Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
KOSTYA
“ I may have deserved that,” I said, rubbing the sting from my jaw.
“You’re my sister’s husband,” Marina seethed as she wiggled out from under me. As if by separating our bodies she could escape what had just happened between us. What I’d just done.
“Was,” I corrected, my voice edged with something I refused to name.
I could have told her the truth right then. The words burned on my tongue, but I swallowed them down like poison.
Marina and Veronika had been close; how close, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know what Marina knew about the kind of life her sister led when no one was watching. And I wasn’t cruel enough to take away whatever memory she had left of her.
Or maybe I was just a coward.
Because the truth wasn’t just ugly. It was damning .
Veronika was dead, and I had no one to blame but myself.
I never fought for her. Never fought for our marriage. Over and over, I told myself it was just a contract, a means to an end. She didn’t want to be a wife, didn’t want to warm my bed, didn’t want to play the role the world expected of her.
And I let her go. Gave her freedom as if it were some kind of gift instead of a death sentence, because according to the bratva code, she’d no longer be considered under my protection.
I told myself I was being merciful. That I wasn’t some caveman who thought a woman was property. That I was too busy, too tangled up in both sides of the law, to care about a wife I never wanted.
But the truth?
I wasn’t attracted to Veronika the way I was to Marina.
Every time I looked at my wife’s statuesque, polished beauty, all I saw was the shadow of her half sister, the woman I could never have. The one who set my blood on fire just by breathing the same air.
It wasn’t fair. Not to Veronika. Not to Marina.
So I let Veronika go, and she ran straight into the fire.
She had power, money, the kind of last name that could open doors and command loyalty. She could have spent her days draped in luxury, taken a discreet lover if she needed one, someone safe, someone I could pretend didn’t exist.
Instead, she made herself a target.
She mistook my indifference for permission to play reckless games with men who didn’t know the meaning of mercy. Maybe she wanted my attention. I’d never know. Because the freedom I gave her is what got her killed.
I had every opportunity to stop it. To step in before it was too late.
I didn’t.
And now Veronika was dead because I never protected her the way I should have.
I wouldn’t make the same mistake with Marina.
I might have given Veronika her freedom, but I’d bury anyone who tried to take Marina from me.
Marina’s breath caught as she stared past me, her gaze unfocused, lost. The reality of what had just happened was sinking in, piece by damning piece.
Her eyes locked on the window.
I followed her stare and saw it. Her handprint, smeared on the fogged-up glass.
Like that Titanic movie. How fitting . The thought slashed through me, sharp and bitter. Two people caught in a moment of reckless passion, leaving proof of their sins behind. Except there were no doomed lovers here, just the wreckage of a past neither of us could escape.
“This is so wrong,” Marina whispered, her voice raw, her fingers combing through her already-mussed hair. Her hands dropped to smooth over her middle in an attempt to cover herself. As if that changed anything.
“She was my sister, and?—”
God, I wanted to tell her. Wanted to rip the illusion from her grip and show her the truth. That Veronika had never really been my wife in anything but name only. That we were strangers under the same roof, two people bound by duty and contract, never by love. But I couldn’t say it.
Not when Veronika was gone. Not when she wasn’t here to defend herself. Whatever she’d been—reckless, selfish, lost—she was still Marina’s sister.
“Marina,” I murmured, reaching up to trace my fingers along her jaw, brushing over the soft skin. For the briefest second, she leaned into my palm, her lashes fluttering closed.
Then, just as quickly, she pulled away.
Her expression hardened. “Why?” she demanded, her voice trembling with anger, shame…and something else neither of us wanted to name. “Why would you do this?”
So many reasons.
Because I’d wanted her from the moment I laid eyes on her.
Because every time she walked into a room, I fucking felt it crackling under my skin, burning through my restraint.
Because no matter what she wore, whether it was a silk dress or jeans and a T-shirt, I could only ever picture her like this. Naked. Pinned beneath me. Mine.
Because she was the only woman who had ever fought me, and I loved it.
She had made me chase her. Across the city. Across continents. She had built a life for herself with nothing but grit and defiance, surviving in a world that should have swallowed her whole.
And when she fought me in her bedroom, trying to resist what we both knew was inevitable, I hadn’t felt rage. I’d felt fucking pride .
I couldn’t tell her any of that.
So I gave her the simplest, ugliest truth.
“I wanted you,” I said. “You wanted me too. So I took you.”
