Chapter 19
19
ANNA
I ’d never seen a place like Dominion Hall.
It wasn’t just wealth, it was presence. Legacy was carved into the bones of the house. The ceilings soared, and the windows were so tall they looked like they’d been dragged out of a cathedral. The whole estate breathed with quiet danger. It didn’t open its arms. It assessed.
Outside those towering windows, the Charleston harbor shimmered—wide and endless, salt-laced wind drifting in from the water, brushing against the edges. Dominion Hall sat like a fortress, unmoved and unbothered, watching everything. Boats passed below. The city stretched in the distance, beautiful and oblivious.
And somehow, I was being let in.
Atlas stood near me, hand hovering just near the crook of my neck. Not touching. Not yet. But I felt the burn of him anyway. The awareness of his body, of his power, made everything else fall quiet.
Mama sat perfectly upright on a tufted leather armchair, legs crossed neatly, while Papa stood near the window, arms folded as he studied the grounds like he was mentally drafting blueprints of escape routes—just in case.
Atlas inclined his head, his gaze settling on Mama and Papa. “I figure I should make this formal, since you’re here. I want to be respectful.”
Mama arched a brow, expression unreadable. “Then let’s be formal.”
And then, to my surprise, Atlas switched languages.
Fluent. Precise. Russian, spoken not like a tourist or diplomat, but like someone who’d studied in silence, who understood that the weight of a word was often in how it wasn’t said.
He addressed them both directly, his tone low and deliberate, greeting them with perfect inflection, their names pronounced the way they were meant to sound—Alexey Petrov. Irina.
Papa’s brow ticked up, his interest clearly piqued. “You speak Russian.”
Atlas nodded. “Well enough to be polite. Well enough to understand what matters.”
Mama gave a small, sharp smile. “Not many Americans do.”
“I’m not most Americans.”
“Clearly,” Papa said, his voice tightening with curiosity. “And you knew our names.”
“I did.”
“And how did you come by that?”
The question was calm, but his posture wasn’t. He leaned forward slightly, the subtle edge of a man trained to spot the flaw in a story before it was told.
Atlas didn’t flinch. “Your daughter is important to me. I do my homework.”
Mama’s lips curved faintly, as if impressed despite herself. Papa made a quiet sound in his throat, not quite agreement, not quite distrust.
“I know who you are, too,” he said. “A Dane brother. Ex-military. Wealth built on secrets and silence.”
“And a few high-yield offshore holdings,” Atlas added smoothly.
Papa didn’t smile, but the edge of his mouth twitched. “And tell me—did your family always collect reptiles?”
I blinked. “What?”
Atlas’s mouth curled. “You met Obsidian, then.”
“Obsidian,” Mama repeated, with the kind of voice that suggested she was deciding whether that was a code name or a legitimate creature.
“He’s a viperidae,” Atlas said. “Specifically, a pit viper. We’ve had him since I was a teenager. My father got him from the Kamchatka region.”
Papa turned slowly. “Kamchatka?”
Atlas nodded. “Harsh terrain. Active volcanoes. Predators who don’t hesitate.”
Papa let out a soft, rare laugh. “Kamchatka,” he echoed, nodding once. “That region came up in one of my earliest neural modeling studies. There’s a primate research facility near the peninsula. They once tried to map instinctual fear patterns in harsh climates. Total failure. But fascinating to read.”
Atlas tilted his head, intrigued. “I didn’t know that.”
Papa’s eyes gleamed faintly. “Most don’t. But you’d be surprised how much of the brain’s survival code mirrors the behavior of predators in places like that.”
He paused, voice sharpening. “Including snakes.”
The two of them looked at each other then, and I watched something pass between them—respect, I think. Two men who had come from brutal places. Two men who survived by learning how to listen.
Papa’s voice softened. “What was your father doing in Kamchatka?”
Atlas’s expression shifted slightly. “I have no idea.”
That answer said more than anything else could have.
