Chapter 21
Zoya
The need to fix this claws at my stomach.
I fucked up. Somewhere between him locking me in this room and him shooting his guard who hurt me, the lines blurred.
I don’t want to leave. I know Nik will hunt me down, but it’s more than that.
He provides a safety that was ripped away from me when my father died.
I press my face against the warm skin of his back.
He remains rigid, a statue carved from resentment and lust, but he doesn’t shake me off. That has to count for something.
“I’m not running,” I say into his skin, the vibration travelling through us both.
He turns slowly, breaking my hold. His blue eyes are glacial, searching for the lie. I offer him none. I am naked before him, bearing the red marks of his possession on my wrist and throat like expensive jewellery. If this is the price of survival, I am paying it.
“Prove it,” he commands, his voice rough.
“Take me to your room,” I reply, meeting his stare. “Lock the door. Swallow the key. I don’t care. Take me to your bed and let me show you how much I want to stay.”
A muscle tenses in his jaw. The strain in the room shifts from violence to something heavier, stickier.
He scoops me up without a word, his arm a steel band around my waist as he carries me as easily as he would a doll.
The world tilts on its axis as I accept the protection he can give me, even though it comes with strings attached that I’m not too sure I can accept yet.
He carries me out of the suite that has been my cage and into the corridor, both of us naked and dripping with juices.
A sound catches in my throat—too sharp to be joy, too close to panic—and I bite it back against his neck, because if I don’t, something uglier will come out instead.
I bury my face in the crook of his neck, breathing in sandalwood, forcing my body to remember this: I’m held.
I’m not alone. I am the spoil of war, and for the first time since my father was shot, the terror recedes.
I am in the dragon’s den, but at least the dragon breathes fire for me, not at me.
Roman doesn’t falter. His stride is steady, claiming the space, claiming me.
He heads straight for the double oak doors at the end of the wing. He kicks them open, crossing the threshold into a room that smells entirely of him.
He doesn’t drop me. He lowers me onto a mattress that dwarfs the one I just left.
Black bedding, not grey. The colour of the void.
I sink into the duvet, feeling small and utterly conquered.
The room is vast, dominated by dark mahogany and shadows that cling to the corners like cobwebs.
It is stark, masculine, and terrifyingly intimate.
Roman turns and kicks the door closed. The sound is heavy, final.
It vibrates through the floorboards and settles in my marrow.
I shiver, but it isn’t from the cold. It’s the realisation that I stopped looking for the exit the moment he picked me up.
Here, surrounded by the scent of his power, the ledger and the code feel a million miles away.
He joins me on the bed, but I don’t give him a chance to dominate.
He wants me to prove I want him enough to stay, then he will let me do the heavy lifting for round two.
I crawl onto his lap, grinding my pussy over his cock until I feel it stiffen.
He watches with eyes like a hawk, looking for anything he might deem to be a lie, forced or otherwise not to his liking.
His eyes darken as I take control. His hands settle on my hips, not guiding, just holding, as if he’s waiting to see what I’ll do.
The vulnerability of being naked in his space should terrify me, but instead, it empowers me.
I want to show him I’m not just submitting—I’m choosing this.
“I want you,” I whisper, leaning down to brush my lips against his. “Not because I have to. Because I need to.”
He doesn’t respond with words. His grip tightens, fingers digging into my flesh as I align myself with his cock. I sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch until he is balls deep inside me. The stretch burns in the most delicious way, my pussy still sensitive from before.
I move, setting a pace that’s just shy of desperate. His eyes never leave mine, watching for any sign of deception. But there’s nothing to find—I’m not faking this pleasure that builds with each roll of my hips. My sharp nails dig into the nape of his neck, and he hisses as I mark him.
“Roman,” I breathe, the name falling from my lips like a prayer.
Something in his expression shifts—a crack in the ice. His hands slide up my sides to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples. I arch into his touch, my rhythm faltering as sensation overtakes me.
