31. Santo
Chapter 31
Santo
T he past couple months have been grueling. Long days trying to crack the code to find out what deal Miroslav made with our enemies and even longer nights interrogating pieces of shits for a name other than Kaya. It’s consumed everything—my time, my energy, and, worst of all, time I could have with her .
Kaya has finally decided to meet with Angelo and me tonight, another night away from my wife. The thought of Vasilisa, alone in that house surrounded by guards, tightens something in my chest.
I used to keep her close in other ways—watching her on surveillance when I couldn’t physically be with her, but even that has fallen by the wayside. It wasn’t just about seeing her. It was about memorizing her. The way she moves when she thinks no one is watching, the way she tilts her head when she reads, the way her fingers linger at her lips when she’s lost in thought. I haven’t been able to devour every detail of her, to trace the small moments that make her her—and the loss of that, of her , feels like starving. Now, I only hear about her through Luca’s texts, brief updates that don’t do her justice.
Every night, I carry her sleeping form upstairs, her body warm and pliant against mine, but it’s not enough. For the past month, she hasn’t even been on the couch. Instead, she’s already asleep in her room, the door closed, the space between us stretching further. I haven’t held her in weeks, and the ache of it is constant, gnawing at me in the quiet moments I can’t ignore.
I send her flowers. I even left her a note a while back, a pathetic attempt to bridge the distance, but she hasn’t called or texted. I don’t blame her. The phone works both ways, and I’ve failed her as much as she’s silent now. Despite Luca’s assurances that she’s fine, I know better. I’m sure she’s angry—she has every right to be. And that anger, that growing silence, terrifies me more than any enemy we’re about to face.
I sigh, sinking back into the passenger seat of Angelo’s SUV as we head into enemy territory. The weight of everything presses down on me—Miroslav, Kaya, the war—and underneath it all, her. Always her. The thought of Vasilisa waiting for me, feeling abandoned, is a wound I can’t seem to heal. She’s a light, the light in this dark, ruthless world, and yet I’m the one extinguishing it.
Angelo glances at me briefly, his brow furrowing. “You good?”
I nod, brushing off his concern. But the truth is, I haven’t been good in months. Not without her.
We're arriving alone as far as Kaya is aware, but in truth Maksim called in his snipers to be around the perimeter in case this goes left. Maksim received word from the Irish kingpin that the Turkish may not be the ones in control of the deal with Miroslav, so we are going to Gabriel Kaya to find out if these stories match up.
The road leading to Kaya's estate is as dark as the fog surrounding it. The cobblestone pathway grows more uneven the closer we get; the perfect metaphor for our shaky meeting with him.
Entering the compound, the guards at the gate are tense, their stiff postures revealing more than their stony expressions.
Inside, Gabriel Kaya is everything you'd expect from a ruthless mob boss: tall, imposing, and every inch a predator, just like us. His cold eyes trace over Angelo.
“Amato’s,” he greets coolly, his voice edged like a blade. His focus stays on Angelo, but I feel his attention on me just the same. He drapes himself across the couch in a casual display of dominance, his posture relaxed, but not careless. A predator playing at ease. He gestures to the couch opposite him.
We don’t sit.
No pleasantries. No wasted breath. Angelo’s voice is a sharp command. “We don’t appreciate your men encroaching on Korsakov’s territory, let alone attempting to take our women.”
Gabriel exhales a humorless chuckle, slow and calculated. “And I don’t appreciate pieces of my men arriving at my doorstep in gift boxes. Yet here we are.”
Angelo’s expression doesn’t shift. “You’re ordering an unprovoked attack.”
Gabriel leans forward, his mouth curving into something resembling amusement. “If I wanted to strike a blow, I’d go for the jugular. Your sister? That's small time, a warning shot.” His gaze flicks to me, calculated, deliberate. “ Your wife would be the kill.”
A cold, quiet rage settles in my chest. My muscles coil with the instinct to move—to strike before another word can leave his mouth. But Angelo is faster. His arm slams across my chest, a silent warning. I don’t push against it, but I don’t relax either. My fingers twitch at my side, itching to rip Gabriel apart.