There was a beat of silence, broken only by the faint tick of the grandfather clock near the hearth. Mama’s gaze shifted toward Atlas, sharp and bright. “Have we met all of your brothers now?”
Atlas glanced at me, one brow raised.
I smirked. “What, you think we teleported here?”
He huffed a breath through his nose. “I had a feeling.”
“Ryker and Noah picked us up from the hotel,” I explained. “Isabel saw our name come through the reservation and sent them.”
“Of course, she did,” Atlas muttered, more to himself than anyone else. Then louder, “You didn’t tell them where you were?”
I shook my head. “Didn’t need to. Dominion sees everything, right?”
He smiled slowly, then looked at my parents. “Sounds like you have a few more brothers to meet. Plus Izzy and Claire. They’re engaged—Izzy to Ryker and Claire to Marcus.”
We nodded. There was a collective pause as we all absorbed what was happening.
“You’re not going back to the hotel,” Atlas said firmly.
My mother blinked. “We don’t want to intrude?—”
“You’re not intruding,” he cut in. “You’re staying here. There’s plenty of room. This house is secure. Gated. Guarded.”
My father narrowed his eyes. “Because of Eugene?”
“Because of what happened to Claire’s best friend,” Atlas said flatly. “Diego. He was stalked. Targeted. Killed at that very hotel. We protect what’s ours. That’s also why we own the hotel now.”
Mama didn’t flinch. But something shifted in her eyes. A recognition. A surrender.
“You have our gratitude,” she said.
Atlas nodded once. Then turned to me. “They’ll stay in the East Wing. Guest suite. Private terrace. We’ll all have dinner together tonight.” He paused. “I’ll ask my chef to prepare something special.”
My father lifted an eyebrow. “Is it Russian?”
“It could be.”
He wasn’t being polite. He was being real. And I think Papa respected that more than anything.
But Mama just gave a small, knowing smile. “You don’t have to bend the menu for us, Atlas. We’ve had borscht and blini all our lives. I imagine Charleston has other things to offer.”
Atlas glanced at her, then at Papa. “Lowcountry cuisine, then?”
Papa tilted his head. “Like what?”
“Shrimp and grits,” I offered, suddenly craving it. “Frogmore stew. She-crab soup. Cornbread so buttery it makes you forgive everything that came before it.”
“That sounds appropriately sinful,” Mama said dryly.
Papa looked thoughtful. “Grits,” he repeated. “I’ve never been convinced they’re actually food.”
“They are,” I said, grinning. “When they’re done right.”
Atlas looked between us, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly. “Our chef is from Edisto Island. She’s been cooking Lowcountry longer than most people have been alive. You’ll be converted.”
Mama gave a regal nod. “Then we trust the house.”
“When in Rome,” Papa muttered, though there was something amused in his voice now. “Or in this case, when in a Southern fortress run by beefy billionaires and a venomous snake.”
Atlas’s eyes gleamed faintly. “Then it’s settled.”
And just like that, the sharpest edges of the day dulled. Not gone. But softened—at least for a moment—by the promise of good food, guarded walls, and the strange, unexpected comfort of being exactly where we weren’t supposed to be.
But maybe where we belonged.
“East Wing sounds lovely,” Mama said softly.
“Excellent.” Atlas glanced toward the hallway, then back at my parents. “Our butler, Teddy, will show you to your suite in the East Wing.”
My parents exchanged a look.
As if summoned, a tall, silver-haired man appeared in the doorway—impeccably dressed, expression unreadable.
“Teddy,” Atlas said. “The Petrov suite, please.”
“Of course, sir,” Teddy replied, voice smooth as aged bourbon.
Papa rose first, then Mama. They both gave Atlas a polite nod before following Teddy from the room, their footsteps quiet against the marble. Neither of them asked how he knew their name was Petrov and not Peters.
As the door clicked shut behind them, Atlas turned to me, gaze sharp and unreadable.
“Come with me.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He turned, and I followed him down the corridor, the air changing with every step. Warmer. Quieter. Thicker.
