6. Alina
ALINA
I’m trembling, my fingers still knotted in Mikhail’s shirt as his mouth crushes mine.
This kiss isn’t a collision of grief and heat that I can’t pull away from.
His hand grips the back of my head, holding me in place, and I don’t fight it.
I don’t want to. My chest heaves against his, my breath ragged, and every part of me feels like it’s splitting open.
I hate him for this, for making me feel anything other than the hollow ache of losing my mother.
But I need it too, need something to anchor me before I drift into nothing.
His other hand slides down to my waist, fingers digging into my skin through the thin fabric of my clothes.
The pressure sends a jolt through me, but I lean into it anyway.
I’m furious—at him, at the world, at the gaping hole in my life that just got ripped wider.
My nails scrape against his chest as I grip harder, like I can tear through the shirt, through him, through everything I’m feeling.
“You don’t get to break now,” he growls against my lips, his voice rough. It sounds less like a comfort and more like a command. “Never show your enemies your weaknesses, Alina.”
A shiver runs up my spine, which he clocks immediately. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m not used to people trying to destroy me,” I mumble.
“Really?” He chuckles deeply. “I almost never notice anymore.”
I pull back just enough to glare at him, my breath hot and uneven. “I’m already broken.”
His eyes flash, and for a second, I think he might shove me away. Instead, he tightens his hold on my waist, yanking me closer until there’s no space left between us. “Then let me put you back together.”
The words hit me like a punch, igniting something feral in my chest. I don’t want to be fixed, not by him, not like this.
But my body betrays me, heat pooling low in my stomach as his hand slides up my back, claiming every inch it touches.
I shove at his chest, not hard enough to push him away, just enough to let him know I’m still fighting. “You don’t get to decide that.”
His grip on my hair tightens, tilting my head back so I’m forced to meet his gaze. “You asked me what to do, Alina. This is it.”
I want to snap back, to tell him to go to hell, but the way he’s looking at me—possessive, unapologetic—shuts me up.
My lips part, and before I can stop myself, I’m kissing him again, hard and messy as I pour every ounce of my anger into it.
He meets me with equal force, his tongue pushing past my lips, taking control in a way that makes my knees weak.
I hate how much I crave it, how much I need to lose myself in this instead of the pain.
His hands are everywhere now, rough and insistent, sliding under my shirt to grip my bare skin.
I gasp against his mouth at the contact, the heat of his palms searing me.
My fingers fumble with his shirt buttons, not because I’m nervous but because I’m too damn mad to be patient.
I get two undone before I give up and yank at the fabric, hearing a faint rip that I don’t care about.
His chest is solid under my hands, warm and unyielding, and I dig my nails in just to see if I can make him flinch.
He doesn’t. Instead, he grabs my wrists, pinning them behind my back with one hand while the other cups my jaw, forcing my face up. “Keep pushing me,” he warns, voice a low rumble. “See what happens.”
My heart slams against my ribs, but I don’t back down. I can’t. The anger is the only thing keeping me from collapsing, and I’ll be damned if I let him win this. “I’m not afraid of you,” I spit, even though my voice shakes with something that isn’t quite fear.
His lips curve into a dark, dangerous smirk. “Good.”
He picks me up then, carrying me to the bedroom and stopping only to shove me back toward the bed.
I don’t notice any other men on the way, or perhaps I’m too far gone to see anything beyond the storm-gray of his eyes and the silver streaks in his hair.
I stumble, my calves hitting the edge, and I fall onto the mattress with a soft thud.
I prop myself up on my elbows, glaring at him as he looms over me, his shirt half-open, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.
He looks like a predator, and I’m the prey, but I’m too pissed to care.
I want this fight, this heat, this distraction from the void inside me.
“Take it off,” he orders, nodding at my top, his tone leaving no room for argument.
For a second, I consider refusing just to spite him.
But the way his eyes burn into me, the way my skin is already buzzing with need, makes me comply.
I sit up enough to tug the top over my head, tossing it aside without breaking eye contact.
My bra is plain, black, nothing special, but the way his gaze drops to my chest makes me feel exposed in a way that’s both thrilling and infuriating.
He steps closer, one knee pressing into the mattress between my legs as he leans down, his hands bracing on either side of me. His mouth hovers over mine, not kissing, just close enough that I can feel his breath. “You’re mine,” he says, each word thick with possessiveness. “Even when you hate me.”
My stomach twists at the words, a mix of rage and something darker, hotter.
I reach up, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him down to kiss me again, biting at his lower lip harder than I mean to.
He groans, the sound vibrating through me, and then his hands are on me again, sliding down to my hips, gripping tightly as he drags me closer to the edge of the bed.
I’m breathing too fast, every nerve in my body lit up as his fingers work at the button of my jeans.
He doesn’t ask permission, doesn’t hesitate, and I don’t stop him.
I lift my hips to help him slide them down, the fabric scraping against my thighs before they’re off completely, leaving me in just my underwear.
His eyes rake over me, and I feel the weight of his stare like a physical touch, making my skin prickle.
“You’re shaking again,” he mutters, almost to himself, as his hand trails up my thigh, slow and deliberate.
I am, but I don’t want to admit it. “Don’t talk,” I snap, my voice sharper than I intend. I don’t want words. I don’t want to think. I just want to feel something other than grief.
His lips press together, but he doesn’t argue.
Instead, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of my underwear and pulls them down in one swift motion, leaving me bare under him.
My breath catches, a mix of vulnerability and raw need twisting inside me, but I don’t look away from him. I won’t give him that satisfaction.
He straightens up for a moment, shedding his shirt completely, and I can’t help but stare at the hard lines of his body, the way his muscles shift as he moves.
He’s not showing off—he doesn’t need to.
It’s just who he is, dangerous and powerful, and it infuriates me how much it draws me in.
When he leans over me again, his hand slides between my thighs, parting them with a roughness that makes me gasp.
“Don’t hold back,” he says, his voice a low growl as his fingers brush against me, teasing but not giving me what I want. “I want to hear you.”
I bite my lip, trying to stifle the sound that threatens to escape, but he’s relentless, his touch precise and demanding.
My hips buck against his hand, and a moan slips out before I can stop it.
I hate how easily he unravels me, how my body responds to him even when my mind is screaming to push him away.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his mouth at my ear now, lips brushing the sensitive skin there.
His fingers press harder, circling, driving me closer to an edge I’m not ready to fall over.
My hands grab at his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, and I’m torn between wanting to shove him off and pulling him closer.
“Stop teasing,” I hiss through gritted teeth, my voice raw with frustration and need. I’m not in control here, and I despise it, but I’m too far gone to pretend otherwise.
His chuckle is dark, almost cruel, as he pulls his hand away just when I’m on the brink. I let out a frustrated groan, glaring at him, but he’s already moving, grabbing my hips with both hands. “Not yet,” he says, his tone laced with a dark, teasing edge that makes my pulse race even faster.
He flips me over onto my stomach in one fluid motion, the sudden change in position catching me off guard.
My breath hitches as I feel the weight of him behind me, his hands gripping my hips to pull them up slightly.
I brace myself on my forearms, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
His touch is firm, unapologetic, as he adjusts me, and I can feel the heat of him pressing close, the tension between us crackling like a live wire.
I don’t know what comes next, but I’m not sure I care, not when every part of me is wound tightly, waiting for him to make the next move.