Chapter 9
Shanice
Idreamed of white picket fences and Sunday mornings. Of a faceless child with my eyes, complexion, and Mikhail's dark hair. Of a life I wasn't sure I wanted but couldn't stop imagining.
When I woke, Mikhail was still there, his arm heavy across my waist, his breathing slow and even. I shifted, and his eyes opened immediately, alert.
"Morning," he murmured.
"I don't know if I want that," I blurted out.
He blinked. "Want what?"
"A baby. You. Any of it." The words tumbled out in a rush. "I just got back to school. I'm trying to figure out who I am after everything that happened. I need to focus on myself, not a relationship. Not children. Not any of that."
Mikhail laughed. Actually laughed at me, deep and genuine, his chest rumbling against my back.
I twisted to glare at him. "What's so funny?"
"You." He brushed hair from my face, his expression amused. "You think you can't have all of that and a relationship? You think wanting to grow and heal means you have to do it alone?"
"Yes. No. I don't know." I pushed at his chest. "Stop laughing at me."
"I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at the idea that you have to choose.
" He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at me.
"Being with me doesn't mean giving up on yourself, Shanice.
It means having someone in your corner while you build the life you want.
Someone who supports you. Protects you. Pushes you to be better. Someone to share it all with."
"And what do you get out of it?"
His eyes darkened. "Everything. Your body. Your mind. Your heart. Every piece of you that you're willing to give. And in return, I give you the world. Myself included."
My throat went tight. "I don't want to own you."
"That's because you don't understand ownership within a relationship.
" He traced his finger along my jaw, slow and deliberate.
"Ownership isn't about control. It's about commitment.
It means I'm yours and you're mine. No one else gets to touch you.
No one else gets to have you. And in return, I give you the same devotion. The same loyalty. The same intensity."
"That sounds possessive."
"It is possessive. I'm a possessive man, Shanice. I don't share. I don't do casual. When I claim something, it's mine. Forever." His thumb brushed over my lower lip. "And I want to claim you."
Heat pooled low in my belly. Everything he was saying should've sent me running. Should've made me push him away and tell him he was insane. But it didn't.
Because some dark, hidden part of me wanted exactly what he was offering. Wanted to be claimed. Owned. Possessed by this dangerous, intense man who looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
"That's crazy," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Probably." He smiled. "But you want it too. I can see it in your eyes."
"You're so full of yourself."
"Am I wrong?"
I opened my mouth to say yes, to tell him he was completely wrong and arrogant and out of his mind. But the words wouldn't come.
Mikhail's smile turned predatory. "That's what I thought."
Before I could respond, he moved. Fast. One second I was lying beside him, the next I was pinned beneath him, his body covering mine, his hands capturing my wrists and pressing them into the mattress above my head.
"Mikhail," I breathed.
"You talk too much," he said.
Then he kissed me.
It wasn't gentle. Wasn't soft or sweet or tentative.
It was consuming, devastating, a claiming of my mouth that left no room for doubt about what he wanted.
I moaned, my body arching up into his. He was everywhere, his weight pressing me into the bed, his scent surrounding me, his taste flooding my senses.
I tried to free my hands, desperate to touch him, but he held them firm.
"No," he murmured against my lips. "You don't get to touch yet. Not until you're ready to give me everything."
"I am ready," I gasped.
"Liar. You want to give me your body. I want the whole damn package. Baby, I want all of you."
He kissed me again, deeper this time, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with possessive strokes.
I whimpered, my hips rolling up against him, seeking friction, seeking relief from the ache building between my legs.
Mikhail growled, low and rough. He shifted, his thigh pressing between mine, giving me something to grind against. I did, shamelessly, chasing the pleasure he was offering.
His mouth moved to my neck, biting and sucking, marking me the way he had earlier. One hand released my wrists to slide under my shirt, palming my breast, finding my nipple and tweaking hard.
"Please," I begged, not even sure what I was asking for.
"Not yet." He bit down on the spot where my neck met my shoulder, hard enough to make me cry out. "You're not ready."
"I hate you," I gasped, even as my body betrayed me, grinding harder against his thigh.
"No, you don't." He soothed the bite with his tongue, then moved to the other side of my neck. "You hate that I'm right."
His hand worked my breast with ruthless precision, tweaking and rolling my nipple until I was writhing beneath him. His thigh stayed pressed between my legs, giving me just enough friction to build the pressure but not enough to tip me over the edge.
I was burning. Desperate. So close I could taste it. Once again he was making me lose my mind and without question of what we were doing.
"Mikhail, please," I sobbed. "Please, I need—"
"I know what you need." He released my breast and pulled back, his eyes black with desire. "But you're not getting it. Not today. Not now. I told you, I’ll fuck you when you’re mine."
"What?"
He climbed off me, off the bed, and adjusted himself in his jeans. "Get ready for class. We're leaving in thirty minutes."
I stared at him, my body still thrumming with need, my mind struggling to process what just happened. "Are you serious?"
"Very." He headed for the door. "Thirty minutes, Shanice. Don't be late."
Then he left.
I lay there for a moment, stunned. Then rage replaced the arousal.