He led me up a staircase I hadn’t seen before—tucked behind a heavy wooden door, away from the main hall. At the top was a long hallway. The walls were hung with abstract black-and-white photography, stark shadows, and blurred figures.
At the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door.
His suite.
It was nothing like I expected.
There was no ostentation. No sparkle. Just dark stone, black leather, deep navy walls, and soft golden lighting that made the whole room feel like a den carved into a mountain.
It smelled like him—cedar and smoke and something else that made my knees weaken.
“Atlas …” I whispered, spinning slowly, taking it all in. The stone. The shadows. The silence. “This is …”
He stepped closer, voice low, the syllables smooth and precise—Russian, spoken like a promise.
“Moya,” he murmured.
Mine.
Not just the room.
Me.
And then his hands were on me.
Not soft. Not tentative.
Possessive.
He spun me, pinned my back to the door, and kissed me like he was claiming his oxygen through my mouth. There was no preamble this time. Just heat. Hunger. His hand slid up my thigh, dragging my dress with it, fingers finding bare skin like a man reclaiming lost ground.
I moaned, and he swallowed it.
“God, Anna,” he growled, his voice low and wrecked. “You walked into my house and I’ve been holding back ever since.”
“Then don’t.”
He didn’t.
He lifted me, carried me into the adjacent bedroom like I weighed nothing, and laid me across his massive bed—dark gray sheets, firm mattress, everything built for strength, for power.
His shirt hit the floor. My dress and panties followed. His mouth never left mine, not for long. Teeth. Tongue. Heat. I was already soaked, already begging.
He lifted his head slightly, breath ragged, eyes dark with hunger, but there was a glint of amusement beneath the wreckage.
“You know,” he murmured against my throat, “for a man who just spent five hours in jail, this is a pretty solid turnaround.”
I huffed a breath that was half-laugh, half-moan. “Jail doesn’t seem to have humbled you much.”
“It was cushy,” he said, nipping at my jaw. “They had fake plants and ergonomic chairs. I used the time to think.”
“About what?”
His eyes burned into mine. “You. What I was going to do to you the second I got out.”
My breath hitched.
“Turns out,” he added, voice lower now, “I didn’t think nearly hard enough.”
He knelt between my legs, head lowered, and looked up at me with those wild, storm-swept eyes. His shoulders flexed, hands splayed across my thighs like he was staking a claim. The shadowed scrape of his beard brushed my inner skin, delicious and maddening.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice raw, already wrecked.
I reached down, threaded my fingers into his short hair, and tugged just enough to make his breath catch.
“After what you pulled in the shower,” I said, smiling down at him, “I thought I’d show you a trick or two of my own.”
His grin was slow and dark, equal parts reverent and ruinous. “Is that right?”
“Lie back, Commander,” I whispered. “Let me give the orders this time.”
He didn’t argue.
Atlas shifted, his body obeying without hesitation, stretching out beneath me like a beast ready to be tamed—if only for a moment. His hands found my hips, then released, letting me take control. That, in itself, was its own kind of power. Letting go. Trusting me to wield it.
I straddled him slowly, teasing, the thick head of his cock pressed right where I ached most. I circled my hips, once, twice—grinding just enough to make him hiss through his teeth.
“You like teasing?” he growled.
“I like watching you try not to lose control.”
And then, I sank down onto him—inch by devastating inch—my breath catching, our bodies locking together like pieces made to fit. He filled me completely, deeply, like his body had been carved for mine.
His hands shot back to my thighs, gripping tight now, barely restrained.
“Fuck, Anna?—”
I moved. Slow at first, a roll of my hips, the pace of a lullaby, all control and rhythm. I leaned forward, bracing myself on his chest, letting my hair fall like a curtain between us as I kissed the hollow of his throat, the ridge of his collarbone, the scar that cut through his left shoulder.
“Do you know,” I murmured against his skin, “how goddamn good you taste?”
He growled again, but it was hoarse, fraying at the edges.
