Chapter 29
“So, it’s not just a dress. It’s a weapon.”
VALENTINA
“Oh, Roman! It’s beautiful,” I gush over the dress.
More than beautiful—it’s breathtaking.
I gaze at myself in the gilded bedroom mirror, admiring how the deep blood-red velvet gown clings to my curves like a tempting secret.
The fabric catches the light like a fine, rich wine.
The neckline dips low, daring but elegant, framed by subtle black corset accents.
The cut cinches my waist, echoing royalty.
I love the narrow wisps of fabric serving as off-the-shoulder sleeves.
The pale gold skin of my thigh teases the narrow high-slit, leaving my husband’s thoughts wrecked and wanting. Around the bodice and hem, golden thread weaves baroque filigree like creeping vines—ornate, regal, and a little wicked.
I gasp when Roman comes up behind me to secure a mask upon my face, delicate and gold.
Tears glisten in my eyes when he adds the necklace with a large teardrop of bloodstone jewelry—a dark crimson gem in a frame of antique gold.
It feels like it was mined from the heart of something ancient and vengeful.
I run my hand over the fabric again, heart hammering.
“God and the devil would both kneel before you tonight, Moya Koroleva,” Roman says, his hands cupping my bare shoulders, his breath roaming along the side of my neck.
Beaming, I spin around to face him, touching his crisp white shirt, first three buttons undone to betray the wealth of muscle on his chest. “I absolutely love it.”
“Khoroshi.” I recognize the simple Russian word ‘Good’. He brushes his knuckles along my cheek, summoning tingles. “Kogda ty schasliva, ves’ mir siyayet dlya menya.”
When I lift my brows, he smirks and translates, “When you’re happy, the whole world shines for me. Da, Valya, for you are indeed my world.”
Warm flutters erupt in my stomach, my center tightening. Roman’s pec flexes beneath my palm. Don’t melt, Valentina, don’t melt.
After the night I was attacked, and Roman confirmed my theory, and he fucked me beside the hot springs, I had the worst nightmare—and memory of my father…
The nightmare starts the same way it always does. My mother is screaming. The gunshot rings in my ears, deafening. I’m covered in her blood. My father’s hands are on me.
He’s dragging me from her body, my fingers slipping in her blood-soaked hair, trying to stay with her.
He shoves me into the car, handcuffs my wrists behind me, and uses his tie to blindfold me until we arrive back home.
He tosses me into the wine cellar and bolts the door, saying I can’t come out until I calm down and accept my mother is gone.
I pound my fists against it, screaming for her. Screaming until my voice is gone.
Then I destroy everything.
Bottle after bottle, I hurl them to the stone floor. Glass explodes. Wine runs like blood. And then he returns. His footsteps. His rage.
He forces me onto my knees. “Pick it up,” he growls. “Every goddamn piece.”
I cry as I gather the shards, blood spilling from my hands where the glass cuts deep. I need stitches. He doesn’t care.
I bleed. I bleed into the wine.
And then—
“No, no—no, no, no!”
I jolt awake, the scream strangled in my throat. My whole body thrashes against the sheets, soaked in sweat and tangled around me like chains. My chest aches. My skin feels like it’s on fire.
Then Roman’s arms are around me. Strong. Sure. Unshakable. He wraps me up in that grounding grip of his—one leg hooked over both of mine, caging me against him. Holding me steady.
“Valya. Valya,” he murmurs into my hair, voice low and steady like a drum in the dark. “Ya zdes, moya lyubov’. I’m here.”
I gasp for air, holding onto him. Roman. My anchor. My husband. “R-Roman?” I whisper, voice breaking.
His eyes meet mine. “Ya zdes’, Valya. I’m here.”
My hands tremble as I clutch at his bare chest, grounding myself in his warmth, his scent. I can still taste the cellar. Still feel the sting of glass in my palms.
But Roman is the only thing real now. Not stitches. Not scars. Him.
He holds me together better than anything ever has.
It happened weeks ago, but longing pulses through me every time I remember. And whenever I think about searching the name Valentina Volkov, every time I feel the pull of the past—I remember this.
That night we crashed together.
Roman swore he would never let my father breathe my air again.
And I believe him.
I don’t want anything to do with my old life. He is my life. The island and the manor are my life. And so are all the blessed people here.
