Chapter Sixteen - Diana
The argument starts when I overhear Felix on a phone call in his office, door slightly ajar, his voice carrying an edge I haven’t heard before. I’m passing through the hallway on my way to the library when fragments reach me.
“Two warehouses raided simultaneously isn’t coincidence, it’s coordination… Senator Ruvik issued a public statement distancing himself from Rudenko Strategic Consulting… I don’t care what it costs, reroute the shipments through Baltimore and make sure the trail doesn’t—”
I stop walking, pressing closer to the wall to hear better.
“Lorenzo is freezing joint assets. He’s forcing us to choose between operational continuity and… Yes, I’m aware of the timeline… No, she stays here. That’s not negotiable.”
He’s talking about me.
The call ends with a sharp curse I’ve never heard Felix use. Silence follows, then the sound of something hitting the desk with enough force to rattle.
I push the door open without knocking.
Felix stands behind his desk, both hands braced against the polished surface, shoulders tight with tension that radiates through his entire body. He looks up when I enter, his expression shifting from frustrated to controlled in the space of a heartbeat.
“How much did you hear?” he asks.
“Enough.” I close the door behind me and cross my arms. “Sartore is retaliating because of me.”
He doesn’t deny it. “Lorenzo is escalating pressure across multiple fronts. Warehouse raids, frozen shipping routes, political distance from senators we’ve protected for years. It’s strategic destabilization designed to force concessions.”
“Concessions like handing me over.”
“That’s not happening.” His voice hardens. “Your protection is accelerating conflict that was already brewing.”
The admission lands heavier than expected. I knew marrying Felix would complicate things, knew that refusing Sartore’s solution would create problems.
“This is my fault,” I say quietly.
“This is Lorenzo’s fault for trying to eliminate someone under my protection.” Felix straightens, moving around the desk toward me. “They were circling long before you opened Ethan’s files. You just gave them an excuse to move openly.”
“An excuse that’s costing you. Warehouses, senators, shipping routes; how much are you losing because you won’t give me up?”
Something flickers in his pale eyes. “Less than I’d lose if I did.”
The statement hangs between us, weighted with implications I’m not ready to examine. He’s choosing me over operational stability, over political alliances, over the careful balance he’s spent years building with Sartore interests.
It’s destroying everything he’s worked for.
“You should let me go.” The words come out before I fully decide to say them. “Stage my death, tell Lorenzo you handled it, stop the bleeding before this escalates into something worse.”
Felix goes very still. When he speaks, his voice is dangerously quiet. “Is that what you want?”
“I want Ethan back. I want none of this to have happened. I want—” My voice breaks despite my effort to keep it steady. “I want to stop being the reason people are suffering.”
“You’re not the reason. Lorenzo is.” He closes the distance between us, stopping close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. “He could accept that you’re protected and move on. Instead, he’s choosing escalation because he thinks pressure will make me fold.”
“Will it?”
“No.”
The certainty in his tone should reassure me. Instead, it makes everything worse. Felix is willing to watch his operations crumble, to lose political capital and financial stability, to start a war he might not win—all to keep me alive.
I don’t know how to carry that responsibility.
“Guards have doubled,” I say, deflecting. “Vehicles rotate constantly. The perimeter feels tighter every day. You’re preparing for something.”
“I’m preparing for Lorenzo to stop playing games and move directly.
” Felix’s jaw tightens. “War in this world isn’t loud.
It’s anonymous tips that trigger federal raids.
It’s senators who suddenly can’t return calls.
It’s shipments that disappear between ports, and it’s expensive.
Right now you’re the variable he thinks he can use to destabilize me. ”
“Then give him what he wants.”
“I already told you—that’s not happening.”
Frustration ignites hot and sharp. “You’re being stubborn. You’re sacrificing everything because you—what? You decided I’m worth more than warehouses and political alliances? You’re obsessed.”
His expression darkens. “Maybe I am.”
The admission stops me cold. We stare at each other, breathing hard, the air between us charged with anger and something far more volatile.
“You dragged me into this,” I say, shoving at his chest with both hands.
