Chapter 12
LILA
The kiss ignites a primal spark in me—one I didn't know existed beneath all my carefully constructed normalcy.
His hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my face, sliding down to grip my waist. The sketchbook falls somewhere, forgotten. The pencil rolls away. None of it matters because Ivan is kissing me like he's drowning and I'm air.
"Ivan—" I try to speak, but he swallows the words.
His hands find the hem of my shirt—his shirt—and start pulling it up. Reality crashes back.
"Wait." I break the kiss, breathing hard.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. "Scared?"
"Yes."
"Good. You should be." His hands are still on my waist, warm through the fabric.
"This is wrong."
His thumb traces circles on my hipbone, sending electricity straight through me. "Feels pretty right to me."
My resistance crumbles as he strips the shirt over my head. Cool air hits my skin.
"No bra," he says, his tone sinking deeper. His eyes rake over me, hungry. "Beautiful."
I cover myself instinctively, but he catches my wrists.
"Don't hide from me."
"I'm not—I just—"
"Panties under those shorts?" His hands move to the waistband.
I shake my head, face burning.
"Even better." His smile is predatory.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, and his hands reach for my shorts. I feel him start to slide them down, and panic flares.
"No, stop." It comes out as a whisper.
He pauses before pulling back to study my face. "Mixed signals, Printsessa. Your mouth says no, but your body's begging me to continue."
Printsessa. Princess.
"I don't know what I want," I admit.
"Yes, you do. You're scared to say it." His hand slides up my thigh, and I gasp.
"I—" Yes. No. Maybe. "I don't know."
“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”
But I can't. I can't form the words because they'd be lies. Because despite everything—the fear, the uncertainty, the voice in my head screaming that this is insane—I don't want him to stop.
"That's what I thought." He strips my shorts down, and then I'm completely bare. Exposed. Vulnerable in a way that terrifies me.
"Tell me you want this," he says, his hand between my thighs now, not touching yet but close enough that I feel the heat of him.
"I..."
I can't say it. Can't admit it out loud.
"Say it, Lila."
"Yes." The word comes out broken. "Yes, I do."
"Good girl." His fingers find me, and I'm mortified by how wet I am. How ready I am for him. "But my father liked to believe he raised a gentleman. You need to beg."
"What?"
His finger circles my clit, barely touching. "Beg me."
"That's not—"
"Beg me, or I stop."
The bastard. The absolute bastard. I should tell him to go to hell. Should shove him away and run.
Instead, I hear myself say, "Please."
"Please, what?"
"Please, yes, fuck it, yes." The words tumble out, desperate and needy and so far from who I thought I was.
"There she is." His finger slides inside me, and my back arches off the bed. "The real Lila. The one who wants this."
He adds another finger, and I'm gasping, clinging to his shoulders. It feels good. Too good. I'm already so close, and he's barely touched me.
Then he withdraws, and I quietly huff in protest.
"Not yet." He positions himself above me. "Changed your mind?"
"No. Yes. I don't know." I'm switching between yes and no like my brain can't decide what my body already knows.
He laughs, low and rough. "You're killing me here. Which is it?"
"I—" I want to say yes. Want to tell him to continue. But the words stick in my throat.
"Your deeper part knows what it wants," he says, his voice gentle despite the hunger in his eyes. "It just can't communicate properly yet."
"What?"
"The part of you that's afraid of being judged. Of being wrong. Of wanting something you think you shouldn't." He leans down and brushes his lips against mine. "But I know how to make those deeper parts communicate."
"How?"
"Like this."
He enters me slowly, and the sensation steals my breath. It's been so long, and he's bigger than I expected, and there's a moment of discomfort that makes me tense.
"Breathe," he murmurs against my ear. "Just breathe."
I do, and he slides deeper. The discomfort unravels into pure sensation—overwhelming.
Then he starts to move.
It starts soft. Gentle. Like he's giving me time to adjust. To accept. But then the energy between us turns. The gentleness evaporates, replaced by raw need.
He grips my hip, pulls me closer, and the next thrust is harder. Rougher. A culmination of three months of wanting compressed into this single act.
"Ivan—" But I don't know if I'm protesting or encouraging.
"Too much?"
It is. It's too much. Too intense. Too overwhelming.
But also not enough.
"No," I gasp. "Don't stop."
So he doesn't.
