Chapter 35 #2
Roman roars, the sound torn from deep in his chest, trying to get to me again. They hold him down, one knee grinding into his wound until I see white in his face.
I rise, legs shaking, and meet Anton’s eyes. “Spare them all. Get him medical treatment. That’s my price.”
Anton’s smile deepens like I’ve just proven him right about everything. “Wise girl.” He straightens, glances at his men. “Get my brother patched up. I want him alive to watch.”
Roman spits blood, his glare molten. “You touch her, Anton, and I’ll cut your dick off. Slow. One slice at a time. You’ll beg for hell before I’m done with you.”
Anton doesn’t even glance back. “You’ll watch,” he says. “And she’ll learn.” He studies me for a beat, presses his lips into a sinister smile.
My chest caves in, even as I work to build armor around my heart.
His fingers cup my chin, tilting my face up—and before I can jerk away, his mouth is on mine. His lips are cold and claiming, not kissing.
I don’t close my eyes. I don’t give him the satisfaction. When he pulls back, I taste copper and rot.
“Bring him,” Anton orders, and two of his men step forward, dragging Roman to his feet. He’s barely standing, his shirt soaked through with blood, but he still manages to bare his teeth like he’ll tear out Anton’s throat the first chance he gets.
They haul him toward the house, and we enter the estate’s grand entryway, but Anton’s hand clamps around my wrist. “Not you, yet.”
I try to yank free, but his grip is iron. “Where are you taking him?”
“To the dungeon, of course.” He says it like it’s obvious, his smile flicking like a knife.
“We agreed he would—”
Anton cuts me off, “He will have the finest care once he’s in shackles, I assure you, moya nevesta. But first…you and I have unfinished business.”
I feel Roman’s gaze burning into me even as they drag him away.
Don’t do this, his eyes say.
I have to, mine answer.
I hold my husband’s gaze as long as I possibly can…until he slips into shadow, his groans and curses fading.
Anton offers me his hand. I don’t take it, but I follow him, each step feeling like a door closing behind me. He tugs me toward the sweeping staircase. It feels like a scaffold.
At the top of the stairs, Anton touches my elbow and leans closer, his breath brushing my temple. “I think we should start where you and my dear brother have made yourselves…comfortable.”
My stomach drops.
Our bedroom.
I follow him inside as slowly as possible.
Roman’s scent hits me first—leather, vetiver, the faint spice of his aftershave. The bed is still rumpled from when we’d tangled in each other before the world collapsed.
Anton steps inside like he owns the place, flexing his wrist until a sleek embedded chip glows. A blue projection blooms above his skin, scrolling with encrypted text. “Is he there?” A pause. “Good,” he says, calm as a man placing a dinner order.
He crooks a finger to me, showing me the display in the dungeon, the medic treating the bullet wound. Yes, he knew I’d agree to nothing unless I saw proof.
The display vanishes. He shrugs off his coat, draping it over Roman’s on the leather chair—the one where Roman reads late at night, sipping vodka, admiring me as I undress for the night. Anton’s fingers flick open the top buttons of his shirt before sitting.
“Center of the room.”
I move, my bare feet silent on the carpet.
“Strip,” he says.
I stay still. “No.”
His smile is cold. He stiffens, sharpening his eyes in a warning. “We’ll start with your dress. Undo the first button.”
My fingers fumble.
“Look at me while you do it.”
I lift my chin with a grimace. My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears.
“Slower,” he drawls. “Smile. And seduce. I expect a worthy performance, wife.”
Yes, a worthy performance. That’s all this is to him. All I am to him. And I have to put on a show, for the sake of all the lives counting on me.
The first button slips free. Then the second. His gaze doesn’t blink, doesn’t shift.
“Slide the fabric off your shoulders. Let it fall.”
It pools at my feet. My body hums with rage and shame. Only my lacy bra and thong.
“Now the rest,” he murmurs. “Thumbs under the straps. Lower them…slowly. Good. Let them go.”
I obey. The last of my clothes falls. My fists curl at my sides.
And then—a memory knifes through me. Sasha, in the library, both of us drunk on vodka. How he said I’d be Anton’s queen. I’d laughed bitterly because I knew I would be just a trophy queen.
Roman never made me a trophy. He made me the jewel in his crown.
Anton’s gaze sweeps over me with unchecked lust, his eyes catching on every curve.
His mouth curls. “Breathtaking,” he says, slow and poisonous.
“With tits like that and an ass made for worship, it’s no wonder my brother risked everything.
You’re the new Helen of Troy, Valentina—stolen by a traitor, your beauty enough to spark a war.
