Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
T he movie on the television is some mindless romantic comedy, I’m still in my black leggings and the compression top from my run, my sneakers kicked off near the coffee table. I’ve been sitting here for hours, staring at the screen but seeing nothing but Boris’s face and hearing his words.
My skin feels itchy, like I’ve been doused in something caustic.
Every time the house groans, I jump. Every time I hear a guard’s boots on the gravel outside, I think it’s Mikhail coming back to tell me he knows everything.
I think about the way he kissed me this morning.
I think about the oil on his hands and the softness in his voice.
He’s going to kill me. If he doesn't kill me, he’ll throw me out. And then I’ll lose everything.
The front door slams downstairs. It’s a heavy, violent sound that vibrates through the floorboards. My heart tries to kick its way out of my ribs. I stand up, my hands trembling as I smoothing my leggings.
Mikhail walks into the suite a minute later.
I freeze. He looks like he’s been through a literal war.
His white shirt is torn at the shoulder, stained with soot and grease and dark, drying blood.
There’s an ugly, purple bruise flowering across his jaw, and a jagged cut over his eyebrow that’s still weeping red.
He smells like smoke—acrid, chemical, and overwhelming.
"Mikhail!” I breathe, taking a step toward him.
He doesn't look at me at first. He just heads straight for the dresser, his movements stiff and awkward. He looks like every step is an insult to his nervous system.
"What happened? You look… Gospodi, Mikhail, you’re bleeding."
"It’s nothing," he grunts. His voice is a rough rasp, like he’s swallowed a handful of glass. "An accident at the factory. A pipe burst."
"A pipe doesn't do that to a man's face," I snap, the terror rising in my throat. I walk over and grab his arm, stopping him before he can reach for a clean shirt. "You’re bruised and covered in ash. Don't lie to me."
He looks down at me, his blue eyes dark and rimmed with red. He looks wild, untethered. "I said it’s fine, dorogaya . Go back to your movie."
"I’m not going back to the movie. Look at your shoulder. You need to clean this before it gets infected." I don't give him a choice. I grab his hand—his knuckles are shredded—and pull him toward the master bathroom.
He resists for a second but then he lets out a long, tired sigh and follows me. I turn on the lights, the bright white tile making the blood on his shirt look even more vivid.
"Sit," I command, pointing to the edge of the large marble tub.
Mikhail sits, his head dropping into his hands. He looks defeated in a way I’ve never seen. "Artyom is in the hospital," he whispers.
The air leaves my lungs. "Is he… is he okay?"
"He’s alive. Barely. There was an explosion. A bomb, Irina. Not a pipe. Someone planted a device in the main silo and waited for us to arrive. If Artyom hadn't seen the movement… if he hadn't screamed for me to get down… I’d be in a fucking body bag right now."
I feel a cold, sickening wave of poison wash through my veins.
Boris. I know it. I can feel it in my bones.
This wasn't a business hit. This was the opening salvo of the war my father talked about.
He hit the factory. He tried to kill the brothers.
And he did it while he was threatening me at an abandoned loading dock.
"Mikhail, I’m so sorry," I say, my voice trembling. I reach for the buttons of his shirt, my fingers fumbling with the fabric.
"Don't be sorry. It’s the life." He looks up at me as I peel the ruined shirt away.
On his torso, there’s a massive, dark bruise spreading across his ribs where he must have hit something hard. There are small nicks and cuts from flying glass peppering his chest and arms. The tattoos, the serpents and the stars, are obscured by grime and blood.
I grab a basin of warm water and a soft cloth. I start with his face, gently wiping away the soot and blood from his forehead. He flinches when I get near the cut on his eyebrow, but he doesn't pull away.
"How bad is the damage?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. "To the business?"
"It’s a disaster," Mikhail says, his jaw tightening. "The factory is gone. The shipment for the Germans is ash. We lost twenty million in inventory and millions more in infrastructure. But the money isn't the problem. It’s the message. Someone moved against the Morozovs on our own soil, and they nearly succeeded. If one more thing like this happens… if we lose another hub… we’re going to need outside help. We’re going to have to go to the Council and admit we can’t protect our own borders. "
Which is exactly what Boris wants. He wants them weak. He wants them begging.
I move the cloth to his shoulder, cleaning a deep scratch. My heart is thumping a frantic, guilty rhythm. He’s sitting right here. He’s hurt, he’s bleeding, and his brother is in surgery, and it’s all because of the man who shares my last name.
