a low groan, hands settling on my thighs like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go.
“Come on me, Maliya,” he rasped, voice gravel and command wrapped in velvet. “Ride me. Let me watch you take what you need.”
I braced my palms on his chest—feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath scarred skin—and lifted myself slowly.
The drag of him leaving me made me whimper; the slow slide back down made me moan.
He filled me so perfectly, stretching me, pressing against every sensitive place inside.
I started slow—rolling my hips in languid circles, savoring the way he throbbed inside me.
But slow didn’t last.
I planted my hands firmer on his pecs and began to move—really move.
Up and down. Hard. Fast.
My ass slapped against his thighs with every descent.
Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in my belly, a hot, liquid ache that demanded release.
His eyes—dark, stormy, glittering with lust and something fiercer—locked on mine. “Eyes on me, baby,” he growled when my head tipped back. “Look at me while you fuck yourself on my cock.”
I obeyed.
Our gazes clashed, held. I rode him harder, faster, chasing that glittering edge.
His hands slid up to cup my breasts—thumbs brushing over pebbled nipples, squeezing, kneading, sending sparks down my spine.
He thrust up to meet me now, meeting every downward stroke with a sharp snap of his hips.
I felt it building—unstoppable, overwhelming.
My rhythm faltered; my thighs trembled. “Dmitri—I’m—I’m close—”
“Come,” he ordered, voice rough with his own impending release. “Come all over me. Let me feel you.”
One more grind—deep, grinding circles—and I shattered.
My orgasm ripped through me like wildfire.
I cried out his name, body convulsing, inner walls clamping down hard around him.
Wet heat flooded between us; I felt myself pulsing, milking him as wave after wave crashed over me.
My vision blurred, stars bursting behind my eyelids.
He followed seconds later.
His hips jerked up, burying himself impossibly deeper.
A guttural groan tore from his throat as he came—hot, thick pulses spilling inside me, filling me until I could feel the warmth of him everywhere.
His fingers dug into my hips hard enough to bruise, holding me down so he could empty every last drop.
I collapsed forward onto his chest, both of us slick with sweat, hearts hammering in brutal tandem.
His arms wrapped around me instantly—strong, possessive, protective—cradling me against him like I was something fragile and priceless.
We stayed like that, breathing hard, bodies still joined, the world outside the door forgotten.
For long minutes there was only the sound of our ragged breathing and the faint, erratic beep of the monitor that had somehow survived being knocked askew.
Then I lifted my head just enough to meet his eyes.
They were red-rimmed. No steel. No command.
“Promise me,” I whispered. My throat was raw, scraped hollow by crying and years of swallowed pain. “Promise you’ll never hurt me again.”
The shift in him was immediate.
Whatever fragility had been there hardened—not into cruelty, but into something solemn and immovable.
An oath, not an impulse.
He raised one hand and cupped my cheek, his palm warm, grounding.
His thumb traced the faint track of a dried tear, reverent, as though even that mark mattered.
“When next I hurt you,” he said deliberately, “intentionally or not—take my life.”
My breath caught.
“I swear it on everything I have left,” he continued, voice low, steady, terrifyingly sincere.
“On my name. On my blood. On the son sleeping down the hall.” His thumb stilled against my skin.
“I will never cause you pain again. Not with my hands. Not with my words. Not with silence. Not with neglect.”
His eyes darkened, something lethal flickering beneath the tenderness.
“And if anyone—anyone—ever tries to lay a hand on you,” he said quietly, “I will kill them. I don’t care who they are. I don’t care what it costs me. No one born of woman will touch you without going through me first.”
There was no bravado in it. No performance.
Just fact.
I searched his face, slowly, carefully—every familiar line, every shadow earned by years of violence and regret.
I looked for cracks, for manipulation, for the cold strategist who always calculated three steps ahead.
I found none.
Only truth. Brutal. Terrifying. Absolute.
Something inside me finally loosened—just a fraction, just enough to breathe.
I leaned down and kissed him.
Softly.
Not hungry. Not desperate. Not fueled by longing or memory. Just tender. A quiet meeting of mouths, brief and reverent, as though sealing a vow neither of us fully understood yet, but both knew could never be taken lightly.
He stilled beneath me, afraid to deepen it, afraid to break the moment.
His hand tightened slightly at my waist, anchoring, not claiming.
We stayed like that afterward, tangled together on the too-small hospital bed, my head resting against his chest, his breath warm against my hair.
His skin slowly cooled beneath my palm; his breathing evened out, the harsh edges smoothing into something human again.
The steady beep of the monitor faded into background noise. The IV line taped to his arm. The antiseptic smell. The risk of a nurse walking in at any second.
None of it mattered.
For the first time in years, the space between us didn’t ache with ghosts or rage or unfinished wounds.
It didn’t feel like a battlefield.
It felt like home.
Fragile. Earned. And terrifying in its promise.