11. Cora
11
CORA
I shove clothes into the suitcase, fearing Darren might appear at any moment. Jeans, shirts, a sweater. Zip. Repeat. If I keep moving, keep packing my few possessions, maybe I can pretend this isn’t happening, that I’m not in the grips of a Russian madman.
Ivan sits on my couch, his long legs stretched out, one arm draped over the back of the cushion. The other hand idly flicks open the chamber of his gun, checking it with the kind of ease that comes from a lifetime of violence. Click. A soft, metallic sound, barely louder than my own heartbeat. Death, just inches away.
A rich, bitter scent drifts through the air, invading my senses before I even realize what it is. Coffee. I freeze, the breath catching in my throat as he puts down the gun to take a sip. He made himself coffee.
The absurdity of it slams into me like a slap in the face. He has waltzed back into my life, broken into my apartment, installed goddamn surveillance cameras without my knowledge, and he has the audacity to make himself at home? The audacity to sit there, relaxed, as if I’m the one intruding?
The pressure in my chest snaps. I whirl around, the words leaving my lips before I can stop them. “You could have made me one.”
His gaze flicks to my half-packed suitcase. “Keep going,” he says. “We don’t have all day.”
I don’t move. My heart pounds against my ribs. The sudden shift—the assumption that I will listen, that I will comply—ignites something reckless inside me. “Shouldn’t you be watching those precious cameras, seeing if he’s coming?”
He exhales, slow and measured, as if I’m a child testing his patience. “They’re alarmed.” He smiles coldly, his eyes like flint.
A chill ripples through me. “Got it all figured out, haven’t you?”
I should be disgusted. I should be screaming, demanding answers, ripping those cameras out of the walls with my bare hands. And yet, beneath the outrage, beneath the shock, something darker sits inside me. A part of me—the part I don’t want to acknowledge—feels safer knowing they’re there. Knowing he’s been watching.
The realization makes my stomach churn. What the hell is wrong with me?
My jaw tightens as I force myself to focus. “Are there cameras everywhere?” I ask, the words feeling heavier than they should.
Ivan doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. My favorite’s the one above your bed.”
The air vanishes from my lungs. My body goes stiff. My skin burns—not just from embarrassment, not just from rage, but from the raw, undeniable fact that he’s seen me. Not the version I present to the world. Not the one who fights and glares and stands her ground. The real me, the unguarded, aching, exposed me. The one who called out his name when I came.
Heat floods my face, but I lift my chin, my voice sharp as I grit out, “You shouldn’t have been looking.”
Ivan smirks, a slow, knowing curve of his lips. “You need to finish packing.”
The casual cruelty of it, the audacity, snaps something inside me.
Before I can think, before I can stop myself, my hand flies through the air.
The crack of my palm against his cheek is deafening. “How dare you?” I yell. “You invaded my privacy.”
For a second, there’s nothing—just the sound of my own ragged breathing, the sting in my palm, the electric charge between us turning sharp, violent. Then, everything happens at once.
I don’t have time to step back before he’s on me.
His body slams into mine, pinning me to the wall, the impact stealing the breath from my lungs. One of his hands captures my wrist, the other pressing into the wall beside my head, his gun still cool between his fingers.
He cages me in, overwhelming every one of my senses—his heat, his scent, the unshakable dominance in the way he towers over me.
His face is inches from mine. His breath fans across my lips.
The worst part? I don’t try to push him away.
His voice drops, low and rough. “You are the only person to hit me and live.”
I shudder, but it’s not with fear. That would be easier. Fear is simple. Fear is clean. But this is much worse.
His hold tightens, his thumb brushing against my pulse point like he’s measuring it, like he knows it’s racing for all the wrong reasons. His eyes are dark, fathomless, filled with something just as dangerous as the heat coiling inside me.
“I could ruin you, Cora,” he murmurs, his lips so close they almost—almost—graze my skin. “I could break you in ways you can’t even imagine.” His voice is a purr. “Or I could make you beg for me. Reckon we should risk an interlude?”
Heat slams through me, unwanted and undeniable.
I can’t move, can’t think, can’t breathe.
His fingers brush my jaw, tilting my chin up, forcing me to look at him, to see exactly what he’s offering. Control. Possession. Power disguised as protection.
My nails dig into my palms. “I thought I was supposed to be packing,” I force out, hating how weak my voice sounds, how my body betrays me with every shallow breath.
His thumb drags over my bottom lip, his gaze darkening. “You paused to get my blood up. This is on you.”
