Chapter 10
ANYA
The sky had turned a deep shade of gray before it split open, rain pouring down in furious sheets, turning the dirt path beneath my feet into mud. Lightning forked across the horizon, followed by a peal of thunder so loud I screamed. I was soaked to the skin by the time I stumbled into the shed—an old, rickety thing at the edge of the woods, with its rusted metal roof and broken planks that groaned against the wind.
My breath came in gasps as I fought the rising panic. I hated storms. Ever since I was trapped in my bedroom as a child during one, they made me feel like the world was unraveling around me. Panic would sweep through me, and I’d have to force myself to breathe.
Seconds after I stumbled into the shed, a figure loomed in the darkness, yanked the door open, and ducked inside, not seeing me .
I flattened myself against the splintered wall. Semyon. My god.
Semyon was right there, in the small space of the shed that didn’t seem big enough to hold both of us. He hadn’t seen me yet and stood just a few feet away, grabbing the bottom of his shirt and wringing it out with quick, efficient movements, giving me a wide-open view of the hard, bare planes of his chest. My eyes were riveted on his lower abdomen, on the line of barely visible dark hair that sunk low into his waistband.
I swallowed hard.
“Semyon,” I whispered, not wanting him to be caught off guard. His head jerked up at the sound of my voice, his sharp blue eyes locking on mine, wide with surprise for a second, before his expression shifted back to something controlled and unreadable.
The shed was barely big enough for the two of us, and his presence filled it, steady and unshakable, like an anchor. Larger than life.
I tried to stop shaking, wrapping my arms around myself. The fabric of my dress clung to me. Now that Semyon was here, I became viscerally aware of every sensation. The cold drops of rain down my spine felt heavy as I tracked them falling between my breasts and trailing between my thighs. But it wasn’t just the cold that had me trembling now.
“Anya,” he said, his voice low and firm, cutting through the howl of the wind outside the flimsy shed, as if saying my name out loud made my presence here more solid. I loved the sweet lilt of my name in his rough voice. I wanted to record it and play it on repeat as I fell asleep at night. “What are you doing in here?”
I glared at him. “The same thing you are, obviously.”
He looked away, shrugging off his coat with practiced ease, his movements, as always, methodical, deliberate. “You’re freezing,” he said bluntly.
I shook my head. “I’m fine,” I lied, but my teeth chattered, betraying me.
“Your lips are blue.” Without another word, his piercing gaze didn’t leave mine as he stepped closer. My heart leaped, excited panic sweeping through me. Was he—no. I stood frozen as he draped his coat over my shoulders. The outside was still damp, but the inside was warm and soft and carried his scent. The smell of him was sharp, masculine—woodsy and clean. I was instantly wide awake, my blood heating under my skin.
I clung to his jacket, a lifeline.
“You’re soaked too,” I whispered, looking up at him, admitting too late that I was, indeed, freezing.
His hair, jet black and usually meticulously groomed, was plastered to his forehead, droplets of rain trailing down his sharp jawline.
I realized with startling awareness how I wanted to lick them off.
I was startled by how quickly my thoughts turned sexual, but I was eighteen years old, lonely, and irrevocably in love.
“I’m fine,” he said simply, his tone calm, unbothered. But there was something about the way he stood—his shoulders tense, his eyes scanning the tiny space as if searching for threats. He wasn’t afraid of the storm. In my mind, Semyon wasn’t afraid of anything.
I sank to the floor and pulled his coat tighter around me. “Do you think it’s safe in here?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper as thunder boomed and lightning lit up the sky. “If lightning hits ? —”
“We have a better statistical chance of that happening than we do winning the lottery three times in succession.” His voice was quiet, but there was a certainty in it that made me believe him. Some people poked fun at him for his analytical brain that clung to data and facts, but there was something about it I couldn’t explain that made me swoon. “Anyway,” he continued, “storms don’t last forever.”
I clung to that line and made it mine.
Storms don’t last forever.
Your father won’t always be a drunk.
Your brother won’t always be stealing from him.
You won’t always have to fight for food for your younger brother or hold it together so your mother doesn’t cry.
As for Semyon—you won’t always have to be the strong one, the guardian, the big brother.
