Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
M IKHAIL
The air in Vladimir’s study is thick.
Artyom stands by the window, his silhouette a sharp, unforgiving line against the light. I’m leaning against the mahogany desk—the same desk where our father used to sit and decide who lived and who died. Now, the roles are reversed.
I’d be grinning if my mood would allow it.
Vladimir is sitting in his leather wingback chair, a glass of amber liquid trembling in his hand.
"You’re making a mistake," Vladimir rasps, his voice thin. "The Petrovs will see this as a weakness. Boris will think I’ve lost control of my own fucking blood!"
"You already lost control, Father," Artyom says without turning around. His voice is a glacier. "The moment you started moving bodies, you stepped off the board. We don't trade in flesh. We told you that when I took the seat."
"It was a side venture," Vladimir sneers, trying to find his teeth. "A way to ensure the North Dock expansion stayed funded while you were playing 'legitimate fucking businessman' with your nurse."
I feel the anger twitching under my skin and push off the desk, stepping into Vladimir's personal space, looming over him until he’s forced to look up.
"It was a betrayal," I growl. "You used our routes. You used our men. If you weren’t my own fucking father, I wouldn’t even be having this conversation."
Vladimir blinks, the first sign of real fear flickering in his eyes.
"From this moment," Artyom says, finally turning, "you are retired.
You will stay at the country estate. You will have no access to the ledgers, no contact with the Council, and no voice in the business.
If you so much as whisper a command to a foot soldier, Mikhail won't be the one you have to worry about. "
"You’re exiling your own father?" Vladimir asks, a pathetic note of betrayal in his voice.
"I’m keeping you alive," Artyom counters. "Be grateful for that."
We walk out without another word. The heavy doors thud shut behind us, like a coffin lid. Artyom looks at me as we reach the foyer, his expression unreadable.
"Go to your wing, Mikhail," he says. "Take a breather, I’ll handle the Council briefing."
"You think Boris knew?" I ask.
"I think Boris knows everything," Artyom says. "But we deal with one snake at a time. Go. You’re vibrating so hard I can hear your teeth rattling."
He’s right. I’m a wreck. The adrenaline from the interrogation, the fury at my father, and the unrelenting, localized ache in my trousers have combined into a cocktail that’s ready to explode.
I go back to my part of the estate like a man possessed. I don't go through the front. I don't know why—call it a hunter’s instinct—but I circle around the west wing.
And that’s when I see it.
The trellis is shaking. A figure in black is scrambling up the lattice, moving with a desperate, frantic energy. My heart stops, then starts again with a violent thud.
No. Not again.
I’m out of the car before I can even think. I reach the base of the trellis just as she is reaching the ledge of the guest room window. She’s fast, I’ll give her that. But I’m faster.
I grab the ivy, my boots finding purchase on the brick, and I’m up the wall in three lunges. She’s through the window when my hand clamps around her ankle.
She let out a sharp, strangled yelp. She tries to kick me off, her sneaker catching me in the shoulder, but I don't let go. I follow her through the window and onto the floor of the room.
I scramble in after her, slamming the window shut and locking it. I’m on top of her before she can even get to her feet, my weight pinning her to the rug.
"Where the fuck were you?" I roar.
Irina is gasping for air, her face pale under the hood of a black sweatshirt. Her eyes are wide, darting toward the door. She looks like a cornered animal, all teeth and claws.
"Get off me, Mikhail!" she hisses, pushing at my chest.
"I told you to stay in the house," I growl, my fingers digging into her shoulders.
"I told you what would happen if you did something stupid.
Who were you meeting? Was it a lover? A contact for your father?
Tell me who he is before I go back to that cellar and find a reason to use the pliers on you. "
"There is no 'he'!" she snaps, her voice cracking. "I wasn't meeting a man!"
"Liar!" I shout, all the anger and frustration in me finally breaking free. I grab the front of her hoodie and haul her up until we’re nose-to-nose. "Who is the man you're running to?"
"I'm not running to anyone!"
"Then why the window? Why the black clothes? Why the secrets?" I shake her, my frustration boiling over into a raw, jagged rage. "I defended you. I threatened my own father for you. And you repay me by sneaking out the moment my back is turned? Who is he? Give me a fucking name!"
"There is no name!" she screams, her face turning a deep, angry red. She’s shaking, her eyes filling with tears of pure, unadulterated frustration. "You think I’m out there looking for a lover? You think I have room in my head for anyone else?"