“Show me,” he demands, voice gravel-rough. “Show me how much,” he growls, his hands moving to grip my hips again, guiding me into a deeper rhythm.
I bear down on him, taking him deeper than before. The fullness makes me gasp, makes my eyes flutter closed, but he’s not having it.
“Look at me,” he commands, his hand going loosely around my throat. “I want to see your eyes when you come.”
I obey, locking my gaze with his. There’s something raw in his expression that I’ve never seen before—vulnerability beneath the steel. I roll my hips, chasing the pleasure building at the base of my spine. His cock hits that perfect spot inside me, and I cry out, my nails digging in harder.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “Take what you need.”
I ride him harder, faster, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. He cups my breasts again, pinching my nipples just hard enough to send shockwaves of pleasure-pain through my body. I’m close, so close, the tension coiling tighter with each thrust.
“Roman,” I gasp, my voice breaking on his name.
The orgasm crashes through me like a tidal wave, tearing a scream from my throat. My pussy convulses around him, squeezing his cock tight enough to make him grunt in surprise.
“I believe you, malyshka,” he murmurs. “That kind of desire is hard to fake.”
He chuckles darkly and flips us over, pinning me to the bed as he drives into me hard enough to make me scream.
His powerful body crushes me into the mattress, every thrust driving me closer to another release.
I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him deeper, wanting him to feel how much I need this—need him.
His breath comes in ragged pants against my neck, hot and damp.
“Yours,” he growls.
I gasp as his gaze locks onto mine.
“Yours,” he says again, almost daring me to challenge him.
“Mine,” I practically snarl and use every ounce of strength I have to roll us over again so I’m riding him.
His eyes darken with surprise, but his grip on my hips tightens as he lets me take control. The power shift intoxicates me. I’m claiming him as much as he’s claimed me.
“Mine,” I repeat, grinding down harder, enjoying the pleasure passing across his face. I want to break his control, to see him come undone beneath me the way he’s undone me.
His hands slide up my body, settling under my breasts. “Take it,” he growls, his hips thrusting up to meet mine. “Take what’s yours.”
I move faster, chasing that precipice again. I ride him with everything I’ve got and thank God for my Pilates-honed muscles. I’m bringing him immense pleasure; I want to keep doing it. I want to brand myself onto him as thoroughly as he’s branded me.
“Eyes on me,” he commands quietly.
I lock my gaze with his as the orgasm tears through me.
This time, he follows me over the edge, his body tensing beneath mine as he fills me with his release.
His eyes never leave mine, and in that moment of shared vulnerability, something shifts between us—something neither of us can take back, even if we wanted to.
I collapse onto his chest, utterly spent, my heart hammering against his. His arms wrap around me, one hand tangling in my hair while the other traces slow patterns on my sweat-slicked back.
“I’m not leaving,” I whisper into the hollow of his throat, tasting the salt of his skin. “Not because I can’t, but because I don’t want to.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. His fingers continue their lazy exploration of my spine, dipping into the small of my back, then up to the nape of my neck. I feel his pulse slowing beneath my cheek, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath.
“I know,” he says finally, the vibration rumbling through me.
I lift my head to look at him, searching his face for any hint of the coldness from before. It’s gone, replaced by something I can’t quite name. It’s not softness, Roman Voronov doesn’t do soft, but something less guarded.
“Will you believe me?” I ask.
His lips quirk, almost a smile but not quite. “Actions, Zoya. Always actions.”
I nod and settle back against him, our bodies cooling in the dim light of his bedroom. The silence between us isn’t comfortable, not yet, but it’s no longer charged with suspicion. It’s a truce, fragile as spun glass.
Something inside me prickles under my skin. I should tell him about the ledger and put the truth on the table before it turns into another weapon between us.
But if Roman suspected I had it, or even knows what it was, he would’ve already torn the room apart. He would’ve torn me apart.
So, I keep my mouth shut and let him hold me, because right now I can’t afford to find out what happens when his patience runs out.