Chapter Twenty-Two - Aleksandr
I know something is wrong before the alarm finishes sounding.
I pull up the camera feeds. Her room is empty. Bed made. No sign of struggle.
She left voluntarily.
The realization hits like ice water. She planned this. Watched. Waited. Executed with precision during the exact window when coverage was thinnest.
I’m moving before conscious thought catches up, phone already dialing Viktor.
“Elena’s gone. Pull all exterior feeds from the last thirty minutes.”
The security center erupts into controlled chaos. Within minutes they have her route—over the east wall, through the alley, heading toward the metro.
Then the feeds cut out. She disappeared into a dead zone with no cameras.
My phone rings. Unknown number.
“Aleksandr Sharov.” The voice is Artyom Petrov. “I have something that belongs to you.”
Rage turns molten. “Where is she?”
“Safe. For now. She’s quite beautiful, your wife. Delicate. Breakable. She fought when we intercepted her escape attempt. Impressive spirit.”
Escape attempt. So he knows she was running. Walked right into his hands trying to get away from me.
“What do you want?”
“What you took from me. My operations, my people, my territory. You dismantled everything because you believed lies about the Lawrence family.” He pauses.
“I have your pregnant wife bound in a warehouse. Unless you agree to my terms—withdrawal from seized territories, financial compensation, and dissolution of your marriage—I start removing pieces of her.”
Pregnant.
The word hits like a bullet.
“You have two hours,” Artyom continues. “After that, negotiations end.”
The line goes dead.
“Lock down the city,” I tell Viktor. “Every border, every checkpoint. Contact every informant. I want locations on every Petrov property.” I pause. “And get me Sergei.”
Sergei appears within minutes. “Sir?”
“Petrov knew Elena would run today. Knew her exact route, timing, which cameras were down. There’s a leak. Someone told him when and where to intercept her.” I pace. “Who has access to our security schedules?”
“Internal team only. Five men besides Viktor and myself.”
“Background them all. Someone sold us out.”
He leaves. Intelligence comes in fragments—Petrov activity near the industrial district, a warehouse secured overnight, coordinates matching a property I returned to Petrov months ago.
I don’t wait for confirmation. I take twenty men and go.
We hit the warehouse fast and hard. Breach from three points simultaneously. Gunfire erupts. I move through it with singular focus, killing anyone between me and the back room.
The door is reinforced steel. I blow the lock and kick it open.
Elena is inside. Bound to a chair, wrists zip-tied, face pale and bruised. Alive.
Artyom Petrov stands behind her, gun pressed to her temple.
“You’re early,” he says calmly. “Drop your weapon or she dies.”
I lower my gun slowly.
Elena moves before Artyom can react. Throws her weight sideways, tipping the chair. His shot goes wide.
I’m moving before the echo fades. Grab Artyom’s wrist, twist until bones crack. He tries to fight. I slam him against the wall. Once. Twice.
“You touched her,” I say quietly. “You threatened my child.”
I pull my knife and press it to his throat. “You don’t touch what’s mine.”
Then I cut. Blood sprays. Artyom goes still.
I turn to Elena. She’s on the floor, staring at me with wide eyes, blood splattered across her face.
I cross to her and cut the zip ties. She gasps when her arms come free, then throws herself at me. Arms around my neck, face buried in my chest, body shaking.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur. “You’re safe.”
“I’m sorry—they were waiting—I didn’t know.”
“Later. We’ll deal with it later.”
I hold her while my men secure the building. Hold her like she might vanish if I loosen my grip.
“What Artyom said,” I ask quietly. “About being pregnant.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“We’ll find out at home. Right now, we’re leaving.”
***
Back at the house, I dismiss everyone. Take her to the bathroom and start cleaning blood from her face.
“I can do it myself.”
“I know.”
I check her wrists—bruised, cut from the zip ties. Her ribs where they hit her. Bruised but not broken.
“Why?” The question explodes out. “Why did you run? You could have been killed.”
“I’d rather die trying to be free than live as your prisoner!”
I grab her waist, pull her close. “You belong to me. Not as property. As my wife. Mine. That means you’re protected.”
“It means I’m trapped.”
“It means you matter!” My voice breaks. “You think I shut down the city for strategy? Killed Artyom with my bare hands for business? When you ran, when I thought I’d lost you—”
The space between us evaporates. My mouth is on hers, desperate and demanding. She kisses back with the same desperation, hands fisting in my shirt.
I lift her, carry her to the bedroom, never breaking the kiss. Lay her carefully on the bed.
“Your ribs are bruised.”
“I don’t care.” She pulls me down. “Please.”
I strip her carefully, cataloging every injury. When she’s bare beneath me, I pause. Just look at her. Memorize her alive, here, choosing this.
“I thought I lost you,” I say, voice raw.
“I’m here.” Her hands frame my face. “I’m alive.”
I kiss her again, my hands sliding between her legs, finding her already wet.
“Tell me you want this.”
