Chapter 16
LILA
He tosses me on the bed like I weigh nothing, and I bounce once before settling into the sheets. My whole body is still trembling from the window, from being on display, from the intensity of coming while the city watched.
"Second round already?" I manage, feigning confidence. "Don't you need to recharge?"
"I'm recharging right now." His smile is pure sin as he prowls toward me. "By tasting you."
Oh.
Oh God.
He positions himself between my thighs, spreading them wider, and I instinctively try to close them. It's one thing to be fucked against a window. It's another to have him down there, looking at everything, seeing—
"Stop thinking," he commands, pressing my thighs open. "Close your eyes. It improves the sensation."
"I don't—"
"Close them, Lila."
I do, mostly because I can't handle seeing him watch me. The vulnerability is too much. And then his mouth is on me, and I forget why I was protesting in the first place.
His tongue is skilled. Obscenely so. He doesn't lick—he explores, tastes, takes his time learning what makes me gasp versus what makes me moan. He finds the exact pressure and rhythm that has my back arching off the bed.
I try to keep my eyes closed as he said, but it's impossible. They flutter open, and I catch glimpses—his dark hair between my thighs, the way his shoulders flex as he works, the city lights behind him making him look otherworldly.
Then he circles his tongue just right, obliterating coherent thought.
My hands fist in his hair, and I'm creating sounds I've never made before. High, desperate, completely shameless sounds that would mortify me if I could think clearly enough to care.
But I can't think.
Except—
Wait.
The note.
The thought surfaces through the pleasure like oil in water. The delivery driver. The police. Why haven't they arrived yet? It's been what, a whole evening? Shouldn't there be sirens by now? SWAT teams? Something?
Did the driver not report it?
Maybe he thought it was a prank. The note was vague—just "help, I'm being held captive." No details. No address. Maybe it looked fake. Who gets kidnapped and has time to write—
Ivan's sucks on my clit and my brain static for a second.
What was I—right, the note. The driver. If he took it seriously… fuck.
Any second now, cops could burst through that elevator.
And here I am, naked and vulnerable and being eaten out by a Russian mobster who definitely has multiple warrants and probably keeps guns in every room.
Ivan stuffs his face deeper between my legs and my hips buck involuntarily. The thought fragments, scatters.
He adds a finger, then two, and I lose it. My eyes slam shut as the orgasm builds, crashes over me, and leaves me gasping and shaking.
"Beautiful," he murmurs against my thigh. "Absolutely beautiful when you surrender."
Before I can catch my breath, he's moving up my body, positioning himself. I'm still trembling from the first orgasm when he enters me, and the sensation is overwhelming. Too much. Perfect.
"Look at me," he commands, and I do. Those blue eyes pin me in place as he starts moving. Slow at first, almost gentle, letting me feel every inch.
This time is different from the window. More intimate. Closer. Hot. So fucking hot.
He positions me how he wants—on my back first, legs over his shoulders so he can go impossibly deep. The angle makes me gasp, makes me claw at the sheets. I can feel him everywhere, filling me.
"That's it," he murmurs, watching my face. "Let me see what I do to you."
Then he's flipping me, pulling me to my hands and knees. One hand fists in my hair. The other grips my hip hard enough to bruise. The first thrust from this angle makes me cry out.
"Fuck, you feel perfect like this." His voice is rough, strained. "Made for me."
He sets a punishing rhythm that has me pushing back against him, desperate for more. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, obscene and intoxicating.
The thought consumes me: being desired like this. This dangerous man, this killer, this mobster—wanting me so badly he can't keep his hands off me. Can't stop touching, taking, claiming.
If the cops come—and they might, any moment—these could be his last moments of freedom. And he's spending them inside me.
The realization sends another wave of heat through my body. I'm his last choice before prison. His final act of defiance. And God help me, I want to be exactly that.
He pulls out suddenly, and I whimper at the loss. Then he's flipping me again, pulling me into his lap so I'm straddling him. This position is even more intense—I can see his face, feel his breath, watch the way his jaw clenches as I sink down onto him.
"Ride me," he orders, hands on my hips, guiding the movement. "Show me how badly you want this."
I do. Moving in slow circles at first, then faster. His hands roam—my breasts, my throat, my face. Touching me everywhere like he's trying to memorize me by feel.
I watch him through half-closed eyes as we move together. The way his muscles flex with each thrust. The tattoos that mark him as Bratva, as dangerous, as mine. The scar through his eyebrow. The intensity in those blue eyes that never leave my face.
He's devastating.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he says, and it sounds like a confession. "Mine."
The possessive word makes me clench around him, and he groans.
"You like that, don't you? Being called mine."
"Yes," I admit, past shame now. "Yes."
"Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Again."
"I'm fucking yours, Ivan. Only yours."
Something in his expression shifts—fierce, triumphant, almost tender. Then we're moving faster, chasing release together.
We switch positions one more time, slipping behind me, one hand wrapped around my throat, the other between my legs. The dual sensation, the possessiveness of his grip, the absolute control he has…
"Come for me," he orders against my ear. "Come on my cock like a good girl."
The command, combined with his fingers on my clit, sends me over the edge. I come again, harder this time, screaming into the sheets while he holds me through it.
He follows moments later with a Russian curse I don't understand, collapsing beside me.
We lie together panting, both slick with sweat, hearts racing. The bedding is a complete disaster. I probably look worse—hair a mess, body marked, thoroughly used.
I turn my head to look at him.
He's stunning like this. Unguarded, sated, hair in disarray from my hands. The harsh lines of his face softened slightly. He looks younger. Almost peaceful.
Then I remember again.
The police. The fact that I might have destroyed everything.
I need to tell him. He needs to know. Needs to prepare, or run, or—do whatever he has to. I can't let him get blindsided.