His hand wraps around my throat—not squeezing, just holding, just reminding me who's in control—and I feel something inside me break open. A last defense crumbling under the weight of sensation.
My nails rake down his back, and he groans. The sound is primal. Masculine. It makes me claw harder.
The discomfort bleeds into euphoria. Into safety. Into a kind of freedom I've never felt before.
I'm not tense anymore. Not uncertain. Not thinking about whether this is right or wrong or insane.
I'm just feeling.
And it's everything I drew in those hidden sketches. Everything I marked in those books. Everything I wanted but was too afraid to name.
"Look at me," he commands, and I do.
His eyes are pure hunger. Pure possession. "You're mine now, Lila. Say it."
"I'm—" The words catch as he hits a spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. "I'm yours."
"Again."
"I'm yours," I gasp, and this time I mean it. This time it's not just words.
His rhythm becomes erratic, desperate. His hand tightens on my throat—still gentle, still safe, but firm. Grounding me.
Then I'm falling, shattering—coming apart in his arms while he watches with those impossible blue eyes.
He follows moments later, groaning my name like a prayer or a curse.
We collapse together, breathing hard, his weight pressing me into the mattress. His arms cage me against his chest, and I should feel trapped.
Instead, I feel safe.
For the first time since this insanity started, I feel completely, utterly safe.
His heartbeat pounds against my ear, steady and strong. Real.
Better than any novel, I think distantly. Better than any fantasy.
Because this is real. He's real. And somehow, impossibly, I want more.
I shift slightly, and he loosens his hold. "You okay?"
"I think so." My voice is hoarse. "That was..."
"Intense?"
"Understatement."
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. "You surprise me, little dove."
"How?"
"Thought you'd need more convincing." He brushes hair from my face. "Thought you'd fight harder."
"I did fight."
"Not very hard."
"Hard enough." I trace one of the tattoos on his chest—an Orthodox cross. "What does this mean?"
"In the Bratva? It means I'm a believer. Or was." His hand covers mine. "Most of these were earned. Each one tells a story."
"Tell me."
"Later." He shifts, pulling me closer. "Rest first."
But I don't want to rest. I want to feel like that again—safe and warm and completely consumed. Want to prove that I'm not a passive participant in this.
So I slide down his body, and his eyes widen.
"Lila—"
I take him in my mouth before he can finish the sentence.
The sound he makes is gratification itself. Shock and pleasure and pure masculine satisfaction.
I've never been good at this. Never particularly enjoyed it. But with him, it's different. Watching him lose control. Feeling powerful despite being on my knees.
His hand tangles in my hair, guiding but not forcing. "Fuck, you don't have to—"
But I want to. Want to taste him. Want to make him feel what he made me feel.
It doesn't take long before he's hard again, pulling me up, kissing me desperately.
"You're going to kill me," he mutters against my mouth.
"Good."
This time, I'm the one who straddles him. Who takes control. Who sets the pace.
And he lets me.
Afterwards, we're both wrung out. Exhausted. Tangled together in sheets that smell like sex and him.
"I need to tell you something," he says into the silence.
"What?"
"I'm not a good man, Lila. I'm a killer." His fingers trace patterns on my spine. "These tattoos? They're not decorative. The stars on my shoulders mean I'm a captain. High-ranking. The cathedral means I've done time. The crosses mean I've killed for the Bratva."
"I know."
"Do you? Do you really understand what that means?" He tilts my chin up, forcing me to look at him. "I'm not the hero in your books. I'm the villain. The one who takes what he wants and doesn't apologize for it."
"I know," I repeat.
"And you still said yes."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Because I had no choice. Because from the moment he walked into that diner bleeding, this was inevitable. Because fighting it felt like fighting gravity.
"Because I wanted to," I say instead. Simpler. True enough.
"Liar." But he's smiling. "You wanted to, but you also know you had no choice. The moment I decided you were mine, it was over."
He's right, and the scariest part is that I'm not scared.
I should be. Instead, I feel relieved I can finally stop pretending I have any control over this situation. Over him. Over myself.
"So what now?" he asks.
"That's your decision."
"Rest," he says finally, pulling me against him. "We'll discuss this tomorrow."
I curl into his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. Feeling his breathing even out.
And for the first time in days, I fall asleep feeling completely, utterly safe.
Despite knowing what he is.
Despite knowing what I've become.
Despite knowing there's no going back from this.
Maybe especially because of all that.