Chapter Eleven
Viktor
I have showered three times today.
It does not matter. It is past one in the morning, and the sweat is already drenching my skin again, gluing my hair to my forehead.
Between five in the evening—the exact hour Valentina was supposed to be back—and now, I have worked out four separate times.
For hours, I have pushed my body like a feral beast.
Eventually, I gave up on showering. I don’t think I’m able to stop pushing my body to the brink until she returns.
Where is she? Why has she not returned? Why do I even care? What changed between then and now?
At midnight, a dark thought crept into my mind, and now it refuses to leave. Could she be at an auction?
The room narrows until I see black at the edges of my vision. My hands fist so hard my knuckles pop. No. She said she does not pay for sex. She said she does not pay for men. But if she is not letting me fill her, is she getting filled somewhere else? By some aristocratic bastard?
Fuck. No. Fuck no.
Why the hell do I care?
Because I want to be the one to fill her up.
I want to be the one to make that cold, arrogant queen scream and cry and beg me to stop—and I would never stop.
I want to watch her completely fall apart in my hands, even if I am nothing compared to her.
I know what I am. I am the scum beneath her designer heels while she eats caviar for breakfast and sleeps on pure silk sheets.
Damn it. I have to work on myself. I have to become something she won't be ashamed to have in her sheets in the dark—never mind the light of day.
Why? Because she’s the only woman I’ve ever actually wanted to fuck. And she wants nothing to do with me but marvel at my sadness.
The sharp click of the front door echoing through the foyer breaks my thoughts.
I stride out of the gym, my bare chest gleaming with sweat. She looks exhausted, her coat hanging slightly loose off her shoulders, her dark hair a fraction out of place.
"Where were you?" I demand.
Valentina looks me up and down, her heavy-lidded eyes dragging slowly across my bare, sweating chest, tracking the hard lines of my abs down to where the grey sweatpants hang low on my hips.
Even through her exhaustion, I see the flare in her nostrils.
She is ogling me, drinking in the sight of my body.
I like it.
"You are acting like a possessive boyfriend, Viktor," she says. "I do not like that."
"Where were you?" I repeat, stepping closer to her.
She rolls her eyes, her chin tilting high with that stubborn pride that makes my cock throb. "If you must know, I was at work. I do not have a curfew."
I reach out to grab her wrist, wanting to pull her closer. A caught groan escapes her lips, and she flinches back.
My gaze drops instantly to her wrist.
There are thick, ugly red finger marks wrapping tightly around it. Someone grabbed her.
The rage that explodes inside my chest is indescribable.
I wish I could find the words for it, because maybe then it wouldn't feel like my veins are filling with liquid fire.
My skin is thick. I can handle hits, abuse, chains, and pipes.
I have survived the worst filth the world has to offer.
But Valentina? No matter how much she likes to pretend she is made of stone, her body is small.
Her skin is fragile. She is soft, beautiful, and delicate.
I would break any hand that dared to hurt the hands that reached out to me in my moment of weakness. The hands that pulled me out of the gutter.
She’s my savior. Not in the traditional sense, but she is. And someone hurt her.
"Who did this to you?" I growl, the sound so violently dark it doesn't even sound human. I step into her space, my chest nearly touching her face.
"I can handle myself, Viktor," she snaps. "It is taken care of."
"Do you see me?" I roar. "Do you think these muscles are for show? You do not need to handle yourself!"
We breathe harshly into each other's faces.
"It was some desperate man at work," she whispers. "He got aggressive. I threw him across the room, and my security dealt with it. I handle my own business."
"Your security is shit," I rasp, my thumb brushing just a millimeter away from the purple bruises on her wrist, my touch agonizingly gentle compared to the shit in my mind. "You need better. If a man touches you like this again, Valentina, I will tear his arms from his body."
She shakes her head, placing her palm against my chest to create space between us.
But her hand never leaves my skin.
I stay frozen, letting her hold me at bay, because her touch feels like the rightest thing in the entire world. Is it the same for her?
"I'm too tired for the caveman attitude, Viktor," she grumbles.
She kicks off her designer heels, a painful groan slipping past her lips as her bare feet hit the cold marble. More pain.
My jaw tightens. Is this girl in pain all the time? Fuck. Why do women wear those torture devices if they constantly stab their little feet? Yes, she is short—but it is the most endearing thing I have ever seen.
Without giving her a warning, I lean down and scoop her up into my arms.
"Viktor! Put me down!" she screams as she starts kicking her legs. "I am not some fucking damsel in distress!"
I tighten my grip, absorbing her blows like they are nothing but raindrops.
"Put your pride away, for fucking once!" I hiss down at her. "Let me at least try to repay you for what you've done for me."
Valentina glares up at me. "Viktor, I told you... I am not that good of a person. I didn't do it out of charity. There is nothing to repay."
"For me, there is! Let me."
She searches my face before finally giving in, her body going soft against mine. I carry her down the hallway and into the dimly lit living room, placing her on the couch. She sinks deep into the cushions, her eyes following my every move.
I drop to my knees on the floor in front of her, untying the tight ponytail she's been wearing all day and letting her long, brown hair tumble down around her shoulders. I slide my fingers into her scalp, massaging the tension right out of her temples.
A soft whimper leaves her throat.
"Better?" I murmur.
"Don't talk," she breathes. "Just... keep doing that."
I massage her head until the line between her brows smooths out. Then, I shift down, gently taking hold of her bare feet. I use my thumbs to press deep into the arches of her aching feet, working out the knots left behind by those ridiculous heels.
If I know what is good for me, I should just follow her orders. I should stay in my lane and not test her patience.
But I physically cannot do it.
Every tiny noise slipping from her throat is an assault on my sanity. I want to carry her in my arms like a little fuck doll, pinning her against the wall while sliding deep inside her over and over again, listening to her pride completely shatter into begs.
But she isn’t in the mood. That much is clear.
After half an hour of rubbing her little feet, her breathing turns deep. She is completely asleep.
Carefully, I slip my arms under her back and knees. Her head lolls naturally against the crook of my neck. I carry her into her bedroom, placing her down onto the silk sheets as gently as possible.
Standing over her bed, I find myself trapped in a dilemma.
There is no way that skirt and blouse are comfortable to sleep in. But undressing her while she is unconscious feels too intimate. Yet, if she doesn't get good sleep, she won’t be able to work comfortably tomorrow. And Valentina always works.
I won't look, I promise myself.
I reach for the zipper of her skirt. Next is the blouse. I unbutton the collar, peeling the fabric away from her shoulders until she is left in nothing but a bra and a pair of panties.
I pull the heavy duvet all the way up to her chin.
The moment she is covered, I turn on my heel and run out of her bedroom.
My cock is still hard. But there is something else expanding in my chest. Something unfamiliar.
Purpose. A goal.