Chapter Eighteen - Makar
The mansion is quiet as I step through the front doors, the click of my shoes on the polished marble floors the only sound. The event looms over the evening, a formal gathering of Bratva allies and high-ranking members—a display of unity and power, and my attendance is mandatory.
This time, I’ve decided Hannah will accompany me.
I sent a dress earlier, one carefully selected to suit the occasion and the woman she’s becoming in this house. As much as I told myself this was a practical decision—a way to establish her presence alongside mine in this life—I can’t ignore the faint sense of anticipation curling in my chest.
I glance at my watch, irritation simmering. We’re already running late.
“Is she ready yet?” I mutter to one of the house staff hovering nearby.
“She should be down any moment, sir,” the woman replies nervously before disappearing down the hall.
I pace near the foot of the staircase, the sharp edges of my impatience tempered by a flicker of curiosity. When Hannah finally appears at the top of the stairs, everything—time, sound, even my breathing—seems to halt.
She’s breathtaking.
The dress is deep emerald green, the silk clinging to her in all the right places, the neckline just low enough to be daring without crossing into vulgarity. Her dark hair is swept back into elegant waves that bares her neck and shoulders, and she moves with a grace I hadn’t expected.
It’s not just the dress or the way it accentuates her; it’s the way she carries herself. There’s still a hint of defiance in the set of her jaw, but it’s softened by something else—poise, confidence, strength.
For a moment, I forget the event entirely, caught up in the way she’s transformed from the fiery, untamed girl I married to this captivating woman walking toward me.
She pauses at the bottom of the stairs, her gaze meeting mine, and something in her eyes flickers—uncertainty, perhaps, or a challenge.
“Well?” she asks, her voice light but tinged with nervousness. “Do I pass the test?”
I clear my throat, forcing my features back into their usual mask of composure. “You’ll do,” I say, my tone deliberately nonchalant, though my voice is rougher than I intended.
Her lips twitch, almost forming a smile, and she steps closer, adjusting one of the thin straps of the dress. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For looking better than you expected,” she says, her tone teasing.
I don’t answer, my gaze lingering on her a moment too long before I offer her my arm. “We’re late.”
She hesitates briefly before slipping her hand into the crook of my arm, her touch light but steady. Together, we step out into the waiting car.
The event is a parade of power and wealth, the room filled with Bratva men in tailored suits, their wives and mistresses adorned in jewels and gowns that could rival royalty. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the polished floors, and the low hum of conversation is punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clink of champagne glasses.
Hannah moves beside me, her posture straight, her expression composed. If she’s nervous, she hides it well. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, noting how the green of her dress seems to deepen the warmth in her brown eyes.
She catches me looking and raises an eyebrow. “You’re staring,” she says quietly.
I smirk faintly, leaning closer so only she can hear. “You’re the one drawing all the attention.”
She blushes faintly but doesn’t respond, her gaze shifting to the room around us.
She’s right—people are staring. Men glance her way with thinly veiled appreciation, their eyes lingering a moment too long, and women study her with expressions ranging from curiosity to quiet judgment.
The sight stirs something in me—a sharp, unwelcome surge of jealousy.
I tell myself it’s nothing. She’s my wife, and it’s natural to feel protective of what’s mine. But the intensity of it unsettles me, the way my jaw tightens every time another man’s gaze drifts in her direction.
“Is this normal?” she asks suddenly, her voice cutting through my thoughts.
I glance at her, frowning. “What?”
“The way everyone keeps looking at me,” she says, her tone carefully neutral, though I catch the faint edge of discomfort.
I take a slow breath, forcing my irritation under control. “They’re looking because they’ve never seen you before,” I say, my voice calm but firm. “They’re curious. It will pass.”
Her lips press into a thin line, and she nods, though she doesn’t look convinced.
Throughout the evening, I find my focus splintering. The event continues as planned—introductions, brief conversations, a toast or two—but my attention keeps drifting back to her. I watch the way she holds herself, the quiet strength in her movements, and the way her gaze sharpens when she catches someone staring too long.
She’s a force, even when she doesn’t realize it.
At one point, I notice a man—it’s my cousin, Mikhail—lingering nearby, his gaze fixed on her as she sips her drink. My hands clench into fists at my sides, the instinct to act immediate and overwhelming.
Hannah glances up, catching my eye. She tilts her head slightly, her lips curving into the faintest smirk, as if she knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“Relax,” she says softly, her voice carrying a note of amusement. “I can handle it.”
I grit my teeth but nod, forcing myself to step back, to let her manage this in her own way.
Still, the possessiveness lingers, coiling in my chest like a snake.
She’s mine. No amount of defiance or independence will change that.
By the time the event winds down, I’m more on edge than I was when it began. As we head back to the car, I glance at her again, catching the faint flush on her cheeks, the way her lips curve into something close to a smile.
“You handled yourself well tonight,” I say grudgingly as we slide into the back seat.
“Thanks,” she replies, her tone light but carrying a hint of satisfaction. “I think I’m getting the hang of this.”
I smirk, leaning back against the seat. “Don’t get too comfortable. This isn’t a game.”