“Is this for a little Halloween party tonight with the staff?” I wonder, wickedly pressing my pelvis closer until the prominent bulge in his black pants nudges my lower waist since he’s a good head taller than me.
“Not exactly.” A glint reflects in his emerald eyes.
With his finger tracing the royal jewel brand on my chest, my husband shares, “I host a private ball twice a year. Christmas and Hallow’s Eve.
Very exclusive. Very secret,” he adds in a lower tone.
“It is to maintain strong relations with my allies—and to remind the right people that power still answers to me.”
He dips his head, mouth brushing the shell of my ear as he adds with a sinful grin, “This year, you are the crowning jewel of the event. I want every man in that ballroom to look at you and know—you belong to me.”
My breath catches until he conveys, “But still masked, of course,” he murmurs, the pad of his finger dragging down the center of my corset. “Everyone arrives under a different name. At my masked balls, we all go as someone else. It’s safer. For everyone.”
“I assume everyone signs some sort of NDA, and payment would come in coin and blood?”
A muscle bounces in Roman’s jaw before he takes my wrist, kissing the inside.
“Bloody God, what a woman I possess!” Then his voice drops, almost reverent: “For me, it’s tradition.
The one night I invite devils to dance—and remind them who built their worlds from every assassination I carried out on their behalf. ”
“Ahh. So, it’s not just a dress. It’s a weapon.”
“Mmm, Valya. And tonight—I intend to wield it. Now…” He cups my chin, adopting his dominant voice. “Take it off so we may transport it to the ball’s location.”
“The ball isn’t here?”
“No. As I said, this island is our sanctuary.”
“Hmm…” I run my fingers through the ends of his hair, more of a platinum blonde to my glittery golden. “I don’t suppose you are going to tell me where?”
He shakes his head with a dark chuckle. “No. I will not spoil the surprise, Moya Samotsvet. Now, take off the gown. Slowly.”
My breath hitches as Roman walks with purpose to the other side of the room and sits down in the black leather chair, elbow propped on the armrest, fist to his jaw. Keen to watch.
Smiling seductively, I take everything off one by one, starting with the mask. When I finish with the thong and toss it aside, I lay the gown carefully on the bed before reaching for my day clothes.
“Not yet.”
Roman’s deep, predatory voice sends a shivering chill up my spine, and wet heat coiling in my core. I feel the flush erupt in my chest, radiating into my breasts. My nipples stiffen into hard buds.
“Come here,” he commands like the king he is.
Without hesitation, I turn around, clasp my hands in front of me, and make my way toward him, stopping inches from where he sits. His fist is still at his steel jaw, and his eyes regard me with hunger, dark and primal.
“Horosho devochka.”
Oh, God, he unlatches his belt and takes himself out, hard, raging erection. How long has he been carrying that massive hardness around? All day?
“Sit on my cock, moya zhena.”
Wetness drips down my thighs as I mount him, kneeling on his thighs before sliding down, slowly.
He grips my ass, fingers digging in, holding me in place as I go down, down, down, wincing but moaning once I’m fully seated on him.
My inner muscles squeeze around him, center creaming his shaft as he fills me, stretching all my walls.
He throbs inside me, but he doesn’t move. His eyes are still fixated on me. I try to wiggle a little and roll my hips, but he smacks my ass, eyes narrowing with a warning. Oh, for fuck’s sake.
As his hands knead my breasts, thumbing the nipples, I remember…
the leather chair is also a recliner! I’m so going to earn a lashing for this.
Likely won’t sit down for a week. But I still scramble to grab the lever and pull hard until Roman falls back, his hair thwacking his face.
I’m still on top, gripping his cock with all my muscles.
He flings his hair out of his face, promising punishment in that daggered glare.
His eyes turn wide at the same time that I lower my head, nip his ear, and murmur, “Remember that first day? I don’t try, Moy Korol.
I do.” I rise, beaming with pride but bracing myself for the hell he will inflict on me. “Finally got you on your back.”
Roman chuffs a laugh, shaking his head and shocking me with his control. He throbs and thickens inside me. Then…he grips my hair, yanking my head back so hard, I see stars while I yelp.
“Now, I’m going to fuck you against the wall, naughty girl. Hard.”