Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
MARINA
H e dragged me from the elevator the second the doors slid open, his grip unrelenting.
My wrist throbbed from how tightly he held it, but I didn’t fight.
Not with the way his entire body vibrated with barely leashed rage.
He shoved the suite door open, pushed me inside, and slammed it behind him.
Click.
The sound of the deadbolt sliding into place might as well have been an iron bar slamming across a dungeon entrance.
I turned just in time to see him press his hands flat against the door, shoulders heaving with every breath. His head dropped forward for half a second, as if gathering himself. Then he turned, eyes dark and wild, a predator pacing the bars of its cage.
“Take off your clothes,” he ordered .
I blinked. “What?” I paused then dropped the jacket and shawl I’d just shrugged out of onto the tiled entrance so I didn’t ruin the furniture or carpet with mud. Of all the things I expected—yelling, threats, maybe even another punishment—this wasn’t one of them.
He didn’t hesitate. “I said, take off your clothes.”
The very first thing I had wanted to do was get out of these mud-caked clothes. The long drive in the heated car had turned the mud dry and crumbly, flaking off in dark chunks that scattered across the vinyl seats every time I shifted my weight. Each movement caused the stiff fabric to scratch against my skin, a constant reminder of my failed escape attempt.
But I refused to give Kostya the satisfaction.
“Absolutely not.” My arms crossed over my chest on instinct. “What is wrong with you?”
His head snapped toward me. He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath the dried mud that still streaked his face. Even covered in dirt, he looked dangerously handsome—and I hated myself for noticing.
“What’s wrong with me?”
The words cut, low and incredulous. He took a step forward, his chest rising and falling as if he could barely breathe through his anger.
“Are you serious right now? You want to know what’s wrong with me?”
Another step.
The backs of my thighs hit the edge of the couch.
“What’s wrong with me is that I came here to save you from being murdered by a fucking sociopath. ”
His voice rose, echoing off the high ceilings, swallowing up the room’s quiet, refined luxury. His hands raked through his muddy hair, then dropped to his sides as he stared at the dirt in disgust. “And every goddamn turn I take, you’re right there, making my life harder.”
He paced, his movements sharp, restless, a tiger in a too-small cage. “I had to chase you through downtown Chicago. Do you know what that got me?” His arms flew out, his laugh bitter. “Arrested.”
I opened my mouth, but he cut me off with a glare sharp enough to slice bone. “When I finally caught up to you again, what did you do?”
He turned on me so fast I flinched. “You knocked me unconscious.” A step closer. “And hog-tied me like a fucking asshole.”
I swallowed hard, pulse hammering.
His breath came out in harsh bursts, his nostrils flaring. “And I justified it. I thought, it’s fine. She’s scared. I understand that. So I gave you grace. I tracked you down onto that train, paid for a perfectly good first-class room—one with a bed, with food, so we could actually rest—and what did you do?”
He cut himself off, chest heaving. “You jumped off the goddamn train.”
I opened my mouth again, but his voice cracked over mine.
“Who the fuck jumps off a goddamn train?” His jaw clenched so hard I could hear his teeth grind.
“I’m tired. I’m cold. I’m soaked through with mud and dirt and God only knows what else. And you“—he jabbed a finger toward me—"are going to take off your goddamn clothes and get in that fucking shower.”
I sucked in a sharp breath.
“Because I want to get clean. And warm. And there is not a single chance in hell that I am leaving you alone.” His voice dipped lower, quieter, but no less dangerous. “So you can escape again.”
His face was dark red, veins bulging in his neck. His fingers flexed, clenched, then flexed again, like he wanted to grab something—me—but didn’t trust himself to touch me.
The suite was too quiet in the wake of his fury.
The only sound was our breathing. His, heavy and ragged. Mine, shallow and uneven.
He wasn’t just angry.
He was feral.
And I wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.
His whole body was wound tight, every muscle coiled as if he were barely holding himself together.
I had never seen someone so livid.
I should’ve been afraid. I should have been backing away, trying to put as much space between us as possible.
Instead, an entirely different instinct took hold, one I hated.
I wanted to soothe him. To drag my fingers through his hair, press my lips to the angry line of his jaw, smooth away the tension in his shoulders. To fix it.