Angelo’s voice remains steady, but the steel beneath it is unyielding. “Are you saying you can't control your men and they're going rogue?”
“I’m saying my men are being targeted, taken, their families threatened to do bidding for others,” Gabriel counters, his jaw clenching.
“Bullshit.” The word leaves my lips before I can stop it.
Gabriel’s laugh is cold, slicing through the room like ice. “Believe what you want, but Korsakov is a liability. He’s made enemies beyond just me.”
“Give me a name,” Angelo demands.
Gabriel tilts his head slightly, feigning thought. “And what do I get in return?”
“A ceasefire between our families,” I offer, my voice flat. “Until we resolve this war with whoever is actually behind the attacks.”
Angelo glances at me, his jaw ticking with unspoken tension, but he nods. “Deal.”
Gabriel’s expression sharpens, satisfaction flickering in his eyes. “Sarkisian. Arsen Sarkisian.”
“The Armenians?” Angelo’s confidence falters, just for a moment. “No fucking way.”
Gabriel nods, his face devoid of humor. “Ask Korsakov what he did to Sarkisian years back to make him an enemy.”
I want to ask more questions, to dig , but Angelo ends the meeting abruptly, his voice firm. “We’ll be in touch.”
As we leave, something catches my eye—a delicate face peeking out from behind a curtain. She’s a ghost of a woman, barely there, her features pale and fragile against the shadows of the room. Big brown eyes widen in fear as they meet mine, shimmering with a silent plea. Her trembling finger presses to her lips, begging for my silence.
I nod imperceptibly, leaving her and Kaya behind as we step into the night.
The drive back to my office is interrupted by Angelo's phone buzzing.
Our father is awake.
Angelo speeds to the hospital, without saying a word, his fingers white-knuckled on the wheel. I can see the tension playing across his face and I share it too.
We screech into the hospital parking lot, Angelo leaving the car running as we both sprint to our father’s room.
The sight of our father connected to so many machines is jarring, but his eyes are clear and alert. He looks at us with an unfamiliar intensity before Angelo can even get a word out.
“The Armenians,” he rasps, his voice barely audible over the steady beep of the heart monitor. “It was them.”
His confirmation validates Kaya’s information.
I step out of the hospital room, to call Korsakov, the beep of machines and Angelo’s murmured reassurances fading as I bring the phone to my ear. Maksim picks up after the first ring.
“Scythe,” Maksim says, his tone as steady and sharp as always.
“It’s confirmed. It was the Armenians.”
There’s a pause, and then Maksim swears under his breath. “Shit.”
“Kaya said you did something a couple of years back,” I press, my voice tight.
Maksim chuckles darkly, the sound grating on my nerves. “Kaya always did like embellishing stories. Don’t let his paranoia infect you.”
“Korsakov, what the fuck did you get us into?”
“Nothing,” Maksim replies smoothly, but the slight pause in his voice betrays him. “Kaya’s intel is shit.”
“Angelo knows something. If I ask him, what will he say?”
“The same thing I just told you,” Maksim snaps, deflecting. “Did you find more on Miroslav?”
I grit my teeth at his evasiveness but answer anyway. “It’s not the Turks he made a deal with, that much is clear. Everything points to the Armenians.”
Maksim sighs deeply. “I just landed. Now that we know who we’re after, we can end this shit.”
“We can start by dissolving this fucking alliance,” I say, my voice laced with venom.
Maksim’s tone turns colder, more dangerous. “The Sovereigns remains standing, Scythe. Whether you like it or not.”
“Fuck the Sovereigns, this alliance has already put my sister in danger and almost killed my father. After I speak with Angelo, we’re getting out of this shit,” I spit.
Maksim’s laugh is low and dark, sending a chill through me. “What about NovaRael? Are you willing to let that go, too?”
“I have ZUES. I’ll build on it,” I reply confidently, though the weight of his words lingers.
“And what about Vasilisa?” Maksim adds, his voice dripping with malice.
The mention of her name freezes me, my pulse pounding in my ears.
“You didn’t think I would let you keep her, did you?” Maksim continues, his tone cruel and calculated, designed to cut deep.