My gaze trailed over her, zeroing in on the belt next to her on the bed.
Her eyes followed mine, and I caught the moment realization hit, the way her cheeks burned, her breath stuttered.
That belt was my new favorite.
I’d never look at it again without remembering how beautifully pink her delicate skin had turned, the way her cries of pain had been laced with want. How her body had betrayed her, trembling, aching, soaking wet even as she fought against it.
“Tell me you didn’t like it,” I murmured, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. My fingers lingered for a beat longer than they should have, and she stiffened beneath my touch.
“Lie to me,” I pressed, my voice a low command. “Tell me you didn’t come on my cock over and over. Tell me you don’t want to do it again.”
Her gaze snapped back to mine, wild and sharp, her lips parting as if she were about to say something. Then she shook her head, clearing the thought.
“Fuck you,” she spat, shoving at my chest as if she could erase what had just happened.
My cock throbbed at the loss of her warmth against me as she dove for her cheap jeans, yanking them up with shaking hands. I watched her button and zip them, her fingers clumsy, her movements frantic, as if straightening her clothes would somehow undo the last hour.
I tucked myself away, slowly, deliberately. “Fine,” I said, voice smooth, mocking. “If you must lie to yourself, then tell yourself you just used your body for payment.”
Her hands froze.
“I know you need protection from Solovyov,” I continued, watching her carefully. “He’s hunting you. I can protect you.”
She said nothing.
Just shoved her feet into her sneakers, tying them with jerky movements as she leaned against the cabin wall.
I didn’t even remember when I’d pulled them off. Probably right after I stripped her bare, too caught up in the need to have her, to own her, to ruin her.
I rose from the bed, grabbing my shirt off the floor and pushed my arms through the sleeves. The fabric was warm from the heat of our bodies, from what we’d just done, but I didn’t let myself think about that.
I zipped up my pants, picked up my belt, and snapped it in half with a sharp crack .
“Tell me what’s in New York,” I demanded again.
Silence.
Marina pressed her back against the far end of the small cabin, sliding along the wall as if she could disappear into it. It wasn’t much of an escape. She was still within arm’s reach.
“You know I’ll punish you again,” I warned.
Her chin lifted, but her voice wavered. “You wouldn’t.”
I smiled, slow and cold. “I think we both know I would. So why not drop the bullshit and tell me what I need to know? You know I won’t hurt you—unless I absolutely have to.”
She scoffed, her gaze flickering back to the window, to that damned handprint still stamped in the fogged-up glass. Evidence of what we’d done. Proof that she wanted this just as much as I did.
When she looked back at me, something in her eyes had changed.
“Fine,” she exhaled. “Look, I’m not saying I trust you. Because I don’t. But let’s pretend for a moment that I do.”
I crossed my arms, waiting. “Okay.”
Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as she hesitated, then finally spoke.
“They’re probably after the money my sister took from him.”
My body went still.
“Before she died, she gave me money. Told me to hold onto it. Two days later, she sent a message saying that if something happened to her, it was because of the money and I needed to run.”
Money. This was all about fucking money?
“How much?” I asked, my voice sharp.
She hesitated again, then said, “Nine hundred seventy-two thousand, three hundred rubles.”
That couldn’t be right.
I stepped closer, my fists clenching at my sides. “Say that number again.”
Her gaze didn’t waver this time. “Nine hundred seventy-two thousand, three hundred rubles.” A definitive answer.
Less than ten grand .
There’s no fucking way.
Solovyov was a psychopath, but he was also a businessman. All of us were, at our core. We didn’t spill blood for fun, we did it for profit. And this?
This wasn’t profit.
The cost of tracking her down—the resources, the bribes, the forged documents to move freely across borders—he’d have spent five times that just getting one of his men past the TSA.
Killing Veronika should have been message enough. There had to be something else.
Hell, I could probably find that much cash in my goddamn sofa cushions.
“What else?” I asked, my voice low, dangerous.
“Nothing,” she said, holding up her hands. “I swear. It was just the money. She even put it in some plain black duffel bag, the kind you could buy at any department store.”
Lies? Or just ignorance?
Either way, something wasn’t adding up.
And I wasn’t about to let her walk out that door until I figured out exactly what the fuck was missing.
“You’re hiding something.”
I didn’t think she was lying, but the numbers didn’t add up. None of this made sense.