Please don’t always be the big brother.
The air between us felt charged, heavier than it should have been, as electric as the lightning outside the shed.
His knee brushed mine .
I wondered if it was accidental. But the spark I felt jolted straight through the fabric, and he didn’t move away.
I tried to focus on the storm—the rain pounding against the thin roof, the wind rattling the tree branches outside, the clouds moving like soldiers prepared for battle. But I couldn’t help it. My eyes were glued to the way Semyon’s chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths, visible under his soaked shirt. The way the fabric clung to his body, outlining the muscles beneath. When lightning struck again, it illuminated the glorious tattoos inked across his arms and neck.
“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the storm. He turned his head and locked his gaze on mine. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The space between us seemed to shrink, and I almost forgot about the raging storm outside.
“It’s nothing,” he said softly, his eyes searching mine.
Was he talking about the coat?
I didn’t know what to say. I just stared at him, my breath catching. Was it my imagination, or was he leaning closer? No, he was definitely leaning closer. His hand came up, brushing a strand of wet hair away from my face. His touch was gentle, almost hesitant, but it left a trail of undeniable heat in its wake. My body came alive, electric.
“Semyon,” I whispered, a warning and a plea. I didn’t know what else to say. His eyes dropped to my lips, and when he swallowed, my heart slammed against my ribs. Maybe I wasn’t just his best friend’s little sister anymore.
Maybe I wasn’t the only one nursing unrequited affection—or was it more? Maybe I wasn’t the only one burning inside, aching to be closer, every nerve alive with the possibility of what could happen.
“Anya,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost pained. “Are you alright?”
No. I wasn’t okay.
I’d run into the storm after my father screamed at me because I had the audacity to question how much he drank. And when he threw his cup of coffee halfway across the room, where it shattered against a wall, I left.
But I couldn’t tell Semyon that. I knew I couldn’t. He’d do something drastic and violent. Kill my father, probably. And then my father’s death would be on my hands.
My pulse thundered in my ears as he leaned closer, his breath warm and minty. The outside world tilted. It could’ve ended, and I wouldn’t care. But just as his lips were about to touch mine—or so I thought—the shed groaned violently, the wind slamming into its walls. We both stared at the door as if expecting Eli to find us.
I jumped, and the moment shattered. He pulled back, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable.
My brother would kill him. We both knew that. Bratva or not, Eli would absolutely destroy him. And Semyon would lose the only friend he had.
“We should wait it out,” he said, his voice hoarse, as if nothing had happened.
And in my small, self-deprecating mind, I told myself it wasn’t because of the tension between us. It was me. I was too much. I was always too much. It was me. I was the problem.
As we pile into the car, the silence between us feels suffocating. Stefan sits in the back seat, clutching the paper bag, his eyes darting between me and my… husband .
Predictably, Semyon insisted I sit beside him, and because I didn’t feel like testing my luck, I let him open my door.
Now he sits in the driver’s seat, his jaw locked, tension radiating off him in waves. He hasn’t spoken since we left the shop, but the white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel tells me everything. I want to poke him, to push him, to say something to break the silence, but I don’t. Not yet.
“Anya,” Stefan whispers from the back seat.
Semyon’s eyes flick toward the rearview mirror almost imperceptibly before returning to the road. I turn in my seat, leaning toward my brother.
“What is it?” I ask softly, my voice gentler than I feel. My stomach twists as I look at him, still unsure how I feel about him being here. He isn’t safe at home but bringing him into this world isn’t much better. The first day I trusted Ophelia to watch him, she lost him. Granted, Stefan didn’t make it easy, but still.
“Are we… really staying with him?” Stefan asks, his voice small. “Are you serious? All my stuff’s back at the house… ”
I shake my head, too tired to explain the truth. It feels too heavy, too complicated. I glance at Semyon, but he answers for me.
“Yes, you’re staying with me. If you have belongings you need, I’ll send someone to retrieve them.” He shifts his gaze from the road to the rearview mirror, locking eyes with Stefan. “I’m not letting either of you out of my sight.”
Stefan flinches at his tone, and I glare at Semyon. “Might be nice if you tried not to terrify him,” I snap.
