Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Kira
The words don’t make sense at first. We’re getting married within the week.
I feel it physically, like a punch right under the ribs, sharp enough to steal my breath away and leave my whole body locked in place because my brain is trying to decide if I misheard him or if the entire hall actually tilted sideways.
Artyom stands there like he just announced something as simple as dinner plans, calm and certain and terrifyingly composed, while my whole world lurches sideways and tries to correct itself around him. Vladimir’s eyes flick toward me like he’s studying a new, bizarre toy.
Artyom steps in front of me a little, not fully enough to hide me, but enough to make it clear that whatever just happened wasn’t an accident. His shoulders are rigid, the lines of his back tight, his jaw set in that way he gets when he’d burn a building down before backing up even one step.
And all I can think is that he didn’t ask me. He didn’t even warn me.
My pulse is loud in my throat, louder than the silence stretching across the marble floor, louder than the sound of Vladimir’s amusement, louder than anything except the sick shock pouring hot and cold through my body at the same time.
Mikhail moves nearer, his posture alert, but not enough to hide the flicker in his eyes that says he knows Artyom didn’t plan this.
My hand is still on Artyom’s arm, and I’m suddenly aware of everything—the warmth of his skin, the hard line of muscle under my fingers, the way he reacted to his father looking at me.
He said it because Vladimir looked at me too long and something in Artyom snapped. The realization hits me harder than the announcement itself.
When the moment finally breaks, when Vladimir turns and signals for the staff to take bags, when the hallway begins to shift back into motion, Artyom finally turns his head just enough to look at me, his eyes unreadable.
I don’t say a word until we’ve left the mansion and driven over to the house he lives in.
The second it closes, I spin around.
“What the hell was that?” My voice comes out lower than I expect, almost breathless, not angry in the way I imagined.
Artyom stands by the door of the bedroom, every line of him stiff, controlled, like he’s holding himself together out of sheer will.
“Kira—”
“No,” I say, stepping back, my hands lifting because I need space, because if I don’t put space between us I’m afraid I’ll start shaking. “No. You don’t get to start with my name like that. You don’t get to— to declare something like that in front of him without even talking to me.”
His jaw tightens. “You heard what he said.”
“I don’t care what he said,” I snap, though part of me does, part of me heard the malice in Vladimir’s tone, part of me felt the danger in.
“I care that you—Artyom—what were you thinking? I was supposed to pretend to be your fiancée. Pretend. Fake. Acting. That was the deal. This—this marriage thing? That wasn’t part of anything. ”
He looks at me like he’s trying to hold himself together, his breathing heavy, uneven in a way that cracks something open inside me.
“I know,” he finally says, but the words sound torn from him.
“Then why did you say it?”
His silence hits the room like a weight dropping, sudden and heavy. I can see it in his eyes—the panic, the regret, the want, all tangled together—and some stubborn part of me refuses to let him hide behind silence now.
“Tell me,” I whisper, and I don’t look away.
He drags a hand over his jaw, slow and almost painful, and takes a step toward me, stops halfway, shoulders tense, as if taking one more step would push us past some invisible point we can’t come back from.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and unsteady at the edges. “I said it because I meant it.”
The sound of those words sends something sharp through my chest, a flutter that feels too much like fear and too much like wanting.
“For how long?” My voice barely makes it out.
He shakes his head slowly, eyes dropping for a second before finding mine again.
“I don’t know. I didn’t think it would come out like that.
I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even realize I—” He breathes out hard, the kind of exhale that sounds like surrender.
“When he looked at you like that, something in me… snapped. I reacted.”
I swallow, my throat tight. “That is not a reason to marry me.”
“It’s not the only reason.”
The quiet in the room shifts, warmer, heavier, pulling me toward him even though I’m already trying not to fall.
He takes another step closer, and this time I don’t move. There’s something raw and unguarded in his eyes, almost vulnerable.
“I’ve been falling for you,” he says, and the words land like a blow, soft but devastating.
“And I’ve been pretending I’m not. Pretending it’s just the arrangement.
Pretending I don’t care where you are or who’s near you or if you’re scared or hurt or gone.
” His voice drops even lower, breaking only slightly.
“Pretending I didn’t almost lose my mind when you walked into that basement.
Pretending I wasn’t terrified of what you’d think of me after. ”
He looks like the confession physically hurts him, like dragging these truths out cost him something permanent, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I realize he’s not afraid of losing control. He’s afraid of losing me.
My breath catches.
“And I don’t want to pretend anymore.”
The room seems to tilt again, but slower this time, like my body is adjusting to a different kind of gravity.
“Artyom…”
“I know it’s insane. I know the timeline is insane.
I know you didn’t agree to any of this. And I’m not going to pressure you into a week, or a month, or anything you don’t want.
But I want to be with you, arrangement or not.
And I don’t want anyone thinking they can touch you or take you or even look at you like you’re something they have access to. ”
He stops, breath shaky for the first time since I’ve known him.
“When it comes to you,” he says again, slower this time, “I only know that losing you feels like dying. And that terrifies me.”
Something in me collapses, folds inward, softens and I move toward him before I can stop myself.
“Artyom,” I say, voice unsteady. “If I agree to this—if I stay—there have to be conditions.”
His eyes lift to mine immediately, sharp and intense. “Name them.”