“You could have let Sartore take me that night in the van. Could have walked away and let them handle it. Instead you pulled me out and brought me here and married me and now you’re losing everything because you won’t admit this was a mistake. ”
Felix catches my wrists before I can shove him again. “You stepped into this the moment you opened Ethan’s files. I just gave you a chance to survive it.”
“By trapping me here? By making me your wife so I’m too valuable to kill?” Tears burn behind my eyes, fury and guilt tangling together. “How is that better than dying?”
“Because you’re alive.” His grip tightens on my wrists, pulling me closer until we’re pressed together. “You’re here, breathing, fighting me at every turn instead of buried beside your brother. That’s better.”
The rawness in his voice cracks something open inside me. I wrench against his hold one more time, and this time he releases my wrists.
We stand inches apart, chests rising and falling in rhythm, the anger that’s been building for weeks finally cresting into something neither of us can control.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
“I know.” His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing across my cheekbone with a gentleness that contradicts everything else about this moment. “Hate me all you want. You’re still mine.”
The possessiveness should make me pull away. Should remind me that this man let Ethan die, that he’s kept me prisoner, that marrying him was survival strategy rather than choice.
When his thumb traces my lower lip, my mouth parts and heat floods through me so intensely that rational thought dissolves.
Felix’s eyes darken. His other hand slides to my waist, fingers spreading across the curve there with familiar possession that makes my pulse spike.
“Tell me to fuck off, and I will,” he says quietly, giving me one last exit.
I should take it. Instead, I grab his shirt and pull him down into a kiss that’s more collision than tenderness.
Felix makes a sound low in his throat and takes control immediately, backing me toward the bedroom door while his hands map my body with the same intensity he brings to everything.
The door opens behind me and we stumble through, mouths still locked together, hands already working at clothing that’s suddenly unbearable.
He breaks the kiss long enough to pull my sweater over my head, tossing it aside before his mouth finds my throat. I arch into the contact, fingers fumbling with the buttons on his shirt until frustration makes me yank hard enough that one pops free and skitters across the floor.
“Impatient,” he murmurs against my collarbone, teeth grazing skin that’s hypersensitive.
“Shut up.” I shove the shirt off his shoulders, finally getting my hands on bare skin I’ve been imagining since that night against the wall.
He’s solid muscle beneath my palms, warm and real in ways that make the desire sharper. I trace the lines of his chest and stomach, learning the texture of him while his hands work at the fastening of my jeans.
The denim slides down my hips, and I step out of it clumsily, kicking the fabric aside. Felix’s gaze rakes over me standing in just my bra and underwear, and the hunger in his expression makes me feel powerful despite the vulnerability.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks, voice rough.
Instead of answering with words, I reach behind and unhook my bra, letting it fall to the floor between us.
His control fractures visibly. He pulls me against him, skin to skin, and the contact sends sensation racing through every nerve.
His mouth finds mine again while his hands explore freely—cupping my breasts, thumbs brushing over nipples that harden instantly, then sliding down to grip my hips and pull me flush against the evidence of how much he wants this.
We stumble toward the bed, still kissing, his hands mapping the soft curves of my body with touches that feel possessive and reverent in equal measure. When the backs of my knees hit the mattress, I fall backward and he follows me down, bracing himself on his forearms to keep from crushing me.
“Tell me what you need,” he says, mouth working down my throat toward my breasts.
“I don’t know.” The words cut off when his lips close around one nipple, tongue circling before he sucks hard enough to make me gasp. “You.”
“That’s a start.” He gives the other breast the same attention, teeth grazing gently before soothing with his tongue. “I need you to use words, Diana. Tell me what feels good.”
The request strips away the last pretense of detachment. “That. More of that.”
He complies, working my breasts with his mouth while one hand slides down my stomach to the waistband of my underwear. He pauses there, fingers tracing the edge without dipping beneath.
“Can I touch you?” The question is quiet, giving me control even as his body presses me into the mattress.
“Yes.” The word comes out breathless, desperate.
His hand slides beneath the fabric, finding wetness that makes him curse against my breast. “You’re soaked.”
Embarrassment flares hot, but he doesn’t give me time to retreat.
His fingers explore carefully, learning what makes my breath catch and my hips roll seeking more pressure.