Semyon’s cold gaze swings to me. “If I were trying to terrify him, he’d wet his pants.”
I stifle a growl.
“Am I a prisoner?” Stefan asks, his voice trembling slightly.
Semyon doesn’t respond, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch in the mirror. I hold back a smile, though it’s more out of exhaustion than amusement.
I cock my head and look at Semyon sweetly, in a way I know annoys him. “Is my brother a prisoner, husband?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “If you want to label it, neither of you will leave without my permission. Neither of you will roam this house freely until I know you’re trustworthy. I won’t have you ruining things, leaving fingerprints on my table, touching things that don’t belong to you, or making me lose sleep because you’re impulsive.”
I cross my arms, making a sound of disgust. “Do you think treating us like this will make us warm up to you?”
Semyon growls, his voice dangerously low. “Do you think I care? Do you think I wanted to run out in the middle of the night, in the rain, dragging your brother into this mess?”
I flinch slightly at the rawness in his voice, but his words keep coming, sharp and cutting.
“I don’t,” he snaps, his tone softening only slightly. “But it’s my responsibility. I take care of what’s mine.”
My chest tightens at his words— what’s mine.
I don’t want to be his. I don’t want Stefan to be his responsibility. But some traitorous part of me, the part that’s so damn tired of fighting, clings to the word responsibility like a lifeline.
“Fine,” I say, crossing my arms. “But if you think treating us like this will make us trust you, you’re in for a rude awakening.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches, but he doesn’t respond.
We drive in silence. I glance back at Stefan, whose eyes are closed. He’s snoring softly.
When we arrive at the house, Semyon parks and turns off the engine. I kneel on the seat to gently shake Stefan awake. “Honey… we’re home.”
He doesn’t stir.
“Watch your foot,” Semyon barks at me. “You’re going to scuff the?—”
Something inside me snaps. I plant my muddy shoe on his pristine console and smear it across the surface.
In one swift motion, his palm slams against my ass. My breath catches in shock .
“What did I tell you about acting like a child?” he snaps, his voice low and lethal.
“Hey!” I gasp, my cheeks flaming. Something dark and unfamiliar flares in my chest.
Between my thighs.
My body betrays me, heat pooling in places I want to ignore. His gaze pins me in place, his tone leaving no room for argument, a promise there’s more where that came from.
Oh god.
“Anya, turn around and sit properly before I spank you again,” he growls. “And clean up the mess you made.”
I huff indignantly but grab the tissue he hands me to wipe the console. It was childish. Still, I hate the smug look on his face as I obey.
“I need to wake him up,” I mutter.
“No,” Semyon says, his tone clipped. “He’s a child and exhausted. I’ll carry him upstairs.”
And then he’s out of the car, pulling Stefan into his arms like he weighs nothing. I want to hate him—I do hate him—but the way he holds my brother, careful and steady, breaks something inside me.
Stefan looks so small in his arms, so fragile. He’s always been too thin, no matter how much I’ve tried to feed him. He grows like a weed, but there’s never enough.
Semyon carries him toward the house with his back straight, his movements precise. I feel an ache in my chest born of grief and relief, opposing feelings but holding the same space somehow.
“I’ll put him in the second room on the right,” Semyon says, his voice cold. He glances back at me, his eyes sharp and half-lidded. His voice drops an octave as if trying not to wake my brother.
“When you come upstairs,” he murmurs, “I want you waiting in your bedroom.” I stare at him.
“I want your clothes off, Anya.”
I stare at his retreating back before I somehow make it up to my room.
Semyon is so cold, so detached—like a machine, ruthless and efficient—but today, he brought my little brother home. He carried Stefan into this house like he was something precious. That’s not something I can forget.
Earlier, when I first walked into this room, I hadn’t even looked around. Now, as I stand here trembling, I force myself to take in every detail.
He’s coming back for me.
I can barely begin to process everything that’s happened in the last few hours. It’s all too much, too fast, and every time I try to piece together my fears of what happens next, my thoughts dissolve into chaos.