Nope. Not happening.
I shoved that thought into a dark hole and slammed the lid shut. My body didn’t get a say in what happened now, only my brain. She was in full control…at least, so I hoped.
“I’m not getting naked,” I challenged, though the discomfort was becoming unbearable. The mud had worked its way everywhere. Down my collar, into my bra, between my thighs where it chafed with every step. My skin itched fiercely under the drying clay.
His gaze dropped, tracking the movement before flicking back to my face. His jaw ticked.
If I wasn’t careful, he was going to spank me again.
I was a ridiculous sight, standing there like a defiant brat, but I didn’t care. I was sticking to my guns on this one. I shifted my weight, feeling another chunk of mud break off and fall to the floor.
My jeans had essentially become cardboard, molded to my legs and stiff as plaster. The sensation was maddening. My skin simultaneously wet in some places and painfully dry in others.
But this was about control.
If I gave in, if I did what he wanted, it would just prove what I already knew—that he expected complete obedience. That my body, my choices, my actions were all subject to his approval.
Kostya exhaled sharply through his nose. “Fine.”
And then he reached for the remaining buttons on his shirt.
One by one, they slipped free, until he shrugged off the ruined fabric, letting it drop to the floor. His broad, powerful shoulders rolled as he stripped down with zero hesitation.
He turned his back to me as he continued undressing, and I caught myself staring at the broad expanse of his back, at the play of muscles beneath his skin. The mud had somehow enhanced, rather than diminished, his raw masculinity, highlighting the contours of his body.
My mouth went dry.
He made quick work of his belt, tugging it free with a sharp snap before unfastening his pants while kicking off his shoes. The pants hit the floor in a heap.
I stood there, frozen, as he stood before me in nothing but black boxer briefs that rode low on his hips. His body was all sharp lines, dark ink, and hard muscle, every ridge defined, every inch of him carved as if he were sculpted from stone.
He cocked his head. “Suit yourself.”
I barely had a second to react before he moved.
A startled yelp tore from my lips as he grabbed me, again, and threw me over his shoulder as if I weighed nothing.
“Put me down!” I shrieked, shoving at his back. My fists pounded uselessly against him, but he didn’t so much as flinch as he stormed across the suite.
He kicked the bathroom door closed behind him, the heavy thud sending a shiver through my torso. The space was instantly smaller, the walls lined with sleek marble.
Still carrying me like a sack of flour, Kostya reached for the shower knobs. The pipes groaned before a rush of steaming water poured from the rainfall showerhead. He adjusted the temperature with practiced ease while still holding me effortlessly against him.
I struggled harder, my movements more desperate. My hands scrambled against his back, nails digging in, anything to gain leverage.
His skin was warm under my fingertips. His grip was iron, unyielding, locked tight around the backs of my thighs like a vice.
“Put me down!” I demanded again, kicking uselessly.
He sighed, as if I were nothing more than a petulant child throwing a tantrum.
Then, without a single ounce of warning?—
He yanked off my shoes.
First one, then the other.
Before I could even process what was happening, he stepped forward, right into the shower, and dumped me under the spray, fully clothed. A gasp tore from my throat as the hot water slammed against me, drenching my clothes in an instant, making them cling to every inch of my body. The thin fabric of my sweater molded to my skin, outlining the curve of my breasts, the peaks of my nipples, stiffening under the sudden heat.
Kostya’s gaze dropped, just for a fraction of a second, before he jerked his head away with a sharp curse.
His hands flexed at his sides, as if physically restraining himself. The Adam’s apple in his throat bobbed. “Fuck.” His voice was hoarse, rough. His nostrils flared as he exhaled sharply.
A slow, unbearable silence stretched between us, filled only by the rush of water cascading down our bodies.
Heat licked up my spine, but it wasn’t from the steam.
I was very aware of the fact that he was standing right there, nearly naked, water dripping down his chest, his broad shoulders rigid with tension .
And he was very aware of me.
The air between us was thick and heavy.
Unable to take the tension for another second, I shifted to escape.
He blocked my path with his body, a wall of muscle and heat, cutting off any chance of escape.
“What are you doing?” My back hit the cold tile.