7. Mikhail
MIKHAIL
I’ve got Alina beneath me, her body trembling as I grip her hips, pulling them up just enough to angle her the way I want.
Her skin is flushed, a sheen of sweat glistening along her spine, and the sight of her like this—vulnerable, angry, and so damn responsive—stirs something primal in me.
I’m not a good man, never have been, and I don’t pretend otherwise.
My hands, rough from years of violence, hold her with a possessiveness I can’t temper.
Not now, not with her. In this moment, everything, every event that’s brought her to me, is insignificant to the reality of her in my arms, needing me to fuck her.
She’s mine, whether she admits it or not, and I’m going to make sure she feels it in every inch of her body.
Her breath hitches as I lean over her, my chest pressing against her back for a moment, the heat of her skin searing into me.
I can feel the tension in her, the way she’s fighting herself even now, caught between rage and need.
It fuels me, that fire in her. I want to break through it, to make her forget everything but me.
My lips graze the nape of her neck, and I feel her shudder beneath me.
“You’re gonna take everything I give you,” I mutter against her skin, my voice low and rough.
I mean it. I’m not holding back, not tonight.
She twists her head slightly, just enough to shoot me a glare over her shoulder. “Don’t talk. Just do it.”
Her defiance, even now, makes my blood burn hotter.
I let out a dark chuckle, my hands tightening on her hips until I’m sure I’ll leave marks.
Good. I want her to see them later, to remember who made her feel this way.
I pull back just enough to reach for the nightstand drawer, yanking it open with one hand while the other keeps her in place.
I grab a condom, rip the packet with my teeth, and roll it on quickly, my movements practical and efficient.
No time for games. I need to be inside her, to feel her unravel around me.
I position myself behind her again, one hand sliding down her spine as I line up.
She’s trembling, but not from fear—never from fear with her, from what I’ve learned in this short time-span.
It’s anticipation, raw and desperate, and it drives me fucking wild.
I push in slowly at first, just enough to feel her tighten around me, a sharp gasp escaping her lips.
My jaw clenches as I fight the urge to thrust hard right then and there.
I want to draw this out, to make her feel every second of it.
“Fuck,” she breathes, her voice shaky, her hands gripping the sheets as her body adjusts to me.
I lean down close, my mouth near her ear. “That’s it. Let me hear you.”
I start moving, slow at first, each thrust deliberate, feeling the way she arches into me despite herself.
Her moans are stifled at first, like she’s still trying to hold onto some shred of control, but I’m not having it.
I pick up the pace, my hips slamming against hers harder, deeper, until those sounds spill out of her unguarded.
They’re raw, needy, and they push me closer to the edge than I want to admit.
I slide one hand under her, finding her clit with my fingers, and start working her there while I thrust. Her whole body jerks at the added sensation, a sharp cry breaking free as she bucks against me.
I can feel her getting close, the way her muscles tense and flutter around me, and I don’t let up.
I want her to shatter, to lose herself completely.
“Come for me, Alina,” I growl, my voice rough with restraint. “Now.”
She does, hard and suddenly, her cry muffled as she buries her face in the sheets, her body shaking under me.
I slow down just enough to let her ride it out, but I’m nowhere near done.
I pull out, ignoring the way my own body protests, and flip her onto her back with a quick, firm grip on her hips.
Her eyes are glassy, her chest heaving as she looks up at me, lips parted like she’s trying to catch her breath.
She’s beautiful like this, undone and flushed, and I can’t look away.
“You’re not done,” I tell her, my voice a low rumble as I position myself between her thighs again. Her legs fall open for me without hesitation, and the sight of her, so willing despite the fire in her eyes, sends a surge of heat through me.
“Didn’t think I was,” she snaps back, her voice breathy but still edged with that defiance I fucking love.
I smirk, darkly and hungrily, as I push into her again, harder this time.
Her head tilts back, a moan slipping out as I set a punishing rhythm, each thrust meant to drive her beyond thought.
My hands grip her thighs, pushing them wider, and I watch her face, the way her brows knit and her mouth falls open with every movement.
She’s gorgeous, even when she’s furious, her dark hair a mess against the sheets, her skin glowing with sweat.