The room itself is larger than anything I could have imagined. It’s more lavish than I expected too. A massive king-sized bed dominates the center, draped with a heavy ivory duvet, soft and inviting. Ample pillows are propped neatly against the headboard, and the room is accented in polished silver and glints of warm gold. Somehow, it feels simultaneously impersonal and beautiful.
I expected a prisoner’s confines. But this? This is anything but.
In the corner stands a large white desk, solid and heavy, paired with a sleek standing lamp. On its surface, brand-new accessories are arranged in perfect order—pens, pencils, even a tape dispenser and scissors. My bag sits empty beside a closet door, an incongruous reminder of home.
Tentatively, I walk over and push the door to the closet open. My breath catches.
The closet is enormous, a walk-in space larger than Stefan’s entire room back home. Shelves line the walls, displaying rows of shoes so pristine they look like works of art. Heels, boots, flats, all arranged by style and color—black, nude, and red blending into softer pastels and bolder choices. Dresses and skirts hang neatly beside sweaters and coats, all perfectly organized. Everything is new, modern, expensive… and my size.
They all sit beside my mother’s clothes, in such stark contrast it makes my nose tingle.
The two pairs of worn shoes and the few faded garments I’d packed sit awkwardly on a shelf. My cheeks burn at the sight of them. They don’t belong here. They’re relics of a simpler, poorer life, a life that feels a million miles away now.
I slam the light switch off and turn my back to it all. If he thinks he can buy my affection …
No. He won’t win.
But he said he doesn’t want my love. He doesn’t care for my attention. So what is this game he’s playing? I won’t forgive him for what he’s done.
And yet… it’s getting harder to hold on to my anger.
I take a deep breath, willing the rising tide of confusion to settle. Stefan is asleep, safe down the hall in another room. I can almost picture Semyon laying him down. He wouldn’t have left the coverlet on to get dirty—he’d have removed Stefan’s shoes first, then tucked him in neatly.
Would he? Does he have that kind of softness in him?
Panic grips my chest. Is my brother really safe here?
I shake the thought away and move to the door, trying the handle. It doesn’t budge.
Locked.
Oh god.
I whir around, scanning the windows for the first time. They’re locked, too, with heavy steel bars framing every pane. He doesn’t trust me not to run. And why would he? I already proved I would at the first opportunity.
My phone buzzes on the desk, a text lighting up the screen. It’s Ophelia.
Ophelia
Are you all right?
I grab the phone but hesitate. Semyon’s cold words echo in my mind: You’re not allowed to contact my wife without my permission .
The sound of footsteps outside the door breaks my thoughts. My stomach drops, and I shake my head, denial flooding my mind.
What is he going to do to me?
I scramble, stripping off my wet dress and tossing his jacket onto the pile of discarded clothes. But then I pause, staring at the heap on the floor.
Which is worse—disobeying him by not undressing as he ordered or leaving a mess in his pristine room?
Semyon is always precise. Impeccable.
I scoop up the clothes and toss them into a nearby hamper, stripping the rest of my garments as quickly as I can. My gaze catches on the full-length oval mirror in the corner.
For a moment, I freeze, staring at my reflection.
My cheeks are flushed, my hair wild in soft waves over my shoulders. Standing naked, I take in what I haven’t seen in years. My body is unfamiliar, the curves of my full breasts and the flare of my hips foreign after years of not looking. My belly is soft but flat, and my thighs strong. My hands trail down my sides unconsciously.
Semyon’s voice echoes in my mind: I like my wife with curves.
I swallow hard and avert my eyes, wrapping my arms around myself. What is he going to do ?
The door handle clicks. My heart leaps into my throat. I stand frozen, my breath shallow. I have never felt more vulnerable in my life.
“Good,” Semyon says, his voice tired and taut. “For once, you did something I asked you to.” He steps into the room and removes his tie, unloosening it with his large, thick hand. I watch, mesmerized. I cross my arms over my chest, but he only shakes his head sternly at me.
“No. Don’t cover up. You’re my wife. Hiding accomplishes nothing.”
“I’m your wife, but I hardly know you.”
He doesn’t respond because he’s too busy staring at me.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, his voice softer than before, as if testing the words aloud. Nodding, satisfied, he repeats himself. “Beautiful.”
I blink, caught off guard. “What?”