My pulse pounds, my knees threatening to buckle beneath me, but I fight it. I fight him. With every last scrap of resistance, I shove him away, my palms pressing against the solid wall of his chest. He grabs me again, pressing his lips to mine.
A sharp knock on the door shatters the moment.
I jerk, my breath still uneven, my heart still racing, my body trembling in ways I don’t want to acknowledge.
He doesn’t react. He doesn’t look away from me, doesn’t move for a long, taut second. Then, slowly, deliberately, he turns toward the door. “I’ll get that,” he says. “You pack.”
"This is my apartment," I snap back, my voice defiant, clinging to the last shred of authority I have left.
“It’s for me.”
He pulls open the door without hesitation. My stomach tightens as a thin, wiry man steps inside. He’s in his sixties. His suit is a deep charcoal, perfectly tailored, the fabric smooth.
His pure white hair is slicked back, each strand in place, but it does nothing to soften the harsh edges of his face, the sharp angles that speak of ruthlessness rather than age.
His eyes, a piercing shade of ice blue, settle on me with a gaze so assessing, so devoid of warmth, that it feels less like being looked at and more like being sized up.
I don’t move. I don’t blink.
Without a word to me, he turns to Ivan and greets him in Russian. I don’t understand the words, but I don’t need to. The exchange is efficient, impersonal, a business transaction between men who have done this before.
Then, finally, the man turns his gaze back to me. His expression is unreadable, cold in its detachment, as if he is not looking at a person but a contract to be signed. A necessary step in whatever game Ivan is playing.
From his briefcase, he pulls a thick stack of cream-colored documents. He hands them to me.
“Sign,” Ivan says, the command in his tone so absolute that my body nearly obeys on instinct.
I blink at him, my arms crossing tightly over my chest as a deep unease spreads through me. "What is this?"
His jaw clenches. He holds the papers up slightly, an unbearable calmness in his voice when he answers. “Our marriage certificate. Associated paperwork. This is my lawyer.”
The words don’t make sense at first.
Marriage certificate. Our marriage certificate.
No.
No, this isn’t happening.
Something cold rushes through me, my body locking up as my mind scrambles to process the words, the sheer audacity, the absolute control he has just assumed over my life.
"Absolutely not." My voice is sharp, edged in steel, but even I can hear the slight tremor beneath it.
He doesn’t react. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, doesn’t look remotely surprised. Instead, his expression darkens, the softest shift in his features signaling something far more dangerous than anger.
"This isn’t a request, Cora."
He steps closer, forcing me back, forcing me into the small, inescapable space between his dominance and the wall behind me. I try to hold my ground, but my feet betray me, retreating as my breath comes quicker, sharper. I don’t want to feel trapped, but I am.
“You can’t just?—”
"I can," he cuts me off smoothly, his tone so calm, it sends a shiver through me. "And I have."
His hand lifts, fingers grazing my jaw before curling around my chin, firm and unyielding. He tilts my face up until I have no choice but to meet his gaze, no choice but to see the absolute, unshakable possession in his dark eyes.
“You’ve been mine from the moment we met,” he murmurs, his thumb dragging slowly over my bottom lip, lingering, owning. “This just makes it official.”
A slow, sick wave of realization crashes over me.
This isn’t just about power. It isn’t about control.
It’s about claiming.
Not just my name, not just my body—but all of me.
My heart slams against my ribs, panic fighting to claw its way out of my throat, but the lawyer clears his throat sharply, the sound cutting through the tension as he taps his watch. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t care about me. He is here for a signature. That is all.
Ivan doesn’t move. His grip stays firm, his eyes never leaving mine.
The choice isn’t real.
Sign willingly, or he will make me.
My hands shake as I take the pen.
The weight of his stare burns into me as I press the tip to the paper. I hesitate, my fingers trembling, my mind screaming at me to fight, to run, to do anything but this. But there is nowhere to go.
I sign.
The lawyer nods, tucks the documents back into his briefcase, and closes the latch with a final, snapping click. He does not congratulate us. He does not speak. Why would he? There is nothing to say.
He turns and leaves.
The door shuts behind him, a solid, echoing sound, and I stand there, frozen in the silence he leaves behind. My hands are shaking. My pulse is erratic. My skin feels too hot, too cold, too tight.
This is real.
I am his.
I barely register the movement when he leans in, his breath warm against my ear, his voice a low, dark whisper that seeps beneath my skin like poison.
“As your husband,” he murmurs, satisfaction dripping from every syllable, “I have certain rights.”
And I’m carrying your child. The words sit on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t force them out. Instead, I shift nervously, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my skirt.