But how do I say it? Hey, by the way, I called the cops on you, and they might show up any second. How do I admit I tried to leave and immediately regretted it?
Maybe the driver didn't report it. Maybe I'm panicking over nothing. Maybe—
"Lila." His tone is low and serious. He's looking at me with an expression I can't read. "I need to tell you—"
My heart stutters. "What?"
He opens his mouth, and I catch a flicker in his eyes—vulnerable, almost like—
"I gave the driver a note," I blurt out before he can continue. "A note asking for help. Asking him to call the police."
Everything changes.
The satisfied lover vanishes instantly, replaced by the killer I saw that first night in the diner. The one who walked in, bleeding and dangerous. Capable of anything.
His hand shoots out, cups my jaw, and forces me to maintain eye contact. Not gentle. Not the way he touched me seconds ago.
"You tried to leave me?" His voice is deadly soft.
"I was scared—" The words come out in a rush. "I didn't know what I wanted, I panicked, I—"
"When?"
"Before dinner. Hours ago. But I regret it, I—"
"Hours ago." He releases my jaw, sits up, and runs a hand through his hair. "Fuck. FUCK."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
He's off the bed in an instant, pacing like a caged animal. "Do you have any idea what you've done? If that driver went to the police, if they're coming here—"
"I don't think he did. I mean, it's been hours and no one's come—"
He stops pacing to turn to look at me. "That's what's bothering me. It's been hours. The cops should've been here already."
"Maybe they're building a case? Getting a warrant or whatever?"
"That's not how kidnapping reports work, Lila." His voice is edged with a dangerous note. "Someone reports a captive, and they respond immediately. They don't wait or build cases. They act."
"Then maybe he didn't report it. Maybe he thought it was a prank."
"Or something else happened." He's pacing again, and I can see his mind working. "What did the driver look like?"
"What?"
"The driver. Describe him."
I pull the sheet tighter around myself, suddenly feeling more exposed. "I don't know. Young, maybe early twenties. Had tattoos on his neck."
"Tattoos?"
"Yeah. I noticed because they weren't in his profile picture on the app. He looked different."
"Jesus Christ." He stops moving entirely, and I watch the color drain from his face. "That wasn't the delivery driver."
"What?"
"That was one of Dmitri's men." He's moving now, fast, pulling on his shirt. "The real driver probably never made it past the lobby. They intercepted him, took his place, and came up here to confirm you exist."
"No. No, that can't—"
"You gave him a note saying you're being held captive." His laugh is harsh. "You confirmed to Dmitri where you are and that you want out. Do you understand what that means?"
I can't breathe. "I didn't know—"
"Of course you didn't know!" He's not yelling, but somehow that's worse. "That's the whole fucking point of keeping you here, keeping you safe, keeping you away from exactly this situation!"
"I was scared! I was confused!" My voice cracks. "I didn't know what I wanted!"
"And now Dmitri knows about you. Knows you're here. Knows you matter to me." He's pulling on his pants, his jacket, transforming back into the Pakhan. "He'll use that. He'll come for you."
"Ivan—"
"You wanted to leave so badly? Congratulations. Now you've painted a target on your back."
"I don't want to leave. Not anymore. I was confused, but now I know—"
"No." He cuts me off, voice sharp as a blade. "You don't get to tell me what you want. Not after this."
"I was going to say I want to stay. I want you."
He goes still and looks at me. For a breath, there’s a glimmer—hope, maybe relief—but it feels fragile, like I wasn’t supposed to notice. Then it hardens, and he’s cold again.
"You don't leave this room without me anymore," he says flatly. "Not until Dmitri is handled. Not until I know you're safe."
"You can't lock me in here—"
"I can. I will." He crosses back to the bed, looms over me, and I see both the man who just made love to me and the killer who walked into the diner, bleeding. "You're MINE, Lila. That means I keep you safe. Even from yourself. Especially from yourself, apparently."
"Ivan, please—"
"Someone could have taken you tonight. Dmitri's man was here. In this building. My building. My territory. Saw you. Now they know you're not some girl I'm protecting. They know you matter."
"Would you even care?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
He kisses me. Brutally. Claiming. Punishing. When he pulls back, his eyes are blazing.
"I would burn this entire city to ash if someone hurt you," he says against my mouth. "Don't test me."
The intensity should terrify me. The possessiveness, the control, the absolute certainty in his voice that I belong to him.
Instead, heat pools between my legs again.
What is wrong with me? What kind of person gets turned on by this?
"I'm sorry," I say again, and I hate how small I sound. "I made a mistake. I was confused. But I'm not confused anymore."
"That doesn't change what you did." He straightens, putting distance between us again. "Pyotr will bring you meals. This room has everything you need—a bathroom and clothes in the closet. Stay here until I say otherwise."
"For how long?"
"As long as it takes."
"That's not fair—"
"Fair?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You want fair? Fair is you being in Dmitri's hands right now because you tried to escape. Fair is you dead in an alley. This—" he gestures at the room, at me sitting naked in his sheets, "—this is mercy."
"This is prison."
He's pulling on his jacket now, covering everything, becoming someone I don't recognize. "And you'll accept it because the alternative is unacceptable."
He heads for the door and pauses with his hand on the handle. "I need to make calls. Check our security. Figure out how badly you've compromised us."
The words sting worse than a slap. Like I'm a child who broke something valuable and doesn't understand the consequences.
"Ivan—"
"Stay in this room, Lila. I mean it." He doesn't look back, and somehow that hurts most of all. "If you try to leave, Pyotr will stop you. And this time, I won't countermand him."
The door closes behind him with a definitive click that sounds like a prison cell locking.
I sit in the ruined sheets, naked and completely alone.
What the hell have I done?