His clinical gaze lingers. “A simple observation, but it’s true.” It’s the first time I realize he’s soaked to the skin like I was.
“Are you trying to manage me with compliments?”
The furrow of his brow hints at confusion. Frustration? “No.”
He's standing before me, wearing nothing but the white T-shirt clinging to his skin, tucked into a pair of soaking-wet pants. He walks over to me, and I stand stock still. I don't know what to expect .
"Your hair is wet." He strokes it out of my face—not like a gesture of tenderness, but as though he needs to see my eyes. "Where did you get that dress?"
I swallow hard. "It was my mother's."
"I thought so.” Wordlessly, he trails a finger over my shoulder and down the length of my arm.
"Your skin is so soft," he whispers.
I shiver.
"Are you cold?" His brow furrows.
Does he have no idea what he does to me?
"No." My voice is a husky whisper.
He circles me, staring as if I’m a work of art he’s trying to understand. "Do you know the rule of the Bratva?”
I lick my lips. “Which one?”
“We have to consummate our marriage."
Heat floods through me. I nod. "No, but I figured as much."
"Why?" he asks.
"Because I assumed that if you treat marriage as a transaction, then you would also treat… sex the same way. If you need to be married, then you need to have children."
"Smart girl. Are you a virgin?" His eyes darken, daring me to answer anything but yes.
I lick my lips and nod. "Of course I am."
It isn’t a lie. I don’t know when I would have had the time for anything else .
Dragging his knuckles across my collarbone, he whispers, "Then I’ll have to take my time with you."
I look at him curiously. "Are you ?"
He shakes his head. "No. But I’ve never made love to a woman I… cared about."
Oh god.
"Why not?"
"Never took the time to bother figuring out how or why, but I suppose it has something to do with not having an emotional connection.” He shrugs. "We do."
This whole discussion is making me nervous.
“I…I know how it’s done."
"I would imagine so," he says, with a sound that’s almost a laugh. "I don’t mean sex, Anya. Anyone with access to the internet could figure that one out. I mean, I know how to make you enjoy it."
My breasts feel so heavy, my nipples taut. “You want a medal?”
Shaking his head, he only shrugs again. “No, Anya. Just your pleasure.” He leans in a little closer and ever so lightly presses his palm to my lower back. “It’s mine to give or keep.”
I try to toss my head. “Sure. Yeah. You have a plan, do you?”
“Mmm, of course,” he continues. "I do everything in my power to make you wet so that you’re ready. Then I take my time. "
A beat passes between us. I wonder if he can hear how rapidly my heart is beating right now. I wonder if I can.
"Do you know what you like?" he asks.
I shake my head. "I mean, I’m human. I know where my fantasies go when I’m asleep."
"Right. Unfortunately, there’s a small matter of your punishment before we get to your pleasure, isn’t there?"
"If you insist on being a barbarian," I snap, refusing to allow my voice to waver.
"Barbarian?” his ice-blue eyes hint at amusement. Couldn’t be further from the truth. “You should know by now that I’m civilized to a fault, Anya. But I’m also a man of my word. This is my house, and it’s important my wife understands how things work under my roof. Wouldn’t you agree?”
"If you say so." My pulse quickens as tension crawls up my spine. I haven’t been punished since my childhood. What the hell is he planning?
He mentioned a spanking earlier, but the look in his eyes now… god, it’s like he’s waited for this moment, and now he’s savoring the tension before he uncorks the bottle and unleashes whatever he has planned.
“I’ll go easy on you this first time.” He tilts his head slightly, his expression inscrutable. “You’re my wife, after all.”
“How considerate.” My voice cracks under the strain. I watch as his lips curl into a subtle, knowing smile. He clears his throat and jerks his chin toward the bed .
“On all fours, Anya. Lean on your forearms, ass up. Thighs apart.” He runs his thumb along his lower lip and lowers his voice. “I won’t ask twice.”
Of course vulnerability is the first thing he demands. He wants control over me, wants to make sure this punishment gets him off.
But I’m not stupid enough to refuse him. Not with the stakes this high.
I move to the bed, swallowing my fear, and arrange myself as… directed.