A growl escapes my throat, anger and fear intertwining in a way that makes my skin prickle. “Fuck you, Korsakov.” I end the call with a swipe, my hand trembling in rage, my grip tight on the phone.
The only thing that can calm me now is her. I pull up the feed on my phone and I watch from the beginning as her day unfolds, as she paints with the guards, laughing and exchanging pleasantries, bantering and happy with other men . Jealousy creeps at the edge of my vision, I look back to the previous days and watch as she plays games with them, cooks with them, eats with them. I watch as they embrace her, she touches Enzo's shoulder, claps for Nico, beams at Luca and I want to crush my phone in my hand.
I switch to live footage of her now, in the library that I gave her, painting with the guards. A surge of anger courses through me. Immediately I send a text to every guard, but Luca; ordering them to come to the hospital.
Fury blurs my vision as I watch them leave her side, their lips touching her forehead in goodbye. But instead of looking grateful or relieved, she's sad. Always a ray of sunshine to everyone that wife of mine.
Overly friendly.
Luca’s disapproving stare burns through the surveillance screen, his silent judgment sharper than any words he could say. I refuse to acknowledge it. She belongs to me. That is the only truth that matters.
I shut off the screen, but the image of her lingers—her sad, distant expression etched into my mind like a wound that won’t close.
I push it away. I have to.
I need to find Angelo. Need to focus on Maksim’s evasions, on the pieces of this war slipping through my grasp, instead of the ache my wife stirs in me.
By the time my men arrive, my anger has cooled to a simmer. Controlled. Contained. I give them their orders, stationing them outside my father’s hospital room before leaving without another word.
Home. To her.
***
The house feels wrong when I return. Midnight is early for me, but the silence still unsettles. For the first time in months, the thought crosses my mind— she might still be awake . A flicker of something I refuse to name stirs in my chest.
Hope.
I glance toward the living room. Empty.
Upstairs, Luca is stationed outside her door, his presence both a reassurance and an irritation. A permanent shadow between my wife and me.
He doesn’t move when I approach, but his eyes flick over me, assessing. “Your father well?” His voice is neutral, but there’s a quiet edge to it.
“As well as can be expected,” I reply curtly, my gaze shifting to the closed door behind him. “Is she asleep?”
“She went to bed early.” His tone stays even, but something in it makes me bristle.
Anger.
“You have something to say, Luca?” I demand.
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t hesitate. “She’s happy.” A pause, deliberate. “She feels good . Free instead of alone. Instead of trapped .” His gaze sharpens. “You didn’t need to take them from her.”
The words slap harder than they should. My muscles coil, my voice lowering to something dangerous. “I take what I want—from her , from anyone .” I step closer, the air thick with tension. “You seem to overstep when it comes to my wife, Luca. Tell me—is there something I should know?”
Luca doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t back down. “Vasilisa is a loyal woman,” he says, voice like steel. “And I am a loyal man. Remember that before you throw your jealousy in the wrong direction.”
He brushes past me, his steps measured, deliberate—leaving me alone in the hallway with nothing but the weight of his words.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
I stare at the closed door, anger still simmering, jealousy burning through my veins like a sickness. She doesn’t deserve this. She has done nothing but follow my wishes. And yet…
The image of her, surrounded by them. Laughing . At ease. Free in a way she should only be with me . It gnaws at me like a wound that refuses to close.
I force myself to move, retreating to my own room. Stripping once I'm there, I collapse onto my unmade bed, exhaling sharply.
My fingers twitch toward my phone.
I shouldn’t.
But the thought of seeing her, just for a moment—peaceful, warm, untouched by the weight I put on her shoulders— tempts me .
It’s been too long since I felt her skin. Too long since I carried her upstairs.
Too long since I held what's mine .
Giving in, I pull up the surveillance feed to her room.
I tell myself it’s just to check on her—to see if she’s sleeping, to convince myself that she’s still within reach even when she feels so far away.
But the moment the screen lights up, every thought evaporates.
Vasilisa isn’t asleep.
She’s writhing on the bed, her body arching, her thighs parting, soft moans spilling from her lips— my name slipping into the silence like a secret she only trusts the darkness to hear.