"Then tell me the truth!"
"The truth is that there is no man in my head but you!" she blurts out, the words hitting the air like a physical blow.
The room goes silent. The only sound is our ragged breathing and the ticking of a clock on the mantel. I freeze, my grip on her hoodie loosening just a fraction.
Irina swallows hard, her gaze fixed on mine. "There is no man in my head but you, Mikhail. You’re everywhere. You’re in my sleep, you’re in my head when I’m awake, you’re the one that makes me feel like I’m suffocating and alive at the same time. Are you happy now? Is that what you wanted to hear?"
Something inside me snaps. I grab the back of her head and pull her into a kiss that tastes like salt and everything I’ve wanted and more.
She fights me for a second, her hands hitting my chest, but then she melts. She lets out a soft, broken moan and wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me closer until there isn't a single millimeter of air between us.
"I’m going to fuck any man out of you," I rasp against her lips, my hands roaming over her body, tracing the curves I’ve been dreaming about for months. "Every thought of any other man, every memory of your father... I’m going to burn it all out of your system until there’s nothing left but me."
"Mikhail," she gasps, her fingers digging into my hair.
Fuck! She’s so sexy, I want to ruin her.
I stand up, lifting her with me as if she weighs nothing. I carry her through the hall to our suite, my pace fast and aggressive. I kick the door shut and lock it. I don't even make it to the bed.
I can’t wait one more second.
I press her against the door, my mouth finding hers again. I’m a madman. I’m a beast. I’m everything they said I was, and right now, she’s the only thing keeping me from spinning off the axis of the earth.
I yank the hoodie over her head, discarding it on the floor. I rip her leggings down her legs.
She’s shivering, but she isn't pulling away. She’s looking at me with an intensity that matches my own.
I pause, my hands hovering over soft skin. “Tell me when you want me to stop. Use your words. Green, Yellow and Red. Is that understood?”
She nods frantically, biting her plump bottom lips. “Green.”
"Green," I repeat, my voice a rough growl.
I strip off my shirt, the tattoos on my chest pulsing with the rhythm of my heart. I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist, and I carry her to the bed.
Her body is a fucking masterpiece. Pale skin, like moonlit alabaster, stretched over a frame of delicate bones and soft, generous curves. Her breasts are full, the nipples already hard and dark pink against the smooth, creamy skin. My mouth waters. I want to taste every inch of her.
I lay her down on the mattress, her hair fanning out around her like a halo. I stand over her, looking down at the feast laid out for me. Her belly dips softly, leading to the swell of her hips. And between them…
I kneel on the bed, my hands sliding up her thighs.
They’re soft, warm. I push them apart, spreading her legs wide.
The sight of her pussy makes my cock throb against my pants.
It’s clean-shaven, a smooth, plump mound of pale skin.
Her lips are parted, glistening with a wetness that isn’t just arousal—it’s a fucking river.
The inner lips are a darker pink, swollen and slick, peeking out from the outer folds. The scent hits me, musky, sweet, ugh, I can feel my cock even more, painfully. This… this is the smell of a woman who is ready, who is fucking ready for me.
"Irina," I say, my voice thick. "Look at you. You’re dripping for me."
She shifts her hips, a slow, provocative roll that opens her up even more. The inner lips seem to bloom, revealing the tight, dark pink entrance of her cunt. A shimmer of wetness coats everything, catching the low light from the bedside lamp. Fuck .
I lean down, my face inches from her heat. "You love this," I murmur. "You love showing me how fucking wet you are. You love knowing I’m going to lose my mind over it."
She doesn’t answer with words. She answers with her body. She arches her back, pushing her hips up towards my face. Her hands come to her own breasts, her fingers squeezing the soft flesh, pulling at her nipples. She moans, a loud, wanton sound that fills the room.
She’s a fucking exhibitionist. Just for me.
I can’t wait anymore.
I pull my pants and boxers down, freeing my cock. It’s hard, thick, the skin flushed a deep red. The head is swollen, a bead of clear fluid already gleaming at the tip. I grip the base, stroking myself once, watching her eyes follow the movement. Her tongue comes out, wetting her own lips.
Fuck, she’s sensual. She’s a fucking provocateur.
"I want you to taste me first," I command.
I move over her, hovering above her mouth. She opens her lips willingly, her blue eyes locked on mine. I guide myself down, the hot, smooth head of my dick pressing against her tongue. She takes me in, her mouth warm and wet.