Lena #2
I feel the rage spark then—a hot, white-blaze that cuts through the exhaustion. I step right up to the desk, leaning in until I’m in his space.
“You think forcing me to marry you will give you what you want? It won’t.
You’ll never have it. You want love? Affection?
A real family?” I let my gaze rake over him with pure, unadulterated venom.
“You want me to spread my legs and pretend I want your lund inside me? You will never get those things from me, Razvan. I will be your wife in name, but I will be your ghost in reality. I will make you regret this marriage every single day for the rest of your life.”
His eyes go dark, not with anger, but with something far more dangerous. He looks at me like I’ve just handed him a challenge he’s been waiting for his entire life.
“Love? Affection?” He chuckles, a low, dry sound that sets my teeth on edge.
“I don’t need your simpering emotions, Lena.
My life is built on cold steel and colder logic.
As for family dynamics…you will act your role perfectly.
In front of my men, in front of the council, in front of anyone of importance, you will be the dutiful, contented wife of the Pakhan.
If you do not, I will make your existence a living hell and the boy’s along with it. Do you understand?”
The threat is a bucket of icy water down my spine. I think of Theo sleeping upstairs and I nod once, my jaw clenched so tight it feels like it might crack.
“And as for the rest…” He pushes away from the desk and begins to circle around toward me, his movements slow and predatory. “You are mistaken if you think sex will be a problem between us.”
My heart kicks against my ribs. “It’s a lie. I don’t want you. I’ll never want you again.”
“You are a terrible liar, zayka.” He’s in front of me now, his presence so overwhelming it feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. “Your body is an open book, and I have already read the first chapter. Let me show you the next page.”
His hands clamp on my waist, big and hot even through my clothes, and he lifts me as if I weigh nothing. I gasp as my ass lands on the hard edge of his massive oak desk, papers scattering.
I open my mouth to tell him to get his hands off me, but he steps between my legs, using his own body to force them apart, spreading me open for him. I’m sitting on his desk with him between my knees and my heart is hammering so hard I feel it in my throat.
“See?” he murmurs, his gaze burning into mine. “You open for me so easily, zayka.”
“Get off—”
His hands slide to my thighs, fingers digging into the muscle through the denim of my jeans. He rubs up and down, a slow, maddening rhythm, moving higher with each pass until his thumbs are pressing against the inseam, right where my legs meet my body.
The pressure is directly over my clit, and a jolt of pure, undiluted sensation arcs through me.
My back arches, a silent plea my mind is screaming against.
No. I feel the heat of him through the fabric and how wet I am and I hate my body with everything I have right now. No, no, no—
“Already wet, aren’t you?” he growls, his voice a dark rumble of satisfaction. He shifts his hand, his palm cupping me through the fabric, applying a firm, circular pressure.
A broken sound escapes me, half moan, half sob.
The dampness in my panties isn’t just moisture anymore; it’s a soaking flood, and I know he can feel the heat of it. My clit aches, clenches around nothing, begging for contact, for friction, for him.
Oh Lord, this is fucked up. I’m fucked up.
His hands move up, finding my chest. His thumbs brush over my nipples through my shirt and they’re already hard, have been hard for the last five minutes, and when he presses the sound I make is embarrassingly close to a whimper.
Humiliation burns my cheeks, but it’s mixed with a filthy, unwelcome thrill.
His eyes drop to my chest, watching the fabric stiffen above my nipples and a dark, predatory gleam lights his gaze. It turns him on. Seeing my body betray me so completely turns him on.
He leans in, his mouth so close to mine I can feel the heat of his breath. I think he’s going to kiss me, and a part of me, that deep, primal part, yearns for it, my lips parting on a shaky exhale.
He doesn’t kiss me.
He moves his mouth to the side, to the column of my neck. His lips brush the sensitive skin there, and I tremble. Then he bites.
Not a love bite. Not a tease. It’s a sharp, claiming press of teeth, a punishment and a promise all at once.
Pain flares, bright and hot, but it doesn’t stop there.
It melts, transforming as it spreads, merging with the pulsing need between my legs until I can’t tell where the hurt ends and the pleasure begins.
It’s a cocktail of sensation so potent it whites out my vision.
My hands fly up, not to push him away, but to grab the front of his shirt, fisting the material, holding on as my spine curves, offering him more of my throat. A raw, guttural cry is torn from me. My cunt spasms, a hard, sudden clutch that isn’t an orgasm but is so close to the edge it’s agony.
I’m dripping, throbbing, my swollen heavy with my frantic heartbeat, my entire body alight for him.
He releases my neck with a final lick over the throbbing mark.
He pulls back just enough to look at my face, at my blown pupils and parted, panting lips.
His own breathing is slightly uneven, and I can feel the hard, thick ridge of his erection pressing against my inner thigh through his pants.
The proof of his desire is a stark, intimidating reality.
He smirks. It’s the look of a man who has just won a war without firing a single shot.
“Sex,” he says, his voice a rough, dark vibration, “will not be a problem.”
Then, he simply…stops.
He steps back, removing his hands, breaking all contact. The sudden absence of his heat, his touch, is a physical shock. I sway on the desk, my body screaming in protest, empty, desperate and humming with unspent energy.
“Now get out,” he says, turning his back to me, adjusting his cuff as if he’s just concluded a minor piece of business. “I have work.”
Get out?
The words hit me like a slap.
You arrogant, soulless, son-of-a-bitch. You absolute bastard.
I hope you choke on your own blood. I hope the devil has a special seat waiting for you, you cold-blooded, manipulative prick.
I want to scream them. I want to pick up the heavy crystal decanter on his side table and smash it over that dark, perfect head.
I want to claw the smirk off his face until there’s nothing left but bone.
But my bones have turned to liquid. My voice is trapped behind a wall of shame and unfulfilled desire.
I slide off the desk, my legs shaking so badly I have to clutch the heavy edge of the wood just to keep from collapsing. The cool air hits the damp patch between my legs like a slap, a biting reminder of how thoroughly he just dismantled my defenses.
I am a walking contradiction—a mess of lethal want and bone-deep hatred.
I start for the door, my movements jerky and uncoordinated, but at the threshold I can’t help it. I stop. I turn my head just enough to spare him one final glance.
Arrogant wicked stupidly handsome annoying—
Razvan doesn’t even look up from his papers at first. Then, slowly, he lifts his head. He leans back in his chair, his expression one of bored, dark amusement.
He chuckles, a low, grainy sound that makes my skin prickle.
“Careful, zayka,” he says, his voice a smooth, dangerous silk. “If you kill me in your head any harder, you might actually give yourself a migraine. You should really try to control yourself.”
My breath hitches. The fact that he can read the internal massacre I’m dreaming of makes my blood boil.
“Go to hell, Razvan,” I whisper, my voice finally finding its edge.
His smirk only widens, a cold, victorious flash of teeth. “I’m already there, Lena. I’m just making sure you have a seat right next to me.”
He drops his gaze back to his desk, dismissing me as if I’m nothing more than a minor annoyance. The dismissal is worse than the touch. It ignites a fresh wave of anger that burns through the lingering haze of lust.
I turn and walk away, my steps heavy and trembling. I don’t look back again. I can’t afford to.
I hate him. I hate the way he knows me. I hate the way he moves me.
And most of all, I hate that as I retreat toward the safety of the guest wing my traitorous, aching body is already counting the seconds until he decides to summon me again.