“You have something you want to tell me,” he says. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” I lie, my voice wavering. “Doesn’t matter.”
He raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “You’re a terrible liar, printsessa.” His hands reach for me, his fingers brushing against my waist, sending a shiver up my spine. “Tell me the truth. What are you hiding from me?”
His touch is electric, distracting, and I can’t think straight. “I’m not hiding anything,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Why do you think I’m hiding something?”
His smirk deepens, his hands sliding up to my hips, pulling me closer. “Because you are,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear.
God, he’s infuriating. And intoxicating. And impossible to resist. I tilt my head, meeting his gaze, trying to summon some semblance of courage. But the words still won’t come.
His hands move to the buttons of my blouse, his fingers undoing them one by one, agonizingly slow. “Maybe I can make you talk.”
I bite my lip, a moan escaping as his hands slide under the fabric, his palms warm against my skin. “Ivan...” I whisper. “I thought we needed to leave.”
“Oh, but what’s life without a little danger?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against mine, his breath hot against my skin. “I love watching you squirm.”
His hands slide down to my skirt, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric, brushing against the sensitive skin of my thighs. “Tell me what you want, Cora.”
“You,” I gasp, my body arching into his touch. “I want you.”
His lips capture mine in a searing kiss, his tongue sliding against mine, claiming me. His hands move to the zipper of my skirt, pulling it down, letting the fabric pool at my feet.
He steps back, his eyes raking over me, lingering on the black lace of my panties. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “I could spend hours just looking at you.”
“Hours?” I tease, my hands moving to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one. “How much time do we have here?”
He chuckles, a low, throaty sound that sends a shiver down my spine. “You’re right,” he admits, his hands sliding up my sides, brushing against the curve of my breasts. “Better speed things up.”
His lips return to mine, his kiss deeper, more demanding. His hands move to the clasp of my bra, undoing it with a practiced ease. The fabric falls away, and his hands are on my breasts, his thumbs brushing against my nipples, making me moan into his mouth.
“So responsive,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down my neck, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin. “You always taste so sweet. Like honey.”
I grip his shoulders, my nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. “Ivan...” I whisper. “Please...”
“Please what?” he teases, his hands sliding down to my panties, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric. “Tell me what you want.”
His fingers brush against my clit, making me moan. “I want to hear you beg,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against mine. “Beg for me, Cora.”
“Please, Ivan,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Please... I need you.”
He smirks, clearly satisfied with my pleas. His fingers slide inside me, curling just right, making me gasp. “So wet for me,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear. “You’re always so wet for me. It drives me crazy.”
I moan, my hips rocking against his hand, desperate for more. “Ivan... please...”
“Patience,” he purrs, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate strokes. “I’m not done with you yet.”
He steps back, his hands moving to his belt, undoing it quickly. His pants fall to the floor, and he steps out of them, his cock hard, straining against his boxers. He pulls them down, freeing himself, and I can’t help but stare. He’s perfect. Everything about him is perfect.
“On the couch,” he commands, his voice low, commanding. “On your knees.”
I obey, my body trembling with anticipation. I climb onto the couch, positioning myself on all fours, my ass in the air. He steps behind me, his hands gripping my hips, his cock brushing against my entrance.
“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice thick with possessiveness. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Always yours.”
He thrusts into me, hard and fast, making me gasp. His hands grip my hips, his thrusts deep, punishing. “Mine,” he growls, his voice low, dangerous. “Say it again.”
“Yours,” I moan, my body arching into his thrusts. “Always yours.”
He slows his pace, his thrusts becoming deeper, more deliberate. His hands slide up my back, pressing me down, his lips brushing against my ear. “You feel so good,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “So tight. So perfect.”
I moan. “Ivan... please...”
He pulls out, flipping me onto my back, his lips capturing mine in a searing kiss. His hands grip my thighs, spreading them wide, his cock sliding back inside me.
His thrusts are slower now, more sensual, but no less intense. His lips trail down my neck, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs, his voice low, possessive. “Say it again.”
“Yours,” I whisper, my body arching into his thrusts. “Always yours.”
He kisses me deeply, his thrusts becoming harder, more demanding. His hands grip my hips, his body pressing into mine, his lips brushing against my ear. “Come for me,” he growls, his voice low. “Let me feel you.”
I obey, my body trembling with pleasure as I climax beneath him. He groans, his thrusts becoming erratic, his body pressing into mine as he finds his release. He collapses on top of me, his breath hot against my skin.
“So good,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You’re always so good for me.”
He pulls out, standing at once. “Get dressed,” he says. “We’re leaving.”