I’m not a man who gets lost in beauty, but with her, it’s hard not to notice every damn detail.
I lean down, capturing her mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing her gasps as I keep driving into her.
Her hands claw at my shoulders, nails biting into my skin, and I welcome the sting.
It keeps me grounded, keeps me from losing myself too soon.
I want more from her, want to see her break again.
I pull back from the kiss, my thumb finding her clit once more, rubbing in tight circles as I thrust harder.
“Oh, God,” she chokes out, her voice cracking as her hips jerk under me. “Mikhail—fuck, I can’t—”
“You can,” I cut her off, my tone sharp, commanding. “And you will.”
Her second climax hits almost violently, her body arching off the bed as she cries out, louder this time, her hands fisting the sheets.
I grit my teeth, fighting my own release as I feel her pulse around me, tight and hot.
I slow down for a moment, letting her come down, but I’m not giving her much of a break. I’m too far gone for that.
I pull out again, my chest tight with need, and manhandle her onto her side, lifting one of her legs over my shoulder as I settle behind her.
The new angle makes her gasp, her eyes fluttering shut as I push back in, slow at first to let her feel the stretch.
My hand grips her hip hard, keeping her in place as I start moving again, each thrust deeper, hitting spots that make her whimper.
“Look at me,” I order, my voice rough as I tilt her chin toward me with my free hand. Her eyes snap open, meeting mine, and the raw vulnerability there almost undoes me. But there’s still that spark of anger, that fight, and it pushes me harder.
“You’re killing me,” she mutters, her voice ragged, but there’s no real venom in it. Not now.
“Good,” I reply, my tone dark as I pick up the pace, driving into her with a rhythm that’s almost brutal. “I want you breathless.”
Her hand reaches back, grabbing at my thigh like she’s trying to anchor herself, and I feel her building again, her breaths coming in short, desperate pants.
I don’t let up, my fingers digging into her skin as I push her toward that edge one more time.
I want her spent, completely wrecked beneath me, and I’m not stopping until I get it.
“Come again,” I growl, my voice barely human now as I feel my own control slipping. “Let me feel it.”
She does, her body locking tight around me as a broken moan tears from her throat, her third release hitting her like a wave.
She’s trembling, utterly breathless, her chest heaving as she tries to pull air into her lungs.
The sight of her like this, so completely undone, pushes me past my limit.
I thrust hard a few more times, chasing my own peak, and then I’m there, a low, guttural sound escaping me as I spill into the condom, my grip on her hip tightening hard enough to bruise.
For a moment, I stay where I am, my body pressed against hers as I catch my breath, the aftershocks still rippling through me.
She’s limp beneath me, her breaths shallow and uneven, her skin slick with sweat.
I pull out slowly, careful not to hurt her, and roll the condom off, tossing it into the bin by the bed.
Then I collapse beside her, one arm sliding over her waist to pull her close, not because I’m soft, but because I’m not ready to let go yet.
She doesn’t push me away, which surprises me.
Instead, she just lies there, her chest still rising and falling too fast, her eyes half-closed.
I watch her for a moment, taking in the way her lips are swollen from my kisses, the faint marks on her skin from my hands.
She looks wrecked, and I feel a twisted sort of satisfaction at that.
I did this to her. I made her forget, at least for a little while.
“You okay?” I ask, my voice quieter now, though it’s still rough around the edges.
She lets out a weak laugh, not even opening her eyes. “Do I look okay?”
I smirk, brushing a strand of hair off her face with more gentleness than I mean to show. “You look perfect.”
Her eyes flutter open at that, narrowing slightly like she’s not sure if I’m mocking her.
I’m not. I mean it, though I won’t say it again.
Instead, I tighten my hold on her waist, keeping her pressed against me as I let the silence settle.
I’m not done with her—not by a long shot—but for now, this is enough.
She falls asleep against me without warning.
One moment she’s tense, breaths uneven, body still braced for loss, and the next, the weight of her gives in. Her fingers loosen. Her breathing evens out. Whatever kept her upright finally lets go.
I don’t mistake it for trust.