Her eyes meet mine, a spark of fire still burning in them. “Neither am I,” she says quietly.
The car ride home is unbearable.
The tension between us hums like a live wire, crackling and sparking with every glance, every shift of her body in the seat beside me. Hannah sits with her back straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, but I can see the way her fingers twitch against the fabric of her dress. She’s as affected by this as I am, no matter how much she tries to hide it.
Yet, I can’t bring myself to speak.
The night had been a trial of restraint, of biting back the urge to claim what’s mine every time another man dared to look at her for too long. My control had been tested in a hundred different ways, and I’d barely held on. Now, with her so close, her scent wrapping around me like a drug, my patience is hanging by a thread.
Her earlier words echo in my mind, sharp and unrelenting.
Neither am I.
She’s a challenge—a fire I can’t extinguish, no matter how hard I try. Maybe I don’t want to.
By the time the car pulls into the driveway, my resolve is in tatters. I step out, my movements stiff and deliberate as I wait for her to follow. She does, her heels clicking softly against the stone as we make our way inside.
The door closes behind us with a soft thud, the sound reverberating through the empty foyer. I should walk away, put distance between us before I do something I can’t take back.
I can’t.
“Hannah,” I say, my voice low and rough, the single word carrying the weight of everything I’m feeling.
She turns to face me, her brows drawing together in confusion. “What?”
That spark of fire in her gaze—defiant, unyielding—shatters the last of my restraint.
I step forward, closing the space between us in an instant. My hands find her waist, gripping her firmly as I pull her against me. Her breath catches, her eyes widening in surprise, but she doesn’t pull away.
“I can’t,” I murmur, my voice a strained growl as I pin her gently against the wall, caging her in with my body. “Not anymore.”
She swallows hard, her hands coming up to press against my chest. “Makar—”
Whatever she was about to say is lost as my lips crash down on hers. The kiss is rough, desperate, an outlet for the storm raging inside me. She stiffens for a heartbeat, and then she melts, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt as she kisses me back with just as much intensity.
My hands roam over her waist, pulling her closer, needing her closer. Her soft curves press against me, and I groan, my restraint slipping further as I lose myself in the feel of her.
Her lips part beneath mine, and I deepen the kiss, my tongue sweeping into her mouth in a way that’s both demanding and possessive. She tastes like sparkling cider and something sweeter, something uniquely hers, and it drives me to the brink of madness.
I break away briefly, my forehead resting against hers as I try to catch my breath.
“This,” I say, my voice low and hoarse, “is what you do to me.”
She looks up at me, her eyes wide and dark with desire, her breathing as ragged as mine. “Makar…,” she whispers, her voice trembling.
I don’t let her finish. My lips are on hers again, my hands sliding up her sides to trace the delicate line of her neck. She shivers under my touch, and the sound she makes—a soft, breathy sigh—nearly undoes me.
I press closer, my body pinning hers against the wall, the heat between us growing unbearable. Her fingers trail up my chest, tangling in my hair, and I can feel the hesitation bleeding out of her, replaced by something raw and electric.
My hands move lower, finding the slit in her dress and slipping beneath the fabric to rest on the bare skin of her thigh. Her breath hitches, and I pause, my lips hovering just above hers.
“Tell me to stop,” I murmur, my voice a strained growl. “If you don’t want this, tell me now.”
She doesn’t answer right away, her gaze searching mine. Then, slowly, she shakes her head, her lips parting in a whisper. “Don’t stop.”
The words are my undoing.
I lift her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her toward the nearest surface—a sleek marble console table. Her dress rides up as I set her down, my hands splaying across her thighs, and I groan at the feel of her skin beneath my fingers.
She pulls me closer, her lips finding mine again, and this time, there’s no hesitation.
Her fingers curl into my hair as I fuck her, tugging just enough to send a shiver down my spine. The way she responds—fierce and unrestrained—stokes the fire burning inside me, and I know there’s no going back.
My cock twitches as her walls clench; her pussy is so soaked already, and her thighs tremble beautifully. She’s so delicate beneath me, so completely at my mercy.
“That’s a good girl, Hannah,” I murmur against her lips, my voice a low growl as I thrust harder. Harder .
Her name tastes different now, weighted with emotions I don’t want to name. Love? It’s a dangerous word, one I’ve spent my life avoiding.
I pull back just enough to look at her, my chest heaving as I take her in. Her lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed, and her wide brown eyes hold a mix of desire and vulnerability that punches me in the gut.
“You’re mine,” I say, my voice rough but unwavering. “Do you understand that?”
She swallows hard, her gaze locking on mine. “Yes,” she whispers, her voice trembling but sure.
My hand moves to her face, my thumb brushing over her cheek. The touch is gentle, a contrast to the hunger still roaring inside me. “I’m yours,” I add, the words spilling out before I can stop them.
With one last thrust, I spill inside of her. She cries out my name, her pussy tightening; it’s euphoric, my head spinning with the force of the orgasm that washes over me.
My legs shake as I pull out, dripping come across the inside of her thighs. She whimpers, and I smirk as I duck down to ghost a kiss across her lips.
“Rest,” I whisper against her skin, and she does.