“I swear, that was it,” Marina said, her voice tight with frustration. “It was just the rubles. There was nothing else in that bag. And she didn’t send me anything else later.”
I studied her, searching for cracks, for hesitation. “Did she tell you something she shouldn’t have?”
She shook her head .
Fuck.
“Where’s the money now?”
“In a locker close to Penn Station,” she admitted. “I didn’t want to spend it in case he came after me. I was just going to give it back. Really, I would have returned it before, but I didn’t know how and?—”
I held up a hand. “If you’d tried to return it in Russia, he would’ve killed you on the spot.”
“I know.” She huffed, crossing and uncrossing her arms, her frustration palpable. “That’s why I’m here. And I was doing a damn good job of staying away from all of this bullshit until you came crashing into my apartment in New York and then stalked me all the way to Chicago.”
Even now, after coming on my cock over and over, the fire in her eyes still burned.
And I fucking loved it.
Why couldn’t I get enough of this girl’s fire? Why, every time she snapped at me, fought me, pushed back, did my cock twitch with interest?
I forced myself to focus. This wasn’t just about the money. There had to be something else in that bag—something she hadn’t seen.
“That wasn’t me.”
Her brow furrowed. “What?”
“In New York. I didn’t trash your apartment. Solovyov’s men trashed it. Why the fuck do you think I’ve been so desperate to find you? I’ve been trying to tell you, you are in danger.”
She shifted her gaze away from me as she absorbed the information. If I thought I was going to get a thank you or a show of appreciation, I’d die waiting. She remained stubbornly silent.
“You might as well get some rest,” I sighed. I wasn’t ready to let this go, but I wouldn’t get anything else out of her tonight.
Her jaw ticked like she wanted to argue, but then her shoulders dropped, and she nodded. She reached for the upper bunk to pull it down.
Maybe I would’ve let her sleep up there if we hadn’t just had some of the best sex of my life.
Even if I couldn’t keep her long-term. Even if I had to go against every instinct and let her go when this was over, I wasn’t wasting the opportunity while I still had her.
I stepped behind her, resting my hand on the bunk, stopping her from pulling it down. Then I reached past her, re-hooking the latch.
“You’re sleeping with me.”
“The hell I am.” She dropped her arms and took a step back, only to hit the wall behind her.
I arched a brow. “You just fucked me, and you’re drawing the line at cuddling?”
She bristled. “It’s not the same thing,” she snapped.
I smirked. Oh, Marina.
She could fight it all she wanted.
But we both knew exactly where she’d end up tonight.
Right back in my arms.
“Good thing I’m not giving you a choice, then, huh?” I gestured for her to get onto the bed.
Marina huffed but didn’t argue. She climbed onto the mattress, pressing herself against the wall as if she could somehow put distance between us.
I might have been insulted if the bed wasn’t so damn small and I wasn’t a large man. She’d end up against me anyway. I slid in behind her and didn’t hesitate to wrap my arm around her waist and pull her against me. Her body tensed under my hold.
“You can’t?—”
“Shh, moy zaichonok ,” I whispered in her ear, my breath hot against her skin. “Sleep now. Argue in the morning.”
She stilled.
It took nearly half an hour before the tension bled from her muscles and she finally succumbed to sleep.
But I didn’t.
I lay there, staring at her sleeping form in my arms. My mind a battlefield of every mistake, every miscalculation, every goddamn line I had just crossed.
I didn’t deserve the peace of sleep.
How the fuck could I have done this? How could I have touched her—taken her—like I had every right to? I’d fucked up. Badly. It was my fault the Solovyovs were after her. I hadn’t protected her sister when I was supposed to, hadn’t been the husband I should’ve been.
What the fuck made me think I could protect Marina when she was my—what?
What the hell was she to me?
The girl I was fucking? No, too crude. Too dismissive. Marina was more than that.
My girlfriend? My mistress?
None of it mattered.
Because Solovyov wouldn’t see this for what it was. He wouldn’t believe this was just lust or weakness. He’d see it as an act of war. He’d assume I knew what Veronika had taken from him. That I had ordered her to send it to Marina so we could run. He’d assume I had whatever the fuck it was that he wanted back so desperately. And I knew for certain it wasn’t ten fucking thousand dollars’ worth of money. There was something more. Something hidden in that bag. Something he’d kill to keep secret.
And because I couldn’t control myself, because I let my discipline slip, Marina was in more danger than ever.
And it was too late to stop it.