“I’m not giving up my life,” I say. “My things, my independence, my words, my friends. I won’t become some quiet version of myself that exists just to make your world easier.”
“You won’t,” he says instantly, the words coming out so fast and so sure that it feels like he’s been waiting his whole life to say them.
“I need space sometimes,” I say, my fingers twisting at the hem of my shirt before I force them still.
“I’ll give it to you,” he replies, softer this time, his gaze dropping to my hands like he wants to take them but doesn’t trust himself yet.
“I get a say in everything. Everything.” My voice wavers, but I hold his eyes.
“You will,” he says with a slow nod, taking another step toward me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body even though he isn’t touching me.
“And if I ever feel like you’re treating me like something you own—”
“I won’t,” he cuts in, stepping closer with a quiet finality, his voice low and certain as his chest rises with a steady breath. “Not you.”
I inhale slowly, trying to calm the shaking I can feel building in my chest. “Then I’m in.”
He goes so still it feels like the air stops moving with him. His eyes widen just a fraction, his throat tightening on a breath he forgets to release, and for a split second he looks like a man getting something he didn’t believe he’d ever be allowed to have.
“Say it again,” he whispers, his voice rough, almost broken, as if he needs to hear it one more time to trust it’s real.
“I’m in,” I repeat, my voice steadier this time as I lift my chin, meeting his eyes without flinching.
Something shifts in him, something hot and dark and desperate, and before I can register the movement, his hands slide to my waist, pulling me against him in one smooth, controlled motion that steals whatever air I had left.
“You have no idea what that does to me,” he murmurs against my temple, his voice low and rough and trembling in a way I’ve never heard before.
My fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer without meaning to, my body already reacting faster than my thoughts.
“Artyom…”
He lifts my chin gently with his fingers, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, almost wild, almost undone.
“You’re mine,” he says, quiet but absolute, like the words came from somewhere deep inside him. “You chose me.”
Heat rushes through me so fast it makes my knees weak.
“And I’m yours,” he adds, voice husky, almost a whisper.
Before I can breathe, he kisses me. I melt into him, responding with an immediate, fervent need that surprises us both.
My hands fist in the collar of his suit jacket, dragging him down, my mouth opening for him without thought.
He groans softly against my lips, the sound vibrating deep in my chest, as his hands slide up my sides, over my ribcage, charting the curves, claiming me with mapping precision.
It feels nothing like the calculated ownership of his world and everything like elemental, consuming need.
He lifts me effortlessly, one hand shifting to the small of my back while the other grips my thigh, and my legs instinctively wrap high around his waist. My back hits the nearest wall—the hard, ornate plaster a sharp contrast to the heat of his mouth and body.
His breath is hot and labored against my throat as he pulls back just enough to speak.
"You’re so beautiful," he murmurs, his voice thick.
I tilt my head back instead, offering my throat to him, and his mouth trails down my neck, slow and hungry, his teeth scraping the skin right over my collarbone, sending a shockwave through me.
I feel it everywhere, in every nerve, every pulse point, every inch of skin that suddenly feels too sensitive and exposed.
He carries me to the bed without breaking the kiss, his strength absolute, and lays me down with a gentleness that doesn’t match the fire blazing in his eyes, then leans over me, bracing his arms on either side of my head.
He is breathing hard, looking at me like I’m the only thing he’s ever truly wanted to consume.
"Kira," he whispers, his forehead pressing to mine, his dark lashes brushing my brow. "I need you.”
My breath catches, sharp and shallow. He lowers his mouth to mine again, pulling the first wave of heat down into a deep, consuming kiss. The world blurs into the velvet darkness of the room.
His hands find the hem of my shirt and pull it up over my head, followed quickly by the snap and whisper of my jeans zipper. He works quickly but not impatiently, tearing through the last barrier of clothes.
He positions himself over me, his weight heavy and perfect, anchoring me to the bed. I open my legs, inviting the inevitable, pulling him down until our bare skin meets. The friction is instantaneous, searing, and undeniable.
He enters me slowly, giving my body time to adjust to the deep invasion, and the effort of holding back makes the muscles in his arms stand out, rigid under my hands. I gasp, arching up to meet him, needing the pressure, needing the final claim.
“Nothing else exists,” he pauses, eyes locked on mine, demanding witness, " every damn time you look at me."
Then, the last thread of restraint snaps.
He begins to move in a powerful, measured rhythm that quickly descends into desperate, raw speed. His tongue finds my ear, his voice low and ragged. "Keep your eyes open. I want to see you. I want you to come for me."
His pace accelerates sharply, pushing me over the precipice, and the pleasure sears through me, white-hot and absolute. I cry out, the sound swallowed by the pillow beneath my head, my back bowing off the mattress as the raw, spiraling waves of release hit, violently shaking my entire frame.
He doesn't slow down; he uses my surrender, driving into the core of the quake, his low growl turning into a primal shout against my skin, the muscles in his neck standing out in sharp relief as he finally gives himself over to the desperate, final spasm of his own climax.
He collapses onto me, heavy and spent, his body trembling, burying his face in the damp curve of my neck. Everything fades into heat and soft darkness, leaving only the sound of our bodies colliding, our harsh, shared breaths, and the singular, shattering feeling of being claimed.
And I can no longer deny that I love him too.