Heat scorches through me, my grip tightening around the phone as my pulse pounds like a war drum.
My wife is touching herself.
Touching what's mine .
A sharp possessiveness grips my chest like a vice. The sight of her fingers gliding between her thighs, disappearing beneath the thin scrap of lace she wears, is a temptation I can’t turn away from. My cock hardens instantly, aching at the sheer wrongness of the moment— I should be the one touching her, drawing those sounds from her lips, making her come undone beneath me .
She’s mine. Every inch of her belongs to me.
I can’t stop myself. I don’t even try.
Dragging my free hand down, I palm my aching length wrapping my fingers around the rigid heat of my cock. A shudder rips through me as I stroke myself to the rhythm she sets for herself, my breath sharp, my restraint unraveling with every soft gasp she gives.
The little nightgown she wears has bunched around her waist, giving me a perfect view of her fingers slipping deeper into her panties, her body twisting with every slow, torturous stroke. Her other hand fists the sheets, knuckles white as she fights for control, but I know she’s close.
Her breath hitches. Her thighs tense.
A broken moan, a sharp cry as her back bows off the mattress. Her legs snap shut, her body quaking as she comes apart— on her own, without me —but it’s the way she says my name, soft and breathless, that ruins me completely.
My jaw clenches, my grip tightening as I chase the high she’s already lost to. The possessiveness in my chest turns feral, burning through my veins like fire as my body tightens, need consuming every last thread of control.
She wants me. Even when I’m not there, it’s still me she’s reaching for.
Pleasure explodes behind my eyes, my body tensing as I spill into my hand, heat smearing across my stomach and the sheets beneath me. My breath is ragged, my pulse hammering as the last waves of release shudder through me.
Still, it’s not enough.
I turn off the surveillance, tossing my phone onto the nightstand before yanking the soiled blanket off the bed. A heavy sigh rips from my chest as I head to the bathroom, frustration and satisfaction tangled inside me.
She’s right down the hall. Soft, spent, still flushed from the pleasure she gave herself.
And I should be the one in that bed, wrecking her until she has no choice but to crawl into my arms.
The freezing shower does nothing to extinguish the heat still simmering beneath my skin.
I wrap a towel low around my hips, scrubbing a hand through my damp hair as I step out of the bathroom my heart stutters.
She’s here.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, wrapped in a white silk robe that clings to her body like a second skin. She looks both impossibly innocent and utterly forbidden, her presence unraveling something tight in my chest.
She shouldn’t be here.
Her gaze traces over my chest, slow and deliberate, before lifting to mine—an unspoken question lingering in the air between us.
“You’re home early,” she murmurs, her voice softer than I expected. Tentative. Almost unsure of herself.
“I thought you’d be asleep.” The smirk that tugs at my lips is instinctive, especially when her cheeks flush that lovely shade of pink.
Her eyes flick to the guest bed—the rumpled sheets, the discarded blanket—before snapping back to me, brow furrowing.
“Were you asleep?” she asks, curiosity in her tone, not accusation.
I don’t answer.
Instead, I force my eyes to stay on her face. Not on the way her robe has parted, offering the barest glimpse of skin. Not on the way her fingers fidget in her lap, betraying whatever excuse she’s telling herself for being here.
But then her eyes drop—to the towel slung low on my hips.
She doesn’t look away fast enough.
She knows.
The way she watches me, the way she lingers on the sharp ridges of my body, on the tension in my stance—it’s a dare. A challenge.
For a moment, I let myself feel it. The ache. The need.
For her .
For the taste of what I’ve craved since the moment she stepped into my world and made it hers.
But I won’t take it. Not like this .
“Why don’t you go back to bed?” My voice is even, despite the way my muscles coil with restraint. I turn toward the closet, grabbing a pair of sweats.
Behind me, she exhales softly—too soft. A sound too similar to what I heard through the speakers mere moments ago, when she thought she was alone, writhing in her own pleasure.
My grip tightens around the waistband of my pants.
“Did that hurt?” she asks suddenly, her voice threading through the tension like a blade.
“What?” I ask from the closet.
“Your tattoo,” she clarifies.