I stay still until I’m sure she’s asleep, then I ease out from under her carefully and cover her. She doesn’t stir. Her face in sleep looks stripped of the defiance she wears awake, and that makes something tight settle in my chest.
Loneliness does that. It lowers defenses faster than fear ever could.
I leave the room quietly and close the door behind me.
In my office, the register waits where I left it. I don’t need to reread the whole thing. I turn straight to the pages that matter. Sergei’s entry is clean, finalized, confident. The second promise is not. Instead, it’s delayed and conditional, held in reserve.
That’s not panic. Alina won’t see reason about her father, but the truth is that the man was a cowardly bastard who strategized how selling his daughter would buy him the maximum profit.
I extend my arms on the desk, bring them up, and wipe my face in an effort to loosen the knots between my brows, on my forehead, my mouth.
Morozov didn’t sell his daughter twice by accident.
He hedged. He kept a second man waiting in case the first failed.
That alone tells me this wasn’t a small debt that spiraled.
The timing fits too well to ignore. Sergei’s murder.
Morozov’s. Now his wife. Three deaths, spaced just far enough apart to be understood.
I spend the afternoon reconstructing Sergei’s last quarter hour by hour, not from reports, but from friction. Delayed meetings. Repeated follow-ups. Requests that were acknowledged and then stalled. Sergei was good at calming men down, but even he couldn’t make waiting feel respectful.
Morozov made someone wait too long, and that’s the mistake.
By early evening, I’ve isolated the pattern, but not the name, and guessing would be sloppy.
Guessing gets people killed for the wrong reasons.
So I call my intelligence chief. “I want Sergei’s unresolved contacts,” I tell my intelligence chief over the phone.
“Not debtors. Not partners. Men who were pressuring him to step away from something.”
There’s a pause, punctuated by the click-clack of keys moving. “Step away from what?” he asks busily.
“From Alina,” I reply. “From Morozov’s contract. From whatever Sergei thought he was entitled to collect.”
“Time frame?”
“Six months before his death. Priority communications. Anything that escalated instead of cooling off.”
“I’ll need time,” he says.
“Take it,” I reply and end the call.
He comes back to me the next afternoon.
“I went through Sergei’s messages, intermediaries, and meeting requests,” he says. “There were three men who pushed back hard on delays.”
“And?” I ask.
“Two backed off once Sergei asserted control. One didn’t.”
“He never threatened Sergei directly,” he says, “and that’s what makes it stand out, because he framed everything as concern about Morozov’s reliability, the instability of double promises, and Sergei’s ability to collect without destabilizing the balance.”
He takes a breath, then continues, “Morozov’s role as a marriage broker wasn’t secret inside our world, and when word spread that he’d promised his daughter to a Morin along with him, it sent a message whether Sergei intended it or not.”
I let that settle.
“A legitimate wife with no criminal record doesn’t just secure an heir,” the chief says. “It signals permanence, influence across borders, and control that doesn’t rely on brute force, and if Sergei had married her, the Morins would’ve gained visible standing.”
“And our competition couldn’t allow that,” I say.
“No,” he replies. “Because if he allowed a rival syndicate to claim Morozov’s most valuable contract without challenge, it would’ve been read as weakness, and weakness invites encroachment.”
I lean back, seeing the structure clearly now.
“To the Bratva leadership,” the chief continues, “this wasn’t about affection or revenge but about which clan could enforce a contract publicly and which couldn’t, and he needed to prove that promises made in his direction couldn’t be redirected without consequences.”
“So he pressured Sergei to step aside,” I say.
“Yes,” the chief confirms. “And when Sergei refused, he didn’t retaliate emotionally, because that would’ve looked uncontrolled, so instead he removed the obstacle so he could reclaim the contract by default. He just didn’t account for a wildcard entry.”
A.K.A. me.
The line stays open, but the conclusion is already set.
“Name,” I say.
He doesn’t answer immediately, because now he’s confirming, not deducing. “There’s only one man who fits the profile,” he says at last. “The reach. The patience. The habit of treating women as contracts.”
I don’t interrupt.
“Vladimir Kosov.”
Son of my oldest enemy, and the only other family with power to rival the Morins.