Chapter 7 - Katya #2
The heat low in my belly. The way my thighs clenched when his gaze dropped to my mouth. The way my nipples tightened under the silk of my nightgown when he stepped just a little too close. The ache between my legs when I heard the rough catch in his voice saying my name.
Katya.
Like a prayer. Like a plea.
I press my thighs together. Hard. Trying to smother the pulse there. Trying to fan down the flames my traitorous body keeps stoking, no matter how many times I tell it no.
This is supposed to be in name only.
That was the deal. My one condition. No touching. No sharing a bed. No pretending this marriage is anything more than a truce written in ink and blood. He agreed. He’s kept his word. He’s never pushed. Never demanded. Never crossed the line I drew.
But my body doesn’t care about lines.
The night hits colder than I thought. I step out onto the balcony, bare feet on the stone tiles—sharp, icy little bites shooting up through my soles.
The French doors swing shut behind me with a soft click, sealing off the hallway’s warmth, the lingering hint of Tikhon’s cologne, the echo of his voice still floating in my head.
I hug myself tight. My silk robe’s useless against the wind whipping up from the garden. Goosebumps crawl across my skin.
I don’t care.
I crave the cold. I need it—something raw and real to slice through the heat still coiled under my skin.
The moon hangs overhead, almost full, silvering everything. The whole estate glows in that pale, haunted light. Down below, the gardens sprawl—hedges trimmed into sharp lines, winding stone paths, roses already picked clean by autumn, and the fountain in the center silent for the night.
It’s all so still. Not a sound. Like the world’s holding its breath, waiting for me to move, to make up my mind.
I grip the iron railing, let the cold sting my palms. My hair whips everywhere in the wind. I don’t bother fixing it. I just close my eyes, let the last five minutes play out again in my mind.
Tikhon, standing in the hallway outside my door. Black shirt open at the neck, sleeves pushed up, forearms roped with muscle and old scars I’ve never dared ask about. His hair, uncombed and damp from a shower, curled at the ends.
Those eyes—deep green, shadowed—locked on mine like I was the only thing left in the world. The way his jaw went tight when I said goodnight. The way his hands curled at his sides, like he was barely holding himself back.
And the look he gave me when I closed the door.
God, that look.
Not anger. Not even frustration. Just pure, aching want. Raw, wide open. Desire so thick it hurt to see on his face.
His eyes went almost black, pupils huge, lips parted as if he wanted to say something but had forgotten how. He lifted a hand, halfway to the door, then let it drop.
He wanted to stop me. Or maybe follow me in. Or pin me to the door and kiss me until the world spins away.
I open my eyes. My breath ghosts in the cold.
My body remembers everything.
The heat pooling low in my belly. The way my thighs squeezed together when his eyes drifted to my mouth. The sharp ache in my chest, the way my nipples tightened under silk when he stepped a little too close. The ache between my legs when I heard his voice crack on my name.
Katya.
Like a prayer. Like he was begging.
I press my thighs together, hard, trying to kill the pulse there. Trying to smother the flames my body keeps feeding, no matter how many times I say no.
This was only supposed to be in name.
That was the deal. My rule—no touching, no sharing a bed, no pretending. Just a marriage on paper, a truce inked in signatures and blood. He agreed. He’s stuck to it. He’s never pushed, never crossed the line.
But my body doesn’t care about lines.
I remember how he kissed me at the wedding—so careful, so controlled, yet beneath it all, I could feel the heat.
I remember the weight of his hand on my waist during that first dance—solid, claiming, burning right through my dress.
As with tonight, the way he looked at me—hungry, as if I were the only thing that could satisfy him.
I push away from the railing, hugging myself tighter. The wind finds every gap in my robe and bites at my skin. Goosebumps race up my arms. My nipples ache against the silk, sharp and insistent. I bite my lip, hard, trying to focus on that sting instead of the ache growing deeper.
I can’t want him.
I shouldn’t.
He blackmailed me. He threatened my shop. He forced my hand.
But he also fought for me. He stood up to my brothers. He actually listened when I told him to give me space. He held me after the fire, didn’t try to fix anything—just stayed. Whispered I love you like it cost him something real.
I close my eyes.
The cold isn’t helping anymore. The heat inside me just keeps building. I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my waist. Still taste the whiskey from that kiss in the hallway before I slammed the door.
Still hear the roughness in his voice when he said goodnight, Katya—like it hurt him to walk away.
My hand drifts without thinking, sliding down over the silk. I stop just above my thighs and press, desperate for relief.
A small sound slips out—shameful, needy.
I jerk my hand back like I’ve touched fire.
No.
Not tonight. Not like this. Not when I’m still angry.
Still hurt. Still reminding myself why I can’t let him in.
I turn away from the gardens. Go inside. Shut the doors. Lock them.
The room feels stifling. I shrug off the robe and let it crumple on the floor, then crawl into bed in just my nightgown. The sheets are cold, almost shocking. I curl up, clutching a pillow, trying to ignore the throbbing between my legs.
I think about tomorrow. The family. The fake smiles. The way we’ll pretend to be a perfect couple when we’re barely holding it together.
I think about Tikhon in the other wing. Alone. Probably staring up at his ceiling, just as restless. Probably aching, too.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Name only, I remind myself.
But the words sound empty now.
Because my body already knows what my mind keeps trying to fight.
I want him.
And I’m scared that soon—I won’t be able to pretend otherwise.