I inhale slowly, discarding the towel, dragging the sweats on.
I knew what she meant, I was hoping she wouldn't pry.
I'm not proud of the symbol, of who I am.
The scythes carved into my back. Crossed. Sharp. Unmistakable. A mark of who I’ve had to become. A mark of Scythe.
I keep my voice steady, careful. “It didn’t hurt. I’m used to pain.” A pause. “It just took a while.”
“I can only imagine it took days to finish,” she says softly.
“Actually, it took weeks,” I correct, stepping out of the closet, tying the drawstring on my sweats.
When I glance at her, her eyes meet mine, and for a second, I see something I haven’t seen before.
A look I can’t place.
Curiosity. Realization. Maybe even suspicion. It tightens something deep in my chest.
“Is it supposed to symbolize death?” she asks, her voice soft but probing.
I hesitate.
The scythes don’t just symbolize death—they are death. They are me.
But I can’t tell her that.
“Sort of,” I say carefully, lowering myself onto the edge of the bed beside her.
She gives a slow nod, but her gaze lingers, searching. Piecing me together. Her fingers brush against my arm, the touch featherlight—a reassurance, or maybe a question she’s not ready to ask.
“Santo?”
“Yes?”
I take in the delicate lines of her face, the warmth of her flushed cheeks, the small crease in her brow.
“I missed you,” she whispers, her eyes dropping—hovering over my lips.
The words slam into my chest, hitting harder than they should.
A jolt of desire burns through my veins, sharp and searing, and before I can stop myself, I lean in, the space between us dwindling to nothing.
“I missed you too, Mia Dea.”
Her breath catches. Her chest rises and falls faster, matching the unsteady rhythm of my own.
But she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t retreat.
Instead, she holds my stare, her pulse thrumming in the delicate line of her throat.
“Santo,” she whispers, her voice carrying the same breathless plea I heard earlier in her room—except now, I’m right here .
I swallow hard as her fingers trail up my arm, slow and deliberate, before coming to rest against my chest.
A single touch.
A fucking brand.
“Yes?” I whisper, matching the quiet intensity in her voice.
Her lips part, her breath shaky, but her gaze never wavers.
“I want you.”
Not a plea. Not a request.
An assertion.
My body locks up, every muscle coiled with restraint.
For a split second, I hesitate—the weight of everything I’ve held back pressing against my ribs like a vice. This is a line I can’t uncross.
But then she looks at me, really looks at me, with a need that burns through every last thread of control I’ve clung to.
Fuck it.
She’s mine.
I cup her face, my fingers threading into the silk of her hair. Her lips part in surprise, but I don’t give her a chance to overthink.
I take her.
Pulling her flush against me until there’s nothing between us but heat, hunger, and the aching need we’ve denied for too long.
My mouth claims hers—soft at first, testing, teasing—but the moment she melts against me, all hesitation vanishes. The kiss turns into something raw, desperate, a clash of tongues and breathless gasps.
Her hands slide up my chest, fingertips pressing into my skin, anchoring herself to me, as if she’s been waiting for this moment as long as I have.
Her silk robe shifts, slipping against her body, revealing flashes of bare, heated skin. It’s torture. It’s heaven. It’s her—all of her.
I tear my lips from hers, breathing hard, my forehead resting against hers as I try to grasp the fraying edges of control.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” My voice is a rasp, thick with restraint.
Her lips curve into the faintest, teasing smile, her fingers skimming along my jaw, her breath warm and trembling. “Maybe…” she whispers. “But you could show me.”
Fuck.
That’s all I need.
I haul her into my lap, her legs straddling my hips, her body pressing down against my aching cock, and I devour her. My hands roam over her body, feeling, memorizing, claiming. She moves against me, grinding in slow, torturous circles, and I let her, let myself fall back onto the bed, surrendering to her lead.
Her tongue dances with mine, tasting of honey and sin, leaving me lightheaded with the need to taste more, take more. She pulls back just enough to nip at my lower lip, her playful defiance making me snap .
With a growl, I flip her onto her back, pressing her into the mattress, taking back control.
Her robe parts as she falls against the sheets, revealing the bare, flushed skin she had hidden beneath.