I sat up and rode him harder, our bodies slapping together, slick with heat and sweat. He reached up, cupped my breasts, thumbed my nipples until I arched like a bowstring, moaning his name.
“Anna, I’m?—”
“Not yet,” I gasped, pushing his chest down again. “I’m not done showing off.”
I dragged my nails down his abdomen, then leaned back, bracing myself on his thighs as I changed the angle, letting him hit deeper. His jaw locked, his eyes burned. Every thrust sent a shockwave through me, pleasure curling tight and bright behind my navel.
“Look at you,” he rasped. “Riding me like you own me.”
I locked eyes with him, breathless, undone. “Maybe I do.”
I shifted before he could respond—braced my palms on his chest, lifted off him just enough to twist my body with purpose. His hands caught at my hips, but I was already moving, already turning.
Reverse.
His breath left him in a sharp hiss as I settled back down, facing away from him now, my hands planted on his thighs for leverage, his cock buried deep inside me from this new, devastating angle.
“Holy fuck,” he groaned, his voice ragged.
From this position, I could control everything. The pace. The depth. The view.
I rolled my hips, slow and grinding, and felt him twitch inside me.
“Christ, Anna …”
I looked over my shoulder and caught the raw expression on his face—the way his eyes dropped to where our bodies met, where I slid up and down his length like I was built to ride him into oblivion. His hands gripped my ass, thumbs spreading me wider, the pressure grounding me even as the pleasure built like a storm gathering speed.
“Is that better?” I teased, voice wrecked but steady. “Or just unbearable?”
“Both,” he gritted. “You’re—fuck—so tight like this.”
I arched harder, letting my head fall back, my spine curving as I rode him deeper, faster now. Every thrust struck that perfect spot inside me, a bolt of pleasure that made my thighs shake.
His palms slid up my back, fingers splaying at my waist, trying and failing to regain control. I didn’t let him.
I was on top.
And this time, I was taking him apart.
He tried to sit up once, to wrap his arms around my torso, but I pushed him back with a sharp grind of my hips, making him curse so roughly it sent another rush between my legs.
“You’re going to kill me,” he panted.
I looked back, hair wild, body trembling. “That’s the plan.”
And then he snapped.
His hands flew up again, yanked me down, and flipped us in one brutal, beautiful motion. His body caged mine, hips slamming into me now with punishing precision. My legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, anchoring myself to the only thing that felt real.
“Say it again,” he growled into my neck.
“I own you,” I whispered, shaking.
And then I shattered.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t pretty. It was wildfire—my back arched, a scream caught in my throat, my body locking around his as I came hard, pulsing around him with everything I had.
He followed me a moment later, a guttural moan punched from his lungs as he drove in deep one final time. I felt him empty into me, felt the way he clung to me like he was afraid to let go.
We stayed like that. Tangled. Shaking. Skin flushed and slick. The only sound between us the thunder of our breath.
As I ran my fingers through his hair, as he kissed the side of my neck like it was a promise, I knew?—
He was mine.
And I was his.
The war hadn’t even started yet. Not really.
Because outside that door, the world was still unraveling.
Somewhere down the East Wing, Mama and Papa were settling into a guest suite that looked more like something out of a royal estate than a place you unpacked luggage. They were under Atlas’s protection now—part of his world, whether they meant to be or not.
Just days ago, I was playing harp in a quiet conservatory, clinging to a routine and a reputation I thought would save me. Now, I was naked in a billionaire’s bed, tangled with a man born of shadows and war, while the city gossiped about my downfall and whispered lies about my sanity.
I never could have imagined this. Not the house. Not the danger. Not him.
And yet, something inside me knew. This wasn’t chaos.
This was becoming.
Eugene was still out there. So were the headlines. The whispers. The power players pulling strings behind the scenes. There were secrets in Dominion Hall that hadn’t yet surfaced, and men with knives for smiles who would do anything to keep them buried.
But in this moment, in this bed, I felt powerful. Anchored. Seen.
And I knew, without question, that when the next storm hit—I wouldn’t face it alone.
I would never be the same.