Chapter Forty
Osip
I’m a fucking idiot.
I can’t believe I told her about my family.
About Galina. About the baby we lost before he even had a chance to breathe.
I’ve barely told anything to my brothers— Melor knows the basics, Radimir suspects more than he lets on, but the details?
The sight of them wheeling her cooling body away while my child died inside her?
Nyet.
Those wounds I keep buried deep, where they can’t destroy what’s left of my sanity.
But with Ilona, it’s like I wanted to tell her everything. It was all I could do to stop myself from telling her how Galina used to sing lullabies to her belly, how we’d already picked out names, how I’d started building a crib with my own hands because I wanted something pure in our child’s life.
Something untainted by blood and violence.
What the fuck did I expect? I hired her as my housekeeper. I let her into my room, my space, the sanctuary where I keep my ghosts. Of course she saw the photo with a pregnant Galina. Of course she asked questions.
And now she knows. She knows I’m capable of care, of tenderness, of dreams that extend beyond the next deal or the next kill. She knows I’m not just a monster wearing a man’s face.
The thought should terrify me. In my world, vulnerability is death. Showing weakness is like painting a target on your back and handing your enemies the gun. But with Ilona…
Bozhe moy , with Ilona, I’m pulled to her so viscerally that I barely recognize myself. It’s like some strange force has rewired my brain, overriding every survival instinct I’ve spent years honing. I look at her and logic leaves me. Reason becomes a foreign concept.
Perhaps it’s that pull that’s making me act so fucking reckless. Despite any sense or reason, I keep drawing her closer when I should be pushing her away. Keep sharing pieces of my soul when I should be keeping her at arm’s length.
And there’s something about the fact that I know she’s the girl from Boston.
Igor Shiradze’s daughter. The irony of it should make me laugh— or reach for my gun.
Instead, it feels like fate. Like some twisted god decided that the daughter of the man I killed should be the one to resurrect the parts of me I thought died a year ago.
She stands in front of me now, her lips red and swollen from the wild kiss we shared moments ago.
My mouth can still taste her— sweet honey and desperate desire, innocence wrapped in awakening passion.
Her pajamas are thin cotton that clings to every curve, and I can see her erect nipples pressing against the fabric, begging for my attention.
Fuck, she’s a goddamn vision. All golden hair and wide blue eyes, looking at me like some kind of fucking angel.
I’m done for.
Completely, utterly done for.
The battle of wills I’ve been fighting since the moment I realized she’s the Boston Scarlet Fox girl? I lost it the second she didn’t run when I told her about Galina. When she looked at my pain and offered comfort instead of judgment.
She doesn’t know the full truth and she never can— that I’m the one who made her an orphan. But right now, in this moment, she’s looking at me like I hung the fucking moon.
“Osip,” she whispers, and I feel myself weaken a little more.
I close the distance between us slowly, giving her time to change her mind, to come to her senses and run like she should have weeks ago. But she doesn’t move. If anything, she sways toward me.
“ Milaya ,” I murmur, framing her face with hands that have done terrible things but somehow know how to be gentle with her. “You sure about this?”
Her answer is to rise on her tiptoes and press her lips to mine, soft and seeking. It’s different from our earlier kiss— less desperate, more deliberate. Like she’s choosing me with full knowledge of what I am.
I deepen the kiss gradually, savoring the way she melts against me. Her hands fist in my shirt, holding me close as I explore her mouth with infinite care. This isn’t about conquest or possession. This is about connection— something I thought I’d lost the capacity for.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Her eyes are dark with desire, pupils dilated with want, and I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life.
“I want you,” she says simply. No games, no coy seduction. Just honest need that matches my own.
“Then you have me,” I tell her, meaning it in ways that terrify me. “All of me, milaya .”
I lift her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her to the bed. But instead of the rough urgency that marked our encounters before, I set her down gently, my hands skimming over her body like she’s made of spun glass.
“It’s okay,” she says softly, her fingers tracing the tattoos on my chest. “You won’t hurt me.” Her smile is soft, understanding.
But she’s wrong— I will hurt her, inevitably.
But I don’t say that. Instead, I kiss her again, pouring everything I can’t say into the contact.
My hands find the hem of her shirt, lifting it slowly over her head and discarding it on the floor.
She’s naked underneath, pale skin and gentle curves, and I have to close my eyes for a moment to steady myself.