“I want it. I want you. I hate it. I hate you, but I want you anyway.”
I work her slowly, carefully, aware of her injuries. When she comes, it’s with my name on her lips.
I strip quickly, position myself between her legs. She wraps them around my waist despite the pain.
“Careful.”
“I don’t care. I need to feel you. Need to feel alive.”
I push inside slowly, watching her face, cataloging every reaction. She’s so tight, her body gripping me like it doesn’t want to let go. Her breath catches, lips parting, a small sound escaping that’s pure need.
When I’m fully seated, I pause. Press my forehead to hers. Just breathe her in.
“I can’t lose you,” I whisper. “I won’t survive it.”
“Then don’t let me go.”
I start moving, slow and deep, each thrust deliberate. Her inner walls pulse around me, velvet heat that makes coherent thought impossible. I feel every flutter, every clench, every response her body gives mine.
“Look at me,” I demand.
Her eyes open, hazy with pleasure and pain and something raw I can’t name. I hold her gaze as I withdraw almost completely, then push back in, slow enough that she feels every inch.
“You feel that?” I ask, voice rough. “Feel how perfectly you take me?”
“Yes—” Her nails dig into my shoulders. “God, yes!”
I increase the pace slightly, still careful of her ribs, but deep enough that she gasps with each thrust. My hand slides between us, finding her clit, circling with the same rhythm.
“I thought I’d never touch you again,” I say against her mouth. “Thought I’d lost this. Lost you.”
“I’m here,” She arches beneath me, taking me deeper. “Oh, fuck.”
I angle my hips, hitting that spot inside her that makes her whole body jerk. She cries out, legs tightening around my waist despite the pain it must cause.
“That’s it,” I murmur, maintaining the angle, the pressure. “Take what you need. Show me you’re alive.”
Her cunt clenches around me, waves of heat that signal she’s close. I can feel her climbing, tension building in every muscle, breath coming faster.
“Aleksandr, please!”
“What do you need?” I drive deeper, harder, still careful but relentless. “Tell me.”
“Faster.”
I press my thumb firmer against her clit, circling faster, feeling her body start to shake.
She comes with my name torn from her throat, her cunt pulsing so hard around my cock that I nearly lose control. I hold still, buried deep, letting her ride out every wave while her nails score down my back.
Before she can fully recover, I start moving again. Slower now, drawing it out, making her feel every thrust while she’s still sensitive and trembling.
“Too much—” She gasps, trying to push at my chest.
“No.” I catch her wrists, pin them gently above her head. “You don’t get to run from this. From me. Not anymore.”
I set a rhythm that’s steady and deep, watching her face as overstimulation shifts back into pleasure. Her eyes go wide, mouth falling open, body arching despite herself.
“I can’t—I already—”
“You can.” I lean down, bite gently at her throat. “Your body knows what it wants. Even if your mind still fights it.”
She whimpers, hips starting to move with mine again, meeting each thrust. I release her wrists, and she immediately tangles her hands in my hair, pulling me down for a kiss that’s all desperate need and surrender.
I’m close. So fucking close. I need her with me. Need to feel her fall apart again, proof that she’s mine, that this is real.
I shift my weight, change the angle slightly, and feel her entire body go rigid.
“There—” she chokes out. “Right there, don’t stop.”
I don’t. Just maintain that exact angle, that exact depth, driving into her with steady precision while my thumb works her clit. Her second orgasm builds faster than the first, tension coiling tight.
“Come for me,” I growl against her ear.
She shatters with a broken cry, her cunt clamping down so hard it borders on pain. The pulsing, the heat, the way she clings to me like I’m the only thing keeping her grounded—it’s too much.
I bury myself as deep as I can go and come with a groan I can’t suppress. Fill her completely, marking her from the inside, staking a claim that goes beyond rational thought.
For several heartbeats, we just stay like that. Connected. Breathing hard. Her body still trembling with aftershocks around me.
When I finally pull out, I roll us carefully so she’s draped across my chest. She makes a small sound of protest at the loss but curls into me immediately, exhausted.
I stroke her hair, her back, anywhere I can reach. Grounding myself in the reality of her skin against mine, her heartbeat steady against my ribs, her breath warm on my chest.
“If you’re pregnant,” I say quietly after long minutes. “That child is ours.”
“You said at the dinner. The conversation about heirs—”
“I know what I said. I know what you heard.” I tilt her chin up so she’s looking at me. “It wasn’t the whole truth. Wasn’t even the main truth.”
“Then what is?”
I should tell her everything. About the manipulation. About her family. About how wrong I was.
The words stick.
“The truth is I can’t let you go,” I say instead. “That’s not strategy. Not about heirs or bloodlines. I just can’t function knowing you’re out there, beyond my reach. Beyond my protection.”
“That’s still possession.”
“I know.” I don’t deny it. “It’s honest possession. I want you here not because you’re useful.”
“I don’t want that.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to die escaping you either.”
Instead of replying, I just pull her tighter.