” His tone turns mockingly intimate. “Tell me, did you agree to his plan from the beginning? When my beloved brother staged the car crash and stole you from me on our wedding day?”
Confusion spirals through me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Surely you had to suspect.” He props his elbow on the armrest, stroking his jaw, staring more at my breasts and thighs. “The two of you plotting in secret, perhaps? If not, however, did he convince you to play the part of his doting bride?”
“I’m not playing,” I hiss. “I’m Valentina Makarova, wife and queen of Roman Makarova. I’ve been his wife for two years.”
His brows shoot up. Then he tips his head back and laughs. “Well. Committed, aren’t you? When did he convince you to betray your father, your family, and endanger the contract between the Makarovas and Volkovs?”
“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I double down.
He rises, circling me like a predator. Tears burn my throat, but I hold them back. A fingertip traces my spine; my skin prickles, betrays me with a shiver.
“What happened after the crash?” he murmurs. “Indulge me.”
“I woke up with no memory. Amnesia.”
His smile sharpens. “My brother is more of a devil than I thought. He convinced all his staff to play along? Impressive.” He comes around to face me.
“You were Valentina Volkov three months ago. Living at the Volkov estate. Engaged…to me. How does it feel, knowing the man you’ve sacrificed everything for has lied to you? ”
His words slam against me, but they can’t get through the armor around my heart.
I glare. “I don’t believe you.”
His hand shoots out, gripping mine. He yanks me closer until I feel the heat of his body through his clothes. “Look at the skin beneath your ring,” he says. His thumb pushes the band high on my finger. “Does it look like it’s worn a proper mark for two years? Or does it look new? Fresh?”
Something in me splinters. Shatters when he confiscates the ring.
Even when he forces me to my knees…even when his hand tangles in my hair and he pushes his length into my mouth, fucking my throat…even with his words dripping poison about car crashes, Roman’s lies, and the staff’s betrayal—it doesn’t matter.
I would do it all again. Every deception. Every sacrifice. For them. For him. My true husband.
After I’ve swallowed every drop of his cum, Anton hauls me upright, his breath hot against my cheek. “After tonight, moya nevesta, you will believe. You will know I am your real husband. Your lord. Your master.”
“That will never happen.”
He doesn’t care. If he growled, felt threatened, it would help. But he just laughs. Because he knows he’s won.
He makes it quite clear how he’s won when he fucks me every which way on the bed. No. Roman fucks. Anton ruts.
He makes it clear he’s not here to love me, to worship me—only to stake his claim.
Roman fucks to test me, to drag me to my lowest so he can watch me claw my way back, stronger and hungrier for him than before.
Anton ruts like an invader pillaging, plundering—every thrust a declaration that I’m nothing more than the spoils of war. No passion. No tenderness. No thought of my pleasure. Just a merciless man marking stolen territory.
I feel the objectification in every motion, the trophy treatment, as he growls for me to straddle him. Chest to chest, he impales me, his cum still slick between my thighs, the bed soaked in him. Roman is not the only one with stamina—but Anton’s is joyless, a punishment.
He stretches me, burns me, and pounds me like a battering ram. I’m only wet from what he’s already taken.
“Christ, I’m going to fuck you everywhere tonight, Valentina,” he pants against my mouth, then kisses me—filthy, sloppy, all greed and no heat. “Every goddamn hole. Long overdue. And you are being such a good girl.”
The words…only Roman should say them. I clamp the armor tighter, but my heart keeps cracking.
A second later, he has me on my back again. His mouth covers mine at the same time that he gropes my breasts, mauling them and twisting my nipples. I don’t kiss him back. And he doesn’t care.
When he finally pulls away from the bed, he exhales like it’s a chore, presses a cold, hollow kiss to my neck, then drapes himself in Roman’s robe and strides toward the bathroom without a backward glance.
I feel dirty, used, abused.
With Roman? I feel dirty, yet sacred. Used, yet treasured. Abused, yet worshipped. Roman is raw, real, alive. Passion and fire. Burning me, shattering me, resurrecting me. Every time.
Anton is an icy ghost—offering nothing but pain and shadow.
Somehow, some way, I gather the strength to wrap the sheets around me, wincing from the sting of the violation. It can’t be called anything else—rape.
“Anton…” My voice cracks.
He pauses at the bathroom doorway.
“What?”
I purse my lips, refusing to meet his eyes. With his cum still leaking, defiling me, I whisper, “What color are my eyes?”
Silence thickens. My heart freezes.
Then, cold and cruel—
“Who cares?”
The door slams shut.