I hear his footsteps approaching and feel him draw closer. “Good girl,” he says. “Just like that.”
I close my eyes as a rush of feelings floods me, feelings I can’t decipher.
I hate how my body responds, how the silence that follows stretches taut, a thin thread about to snap. How I feel him watching me, assessing, like a predator savoring the moment before the strike.
I wonder if he sees I’m shaved. If he notes the way my thighs jiggle and my belly wobbles. If he cares that my toenails are unpolished and my hair askew and disheveled.
The tension between us snaps and crackles, sparks flying. I tremble in spite of myself. My breathing is shallow.
When he doesn’t move immediately, the silence between us stretches.
When his hand grazes the curve of my hip—barely a whisper of a touch—and shockwaves course through me. I feel his heat, the deliberate control behind every move, and I shiver.
“You’re trembling,” he observes, his voice low and smooth, like the edge of a knife. “Are you afraid, Anya?”
I want to snap back at him, to deny him the satisfaction of seeing the effect he has on me. But I can’t. I’m not just afraid—I’m undone. He strips away my defenses with every word, every look, leaving me raw and exposed.
“I don’t know,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
I feel the tears before I realize they’re falling. They slip silently down my cheeks, splashing my hands.
He leans down, his voice impossibly close to my ear, and when he speaks, it’s softer, almost coaxing. “Good,” he murmurs. “Fear keeps you sharp. But it’s obedience, Anya, that earns rewards.”
Before I can process his words, his hand slams down sharply on my bare ass. The sound is deafening in the quiet, the sting radiating across my skin, hot and bright. My breath hitches, and I let out a strangled gasp—not from pain, but from the unexpected wave of pleasure that surges through me.
My core clenches, and I hate the way my body reacts to him.
“You deserve a lot more than that,” he says, his voice a dark purr. “To remind you who’s in charge.” His hand doesn’t leave my skin. Instead, his fingers trail lazily over the spot he struck, soothing the sting in a way that only makes the ache inside me worse .
“You liked that,” he says, and it’s not a question. His voice is full of dark amusement, and I want to deny it, to fight him, but I can’t.
I bury my face in the bed, trying to hide from the shame and vulnerability.
“Look at me.”
Reluctantly, I meet his eyes.
They are sharp, unreadable, but his gaze burns into me. “I said, look at me, Anya.”
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, his voice a dangerous whisper, and I know it’s not a question he asks lightly. He doesn’t want to. And a part of him doesn’t want to continue without my say.
Oh god.
I swallow hard, my throat dry, and shake my head.
“Good girl,” he repeats.
My eyes flutter closed at the feel of his warm hand slipping between my thighs, his fingers grazing me where I’m already embarrassingly wet. I gasp, my hips jerking involuntarily at the contact.
“Jesus,” he groans, his voice tinged with approval. “You’re soaked.”
His fingers slide over me again, teasing, never quite giving me what I want. It’s maddening.
“Do you like this?” he asks, his lips brushing against the curve of my ear .
I nod, unable to speak, my body betraying every ounce of resistance I thought I had.
Chuckling softly, his fingers press harder, drawing a low moan from my throat before he pulls away entirely.
“Then maybe this will be your punishment, Anya,” he says, straightening to his full height. “To want but not have. To feel what I can do to you and know it’s mine to give—or take away.”
I don’t know how I feel about this. Part of me wants to tell him to stop, that I don’t want his touch. But I couldn’t do that right now if I tried. Because I do want his touch. Because I’ve wanted more than this, more from him, for so long—even back when it was wrong.
And now I’m his wife.
I try to bring myself back to the present, to tell myself that this isn’t what I need, that it isn’t what I want. But it isn’t working. My body is desperate for relief. Desperate for him .
Why do I feel this storm of emotions—anger, confusion, and need colliding inside me?
“This is for storming into my office and disrespecting me in front of my men,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous, before his hand comes down sharply against the full curve of my ass. I inhale at the sting but stay in place, unmoving.
“That’s right. Just like that.” His voice softens, almost approving. “My handprint on your ass pleases me so much, beautiful.”
I swallow hard, unable to stop the shiver that runs through me before his fingers slide through my wet heat, brushing where I crave him most.