When I open my eyes, she’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. It’s so intense it makes me uncomfortable, so I turn my attention back to the reason I came here.
I lay her back on the bed, taking my time to kiss every inch of exposed skin. Her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach. She arches beneath me, little sounds of pleasure escaping her lips, and each one goes straight to my cock.
“I want to taste you,” I say as I take one nipple into my mouth, sucking gently while my thumb circles the other. She gasps, her back bowing off the bed, and I file away every response for future reference. Her skin tastes like vanilla and something sweet and addictive.
“Osip, please,” she breathes, her hands threading through my hair.
“Patience, milaya ,” I murmur against her breast. “I want to savor this.”
My mouth continues its journey south, placing open-mouthed kisses along her ribs, her hip bones, everywhere except where she needs me most. She’s trembling with want, her breath coming in short pants, and I can smell her arousal— heady and intoxicating.
When I finally settle between her thighs, she’s already wet for me, glistening with desire. I place a gentle kiss on her inner thigh, then another, working my way closer to her center with deliberate slowness.
“ Ty prekrasna ,” I whisper, my breath ghosting over her most sensitive flesh. “So fucking beautiful.”
With my thumbs, I spread the slick lips of her pussy wide, baring her to me completely.
The first touch of my tongue against her entrance makes her cry out, her hips lifting off the bed.
I hold her steady, licking and sucking with careful attention to her responses.
She tastes like honey and salt, like coming home, and I could spend hours just here, just this.
Her fingers tighten in my hair as I find the rhythm that makes her writhe. I slide two fingers inside her, curling them to hit her G-spot while my tongue works her clit. She’s tight and hot around my fingers, her body already starting to flutter with the approach of her orgasm.
“That’s it,” I encourage, my voice rough with desire. “Let me drink you in.”
Her orgasm hits her like a tidal wave, her back lifting from the bed as she cries out my name. I work her through it, gentling my touch as the waves subside, pressing soft kisses to her thighs as she comes down.
When she can speak again, she reaches for me, her eyes dark with renewed desire. “I need you inside me,” she whispers. “Please, Osip.”
I tug my sweater over my head, then shed my remaining clothes quickly, my cock hard and aching from watching her fall apart under my mouth. From the taste of her still coating my face. But when I settle between her thighs, I go slow, entering her inch by careful inch, watching her face.
She’s perfect— tight and wet, like a warm haven around my cock. When I’m fully seated inside her, I stop, just breathing her in.
“ Nebesa. You feel like heaven,” I tell her, meaning every word.
Her answer is to lift her hips, taking me deeper, and I groan at the sensation. I start to move slowly, each thrust deliberate and deep, our eyes locked together. This isn’t fucking — it’s something more. Something that scares me. Something I don’t want to put a name to.
She wraps her legs around my waist, her hands frame my face, thumbs stroking over my cheekbones as I move inside her.
“Good… that’s so good,” she says quietly, her breath catching as I roll my hips and touch all those spots inside her.
Our rhythm builds slowly, a dance as old as time but somehow brand new between us. She meets me thrust for thrust, her body moving in perfect harmony with mine. The room fills with the sounds of our breathing, our whispered endearments, the slick slide of skin against skin.
When the walls of her pussy start to tighten and squeeze around me, I know she’s close. I reach between us, circling her clit with my thumb as I maintain the steady rhythm that’s driving us both toward the edge.
“Come with me,” I murmur against her lips. “Come with me, milaya .”
Her second orgasm triggers my own, and I empty myself inside her with a groan that rips from my chest. We cling to each other as the waves crash over us, holding tight like we’re afraid the other might disappear.
I’ve spilled my seed inside her before, but now, with all that’s at stake, the urge to fill her with every last drop feels like some kind of primal need.
I don’t pull out until my balls feel wrung out.
Until every last pulse of my shaft slowly subsides.
Afterward, I gather her against my chest, her head pillowed on my shoulder as our breathing slowly returns to normal. Her fingers splay across my chest, and I press a kiss to the top of her head.
“No regrets?” I ask quietly.
She tilts her head to look at me, her eyes soft with satisfaction and something deeper. “None. You?”
“None,” I lie, because the only regret I have is that this perfect moment exists on borrowed time.
But for now, she’s here in my arms, warm and trusting and mine.
For now, that’s enough.
It has to be.