That bastard!
I grabbed a pillow and screamed into it. Then threw it at the door. Then threw another one. And another. From the hallway, I heard Mikhail's low chuckle. That made it worse. I wanted to storm out there and hit him. Or kiss him. Or both. Or Neither.
Instead, I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower, turning the water as cold as I could stand.
It didn't help.
Thirty minutes later, I came downstairs dressed and ready, my hair still damp, my body still humming with unsatisfied need.
Mikhail was waiting by the door, looking perfectly calm and content. Like he hadn't just worked me into a frenzy and left me hanging.
"Ready?" he asked cheerfully.
I glared at him. "I hate you."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
He smiled and opened the door. "Let's go."
The drive to campus was torture. Mikhail was relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh as usual. He hummed along to the radio, completely unbothered.
Meanwhile, I was wound so tight I thought I might snap.
Every time he shifted in his seat, I noticed. Every time his hand moved, I watched. My body was hypersensitive, still primed from this morning, and being this close to him was making it worse.
"You good?" he asked, glancing at me.
"Fine," I bit out.
"You sure? You look a little flushed." He smirked and I wanted to punch that all knowing expression off his face. But I was angry, not stupid.
I’d never hit him and I knew exactly why. I didn’t do domestic abuse in relationships, and I very much wanted Mikhail. I just didn’t know if I wanted everything else he was offering.
"I'm fine."
He smiled, that infuriating, sexy smile of his. The one that turned me to mush every time that I saw it. "If you say so."
I spent the rest of the drive staring out the window, trying to think about anything except the ache between my legs. It didn't work.
Classes were a blur. I couldn't focus, couldn't pay attention. My mind kept drifting back to this morning, to the way Mikhail had touched me, kissed me, worked me up and left me desperate. By the time my last class ended, I was exhausted and frustrated and so sexually wound up I wanted to scream.
Mikhail was waiting outside, of course. Always there watching.
"How was class?" he asked as we walked to the SUV.
"Fine."
"Learn anything interesting?"
"No."
He opened my door, and I slid in, avoiding his eyes. The drive home was silent, my anger simmering just below the surface. When we passed the exit, I turned toward him.
“Where are we going?” I asked
"We're not going home yet," Mikhail said.
"What?"
"You haven't eaten enough today. Or hydrated. We're getting dinner first."
"I'm not hungry."
"Yes, you are." He continued driving. "And even if you weren't, you need to eat."
"Mikhail—"
"Don't argue. You're going to dinner, and you're going to enjoy it."
I wanted to tell him to take me home and leave me alone. But the truth was, I was starving. And the thought of another meal with him, another experience, was more appealing than I wanted to admit. Plus, I was curious where he was taking me.
Twenty minutes later, we pulled up to a small Italian place tucked into a quiet street. The smell of garlic and fresh bread hit me the moment we walked in, and my stomach growled.
Mikhail heard it and smiled. "Told you."
I rolled my eyes and turned my attention to the host who was seating us. We were seated at a cozy table in the corner. The waiter brought bread and olive oil, and I tore into it like I hadn't eaten in days.
"Better?" Mikhail asked, watching me with amusement.
"Shut up."
He laughed.
I ordered chicken marsala. He ordered lasagna and enough sides to feed a small army.
And once again, the food was incredible.
He fed me samples of his food so I could try it.
Everything was so good that I forgot about staying angry at him.
I wanted to hold onto my frustration. But it was hard when he was doing things like this.
Taking me out, feeding me, making sure I was okay.
Even more so when he shared his food with me.
"Why do you do this?" I asked between bites.
"Do what?"
"This. Take me to nice places. Make sure I eat. Act like you care."
His expression softened. "Because I do care. And because you deserve to be taken care of."
"I can take care of myself."
"I know you can. But you shouldn't have to do it alone."
Damn him and his perfect answers. I shook my head and tried to find a reason to be upset, but I couldn’t. We finished dinner, and by the time we got back to the mansion, my anger had cooled to a low simmer. Not gone, but manageable.
"Thank you," I said as we walked inside. "For dinner."
"You're welcome." He paused at the bottom of the stairs. "Get some rest. You've had a long day."
I nodded and headed up to my room. But that night, the nightmares came back.
Different this time. Worse. I was running through darkness, chased by something I couldn't see.
Every time I thought I'd escaped, hands grabbed me, pulled me back, and they wouldn’t let me go.
I woke gasping, tears streaming down my face.
My door opened, and Mikhail was there again. Like he'd been waiting.
"Come here," he said softly.
I didn't argue. I let him pull me into his arms, let him hold me while I cried, let him anchor me to reality.
"I've got you," he murmured. "You're safe."
I buried my face in his chest, breathing him in. "Why do you keep coming?"
"Because you need me. Plus, I take my job seriously to make sure that you’re safe."
"I hate needing you."
"I know." He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "But you don't have to hate it forever. Maybe you’ll learn to love it."
He stayed until I fell asleep, his arms wrapped around me, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. When I drifted off, there things that had haunted me were gone. The terrors were nowhere to be found. So I relaxed and let the empty void be my safe haven.