My back arches instinctively, my body surrendering to the pleasure he offers.
It feels so fucking good— so damn good—that all my thoughts, my anger, and my pride dissolve into nothingness. Everything I’ve ever known or wanted could fit on the head of a needle.
“Does that feel good?” he asks, his voice low and probing, as though he genuinely wants to know and is cataloging this moment like he catalogs everything else.
“Yes,” I breathe out in a hushed whisper, my voice trembling.
He speeds up his movements, circling my clit with precision, smearing my wetness over every inch of me. My body bucks against his hand, craving more.
“And this?” he asks, his tone almost clinical as he shifts the rhythm.
“It’s… too much,” I gasp, the sensitivity overwhelming me.
He slows, adjusting his pace to something deliberate and steady, coaxing moans from my lips that I can’t suppress. The pleasure courses through me, taking over every rational thought I might have had.
“And then there’s the matter of you running out,” he says, his tone darkening as he slows his movements. “Leaving my home when you knew I wouldn’t allow it.”
Before I can respond, his hand presses firmly on the center of my back, pinning me in place. Then his palm slaps hard against my ass—once, twice, three times in rapid succession, never in the same spot. The sting is sharp, radiating heat through my skin. It hurts like fuck, but the pain only intensifies the ache between my legs.
What is wrong with me?
“Spread your legs,” he growls, tapping the inside of each thigh with the back of his hand.
I obey, opening myself to him without hesitation. His fingers slide into me, thick and deliberate, stroking my most sensitive place. Oh fuck, yes, please.
“How does that feel, Anya?” he asks, his voice low and rough in my ear.
“So good.” I breathe, my voice a barely audible whisper.
“Tell me you’re going to obey me,” he commands, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“Yes,” I gasp, switching to Russian instinctively. “I’ll obey you.”
He rewards me with another perfect stroke of his fingers.
“Tell me you will never leave this house without my permission again,” he growls, plunging more fingers inside me now, his movements unrelenting and precise. My breath hitches, my muscles tightening as pleasure coils within me, ready to snap.
“I won’t,” I cry out. “I won’t leave again without your permission!”
“That’s what marrying into the Bratva means,” he says, his tone colder now. “You will obey me. I will accept nothing less.”
He removes his fingers before his hand comes down one final time, a sharp smack that makes me cry out.
“You’ve got a lot to learn, Anya. Is that clear, beautiful?”
The word “beautiful” sends a bloom of warmth through my chest.
My wife.
Beautiful.
“I asked if that was clear, Anya.”
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Crystal.”
“Good.” His tone softens, but the command remains. I ache for him, no matter how hard I try to resist. “Because I want you to remember this night. I’m taking it easy on you, Anya. You deserve my belt for what you did. If you ever do anything like that again, you won’t sit for a fucking week. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” I whisper again before I can stop myself. “Yes, sir.”
His growl of approval makes my body melt like heated caramel.
“Spread your legs, baby. Come on my hand,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl in my ear as he strokes me again, relentless and precise. His fingers bring me higher and higher, finding my clit, spreading my slick heat, and when I finally shatter, it’s like lightning strikes through me, leaving my body trembling and boneless .
I’m dimly aware of him shifting behind me, of the sound of his own low groans as he takes out his cock and fists it. My breath catches as I tense, thinking he’s going to take me. I watch, half-drunk, as he strokes and pumps his hardened cock, tracing a finger over my heated ass, between my legs.
With a groan, his hot seed splashes across my back, marking me in the most possessive, intimate way. He muffles another groan, and I feel a wicked smile curve my lips.
I did this to him. Me. I made the ice shatter.
The thought sends another ripple of pleasure through me as I collapse onto the bed, barely able to move.
“Lie on your belly,” he says quietly.
Too tired to argue, I obey. He cleans me off with his own soaking T-shirt, the act so filthy and possessive it sends a shiver down my spine.
My eyes grow heavy.
He bends down and presses a soft kiss to my cheek. “Get some sleep, Anya. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”
The click of the door shutting behind him sounds as I close my eyes and begin to drift off to sleep, but a second later, my eyes fly open when I hear a series of clicks.
He didn’t just shut the door. He locked me in.