I go still .
She’s perfection.
Her hair fans out around her like molten gold, wild and unruly against the sheets, a perfect contrast to the delicate perfection of her body. It shimmers in the dim light, strands catching silver where the moon touches them, making her look ethereal, untouchable—except she is mine to touch.
Her nipples are already taut, flushed a deep rose against her flawless skin, rising and falling with each shallow breath. My gaze traces the subtle dip of her waist, the gentle curve of her hips, the smoothness of her thighs—each inch of her pristine, untouched except by me.
She hesitates for just a moment, instinctively moving to cover herself, but I won’t allow it.
I brush her arms aside and cover her with my body instead, my mouth slanting over hers in a kiss that’s fierce, claiming, unrelenting.
She moans into my mouth, her hands exploring the hard planes of my back, nails dragging just enough to make me shudder. My lips travel down the delicate column of her throat, leaving goosebumps in their wake as I trace patterns with my tongue, savoring the taste of her skin. Each gasp, each soft plea that spills from her lips urges me on, consuming me with the need to devour her completely.
Between kisses, I murmur against her flushed skin, “How many fingers did you use?”
She gasps, a sharp inhale that makes me smirk against her throat. “What?” she breathes, her voice a mix of confusion and anticipation.
I answer by dragging my lips lower, my tongue flicking over the swell of her breast before I take one pert, pink peak into my mouth. She arches instantly, a breathless moan slipping free as her fingers tangle in my hair, holding me to her.
I release her with a graze of my teeth, my lips brushing over her heated skin as I murmur, “How many fingers did you use when you touched yourself tonight?”
A shudder courses through her. “I knew you were watching,” she whispers, her voice trembling as I swirl my tongue around her other nipple, watching her eyes go hazy with pleasure.
I bite down gently, just enough to have her gasping and pulling at my hair. “Answer me,” I command, my voice low and demanding.
Her lips part, a whimper slipping past them. “Two,” she moans, her honesty making something dark and possessive coil in my gut.
“That’s my girl.” The praise rolls off my tongue like a reward, and the way she shivers makes me crave more.
Trailing kisses lower, I let my fingers ghost down her stomach, teasing the lace at her hips. “Did you clean up after you came?” My voice is nothing but sinful heat against her skin. “Or are you still soaked for me?”
Her breath stutters.
“I’m still…” She hesitates, her voice barely audible.
I lift my head, arching a brow. Still what, Vasilisa?
“For you.”
A dark chuckle rumbles in my chest. “Such a naughty girl,” I murmur, hooking my fingers beneath her panties and dragging them down, slow, torturous.
She shivers. Anticipation flickers in her wide, lust-blown eyes.
I trail my fingers along the inside of her thigh, light as a whisper, teasing her. Watching as she squirms, her breath hitching, her body already desperate for more.
She takes in a sharp breath when I reach the apex of her thighs. I part her, spreading her open with my fingers.
Dripping. Slick. Perfect.
“You weren’t lying,” I husk, groaning at the feel of her. Hot. Wet. Mine. “You really are soaked for me.”
She watches me, chest heaving, pupils blown. Her body is ready, but I won’t rush. I won’t let her have what she wants so easily.
Slowly—achingly slowly—I slide a single finger inside her.
She gasps, hips lifting to meet me, her hands fisting the sheets as I start to move, pressing my thumb against her clit in lazy, teasing circles.
“Did you imagine it was me?” My voice is husky, dark, my need dripping from every syllable.
She whimpers, her thighs trembling.
I push deeper.
Her breath catches, her nails digging into my shoulders, her body responding to my touch like it was made for me.
“Yes.”
My restraint shatters.
I slide another finger inside her, curling them just right—just enough to have her choking on a moan, her walls clamping around me.
My mouth finds her breast again, tongue flicking, sucking, teasing, as I work her over, as I push her closer and closer to the edge.
“Good,” I murmur against her skin, rewarding her honesty. “I want you to think of me. Only me.”
A cry escapes her as I plunge deeper, her walls clenching, her body begging for more.
I capture her lips once more, our tongues tangling in a heated kiss as I drive her higher, my fingers working her into a desperate frenzy.