"Who would do this?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"My father is the obvious choice. He’s bitter about being cut out. But Vladimir doesn't have the tactical reach for a hit this clean." Mikhail looks at me, his gaze sharp and searching. "Your father has the reach. He has the men. And he was awfully quiet during dinner the other night."
I look away, focusing intently on a bruise on his forearm. "My father is a lot of things, Mikhail, but is he really that stupid? To start an open war with your family?"
"He’s not stupid. He’s ambitious. And he’s tired of being the junior partner." Mikhail reaches out with his good hand and cups my jaw, forcing me to look at him.
He studies me for a long beat, his thumb tracing a slow, possessive line across my lower lip. The atmosphere in the bathroom slowly starts to change.
"You're shaking," he murmurs.
"I’m worried about you. And Artyom."
"Are you?" He pulls me closer, until I’m standing between his knees. "Or are you afraid of what happens next?"
"Both," I breathe.
He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me, his gaze dropping to my mouth. He looks dangerous. He looks like he wants to break something, and right now, I’m the only thing within reach.
And what scares me is I want him to. I want to be the one he breaks.
His hand snaps out and grabs the hem of my compression top, yanking it up and over my head in one vicious pull.
The cool air of the bathroom hits my skin, and my nipples peak instantly against the thin fabric of my sports bra, a traitorous ache already building between my legs. I’m so ready for him. Always.
“M-Mikhail, you’re hurt,” I whisper, but my voice is a thin, useless thing.
“I’m alive,” he growls, the sound vibrating from his chest. “And I need to feel like it.”
His mouth crashes onto mine in a sweet kiss.
His hands grip my hips, his fingers digging in with a possessive pressure I know will leave marks.
I wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer until his scent, sweat, smoke, him is all I can breathe.
I want to drown in it. I want to forget everything else.
He stands, lifting me with him as if I weigh nothing.
My back hits the cold marble of the vanity, and bottles clatter to the floor.
The sound is distant, irrelevant. I lock my legs around his waist, my core grinding against the hard ridge of his cock still confined in his trousers. A wet patch blooms on my leggings.
He tears at the elastic waistband, his movements frantic. I help, shimmying, kicking the fabric away until I’m bare. He doesn’t bother with his clothes, just fumbles with his belt, the zipper tearing down. His hardness springs free.
I drink in the sight of it. Thick, ruddy, and already leaking a bead of clear fluid from its broad, flushed head. A light dusting of dark hair leads from his navel to the base. It’s a weapon. It’s perfect.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice sandpaper rough.
I force my eyes open. He’s a beautiful ruin, blood smeared across his jaw, a fresh bruise purpling his temple, his eyes black with intent.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he growls, pinning my wrists to the marble.
“I’m yours,” I sob, the truth and the lie tangling on my tongue. “Mikhail, please .”
He enters me in one powerful, driving thrust that sheathes him inside me to the root. My cry echoes off the tiles, my head knocking back against the mirror. The stretch is immediate, a delicious, burning fullness that steals my air. He’s so deep, I feel him in my throat.
“Yours,” he grunts, and he’s already moving.
His pace is punishing, a relentless piston of his hips that slams my body against the hard surface.
Each withdrawal is a tease, each slam home a jolt of pure sensation.
My breasts bounce with the force, my nipples scraping against his blood-stained shirt.
I can feel every cut on his knuckles, every contusion on his torso, branding me as his.
“You like it rough, don’t you, Princess?” he pants against my ear, his breath hot.
“Yes,” I gasp, my vision speckling. “ Fuck me . Just like that.”
He pulls out suddenly, the cold air a shock on my wet flesh.
Before I can protest, his hands are on my thighs, flipping me over with brutal efficiency.
My palms slap against the cold marble, my ass in the air.
He spreads my cheeks wide with his hands, and I know he’s looking.
Looking at my pussy, swollen and glistening for him, at the tight, hidden furl between.
“Such a pretty, greedy cunt,” he murmurs, and the approval in his voice makes me clench around nothing. “Begging for it.”
His hand comes down on my ass cheek once, twice—sharp, stinging smacks that ignite a fire under my skin. I yelp, pushing back against his hand, wanting more.
“ More , Mikhail. Please… please, please.”