When he finds the spot that sends pleasure spiking sharp, he focuses there with the same methodical attention he brings to everything.
The sensation builds fast, overwhelming in its intensity. I grab his shoulders for stability, nails digging into muscle as he works me higher with touches that feel deliberate and consuming.
“Let go,” he murmurs. “I want to feel you come apart.”
The command pushes me over the edge. Pleasure crashes through me in waves that make my back arch off the bed, his name tearing from my throat in a broken cry. He doesn’t stop—just gentles the touch, drawing out aftershocks until I’m trembling beneath him.
When I can breathe again, he’s watching me with an expression that makes my chest tighten. Not triumph. Something softer, more dangerous.
“Beautiful,” he says quietly, and the sincerity in his voice undoes something inside me.
I pull him down into another kiss, tasting the desire still simmering between us. His arousal presses insistent against my hip, hard enough that I know he’s exercising restraint he might not maintain much longer.
“I want—” I pause, trying to find words for what I’m asking. “I want all of it.”
Felix goes very still. “You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
He studies my face for a long moment, searching for hesitation he won’t find. Then he shifts his weight, stripping off the rest of his clothing with efficient movements that reveal him fully.
I try not to stare, but fail. He’s proportioned exactly how I expected—substantial in ways that make nervousness spike alongside the desire.
He notices my expression and brushes hair back from my face gently. The first press of him against my entrance makes me tense involuntarily.
“Breathe,” he instructs, one hand sliding between us to touch me again, rekindling arousal that makes my body relax. “Just breathe.”
He enters slowly, giving me time to adjust to the stretch and pressure. It burns initially—not quite pain but definitely discomfort—and I grab his shoulders harder.
Felix pauses immediately. “Talk to me.”
“It’s… give me a second.” I focus on breathing, on the warmth of his body against mine, on the way his hand keeps working between my legs sending pleasure that cuts through the discomfort.
He waits, perfectly still except for his fingers, until I shift my hips experimentally and the sensation changes from uncomfortable to something else entirely.
“My God,” I manage. “Keep going.”
He sinks deeper incrementally, watching my face for signs of pain, until he’s fully seated. The fullness is overwhelming, bordering on too much, but when he starts to move the friction sends heat spiraling through my entire body.
“Alright?” His voice is strained, control barely maintained.
“Yes.” I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans against my throat.
The rhythm builds slowly—Felix keeping the pace measured despite the tension coiled through his body, giving me time to adjust and respond. Pleasure builds again, different from before, deeper and more consuming.
When he shifts the angle slightly, sensation spikes sharp enough to make me cry out. He does it again deliberately, driving into that spot with precision that suggests he’s memorizing what makes me respond.
“Touch yourself,” he instructs roughly. “I want to see you come apart.”
The command sends heat flooding through me. I slide my hand between us, finding the spot he’d focused on earlier, and the dual sensation of him moving inside me while I touch myself pushes me toward another edge.
“That’s it.” His pace increases slightly, control fraying. “Let go, Diana.”
The combination of his body driving into mine, my own hand working desperately, and the intensity in his voice as he says my name—all of it crests simultaneously.
I come hard, clenching around him in waves that make him curse and follow immediately, his rhythm stuttering as he finishes with my name on his lips.
We collapse together, breathing ragged, skin slick with sweat. Felix’s weight presses me into the mattress, and I should feel trapped but instead feel anchored.
When he finally moves, withdrawing carefully and rolling to the side, the loss of contact feels abrupt. I curl onto my side facing him, suddenly uncertain what happens now that the heat has dissipated into exhausted satisfaction.
Felix reaches out, tucking hair behind my ear with a gentleness that seems impossible from the same hands that held me down. “You okay?”
“I think so.” My voice comes out hoarse. “That was—”
“Overdue.” He pulls me against his chest, wrapping an arm around my waist. “Sleep. We’ll deal with everything else later.”
I want to argue, to establish that this doesn’t change anything about our arrangement, that sex doesn’t make this marriage real in ways beyond legal structures.
Exhaustion wins. I close my eyes and let myself drift, pressed against a man who just made me come apart twice and who I still can’t decide if I hate or something far more dangerous.
The complications can wait until morning.