“Tell me you need me,” I command against her lips, my pace quickening, sending her spiraling.
“I...” She stiffens, her body breaking as her orgasm slams into her.
She tries to speak, tries to form the words, but another wave crashes over her, stealing them from her lips.
I watch her come undone, my fingers working her through it, my cock straining against my pants, aching to replace them.
As the last shudders ripple through her, she lays beneath me—wrecked, chest rising and falling, her skin glistening with sweat under the moonlight.
Finally, she breathes the words.
“I do… I need you.”
Her confession rips through me, setting me ablaze with a need so deep I can barely breathe.
I pull my fingers from her soaked core, her soft whimper only spurring me on as I bring them to my lips—sucking them clean, savoring her perfect taste, my eyes locked onto hers.
She shudders.
A gasp escapes her lips as I push my pants down, my cock springing free, thick and aching for her. I position myself between her legs, the head of my cock dragging against her soaked entrance, teasing.
Her legs wrap around my hips, pulling me closer, making it impossible to resist.
I groan against her lips, ready to take what’s mine—
Then, a fucking phone rings.
The sharp, jarring sound cuts through the air.
I ignore it.
I claim her lips, her body, letting her feel exactly how close she is to finally being mine.
But the ringing persists.
Annoying. Unrelenting.
Someone is going to fucking die.
“Fuck, my phone,” I growl, my forehead dropping to hers, my breath ragged. The sound is a stark reminder of the world beyond this room, beyond her .
A world I want nothing to do with in this moment.
Sensing my withdrawal, she clings to me tighter, a soft moan slipping from her lips as she nuzzles into my neck. “Ignore it,” she pleads, her voice warm and pleading against my skin.
I almost do.
But then comes the knock.
My grip on her tightens. My jaw clenches.
“What?” I snap, rage simmering beneath my skin as I lift myself off the bed, already missing the heat of her body.
“It’s Maksim,” Luca responds apologetically from the other side of the door.
Vasilisa sits up, her breath still uneven, her skin flushed, and pulls her robe tightly around herself—modest, despite what we were just about to do. The contrast nearly drives me insane.
“You have to go,” she whispers urgently, voice laced with disappointment she’s trying to hide.
I smirk at her shyness, reaching out to tug at the robe’s loose knot, just enough to reveal the soft skin she’s trying to shield from me. “He knows you’re in here, you don’t have to whisper.”
She blushes, flustered, and I can’t resist. I cradle her face, my thumbs brushing against her heated cheeks, and kiss her again—slow, deep, lingering. Savoring.
“We’re married,” I murmur against her lips, smirking. “Don’t be embarrassed.”
She nods, still red-faced, and I brush my fingers over her jaw before pulling away to grab my phone. The second I answer, Maksim’s voice pulls me back into the world I despise.
“Two of my men were sent back to me maimed at my doorstep. I need Scythe.”
The name is enough to snap me out of this haze of heat and silk and her. Reality slams back into me. Scythe. Not Santo. Not her husband. The other part of me. The killer.
I glance at my wife— my wife —her soft, gorgeous face watching me with quiet concern, a worry she won’t voice but I can see. My chest tightens. She deserves better.
Better than me.
“On the way,” I say gruffly, ending the call.
Vasilisa straightens, searching my face, holding in whatever she wants to say. Her fingers twitch in her lap. She wants to reach for me, tell me to stay.
She won’t.
“I’ll send Romeo and Nico back to join Luca to guard you, okay?” I offer, knowing it won’t be enough.
She inhales deeply, then nods, putting on a brave face. “Okay.”
But I see the flicker of disappointment in her eyes.
It’s like a goddamn knife to the ribs.
I force myself to move, to change quickly, but I feel her gaze on me—watching every movement, every muscle. I catch the way she bites her bottom lip, eyes dark, needy, and it takes everything in me not to abandon my phone, my gun, Maksim, the whole fucking world, and crawl back into bed with her.
Instead, I lean down, palm the side of her face, and kiss her hard, deep—enough to bruise. Enough to remind her.
Reluctantly, I leave her.
Again.