Chapter 31
Roman
Her fierce possession is everything I hoped it would be and more.
Her words are a raw, savage promise that ignites something primal in me.
I grip her hips harder, thrusting up to meet her movements, watching her eyes darken with each collision of our bodies.
The knowledge that she would kill for me—just as I would slaughter anyone who dared touch her—binds us tighter than blood.
“Show me,” I growl, reaching up to pinch her nipples as her tits bounce. “Show me how much you want me.”
She rides me harder, her pace turning frantic as she chases her pleasure. Her nails score my chest, leaving marks. I welcome the sting. Let her brand me in every way possible.
“Mine,” she gasps, head thrown back, throat exposed. The pearls still circle her neck, bouncing with each movement, catching the light. The countess would approve of her successor—just as deadly, twice as beautiful.
I release one of her nipples and slide my thumb to where we’re joined, circling her clit as she moves. Her rhythm falters, and I take control, thrusting up sharply as she bears down. The sound she makes—half sob, half moan—pushes me closer to the edge.
“Come all over me,” I command. “Let me feel you.”
She shatters above me, her body clenching around mine in rhythmic pulses that drag me into the abyss with her.
I flip her over, and she gasps as her marked back hits the sheets.
I pump into her with desperate need, the world narrowing to just the two of us.
Her back arches briefly off the bed. I drive deeper, harder, her marked skin dragging against the sheets with each thrust. The pearls are twisted around her throat now, gleaming against her flushed skin like drops of moonlight.
“Yes,” she hisses, her legs wrapping around my waist, urging me deeper. “Don’t stop.”
I have no intention of stopping. Not now. Not ever. I brace myself on my forearms, caging her beneath me as I drop my forehead to hers. Our breath mingles, hot and rapid. The cut on my hip stings with each movement, her name bleeding into the sheets, marking them as surely as she’s marked me.
“Say it again,” I demand, my voice barely recognisable.
“Mine,” she gasps, her fingers digging into my back. “You’re mine, Roman.”
I capture her mouth, swallowing her words, making them part of me. Her tongue battles with mine as I thrust into her, feeling her tighten around me again. She’s close. So am I. The tension coils at the base of my spine, a gathering storm.
“And you’re mine,” I growl against her lips. “Forever.”
She comes with my name on her lips, her cunt clutching me like she’s afraid I’ll disappear.
The sensation drags me over the edge, and I empty myself inside her with a guttural groan that seems torn from my very soul.
The world whites out at the edges, everything narrowing to the point where our bodies join.
I collapse beside her, careful not to crush her against the mattress. We lie there panting, sweat cooling on our skin, the sting of our marks a delicious reminder of what we’ve done. I trace my fingers along the curve of her hip, watching goosebumps rise in their wake.
“Water,” I murmur, forcing myself to move. My legs feel like lead as I make my way to the bathroom and return with a glass. She takes it with trembling hands, pearls still twisted at her throat. I gently untangle them, letting my fingers brush against the marks I’ve left there.
“How’s your back?” I ask, helping her sit up.
“It burns,” she admits, taking a sip. “But I like it.”
I smile, something possessive unfurling in my chest. “Let me clean it properly.”
In the bathroom, I dampen a fresh cloth with warm water and add antiseptic. She sits on the edge of the tub, her back to me, head bowed. The letters of my name stand out against her skin, red and raw. I clean each one carefully, my touch gentle where earlier it was demanding.
“The day after tomorrow,” I say as I work, “everything changes.”
She nods, her breath catching as the antiseptic stings. “I know.”
“Are you scared?”
She nods, her voice barely above a whisper. “I am. I’d be a fool not to be.”
The marks of my name rise red against her pale skin, and something primal stirs in me at the sight. Mine. Marked. Protected.
“Good,” I tell her. “Fear keeps you sharp. But don’t let it paralyse you.”
She closes her eyes, her breath catching slightly with each touch of the cloth. “What if I fail? What if I freeze up there, in front of everyone?”
My hands pause. The doubt in her voice surprises me. She’s stronger than she knows.
“You won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?” Her voice trembles slightly.
“Because I’ve seen you,” I say simply. “I’ve been watching you for years. You don’t freeze; you fight.”
Her body tenses under my touch. “Years?”
“Since the vow.” I trace the outline of my name on her skin, feeling the raised edges of each letter. “You never knew I was there, but I was. Watching. Waiting.”
“For what?” she asks.
“For this moment. For you to step into what you were always meant to be.”
She turns to face me, the pearls shifting against her throat. “And what is that, exactly?”
Her eyes meet mine, defiant even in her vulnerability. Something dark and possessive unfurls in my chest as I look down at her—my woman, naked and proud, her skin marked with my name.
“Mine,” I answer. “Pakhan of the Antonov Bratva and the woman who will make those old men shit themselves when you read that letter.”
She laughs, the sound surprisingly light despite everything. “You really believe I can do this?”
I cup her face with my hands, feeling the warmth of her skin against my palms. “I know you can. More importantly, your father knew it too.”
At the mention of Mikhail, her eyes darken. “He could have told me himself instead of all this theatre.”
“Moscow has its ways,” I say. “Its rules. We don’t know them, we don’t question them.”
She pulls away slightly, but I don’t let her retreat.
“He gave you to me. I will protect you to the death.”
She searches my face, looking for the lie. She won’t find one. Not about this.
“Come to bed,” I tell her, leading her back to the rumpled sheets. “You need rest.”
“I don’t think I can sleep.”
“Then just lie with me in silence.” I pull her down beside me, arranging her so her back doesn’t press against the bedding.
She curls against me, her breathing gradually slowing as exhaustion claims her, as I knew it would.