Chapter 28
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
KIRILL
She’s desperate. Writhing in those restraints. Begging me to touch her. And fuck, if it isn’t the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.
The drug has stripped away every pretense, leaving her raw and needy and honest in a way she’s never been with me before. Her body doesn’t know how to lie even if her mouth does.
I didn’t expect our night to go like this, but arousal is a side effect of the sodium pentothal and I’m taking advantage of it. I need relief as much as she does, and there’s something darkly satisfying about making her watch. About showing her exactly what she’s refusing.
Her gaze locks onto my cock like it’s the only salvation in the world.
“You want this inside you, don’t you?” I tease, stroking myself slowly. Letting her see every inch of what she’s missing.
“Yes.”
“Then you know what you need to do.”
She shakes her head, lips still clamped shut.
My eyes travel over her body. Ankles secured to the chair legs, thighs spread wide, giving me a perfect view of everything. Her hard nipples pressing against the lace. And between her legs—fuck—the wet spot darkening her panties tells me exactly how much she wants more.
“Look at you,” I murmur, jerking myself faster. “Can’t even press your thighs together to get some relief. You’ve made a mess of your panties, solnyshko. I’d spank you for that if I didn’t know how much you’d like it.”
A sob tears from her throat, her whole body trembling with the effort of holding still.
I swipe my thumb over the head of my cock, collecting the bead of pre-cum there, then bring my other hand—the one that played with her pussy, that felt how soaked she was—to my mouth.
I press both fingers to my tongue and lick them clean.
The combination explodes on my palate. Her sweetness mixed with the salt of my arousal.
“Fuck,” I groan. “We taste incredible together.”
She bites down on her lower lip, trying to hold in a moan. Her chest heaves with each breath. Her eyes are glassy with need, pupils blown wide. She’s fighting to stay quiet but I see how close she is to breaking.
“Remember that night at Apollon?” I lean my head back, working myself in long, measured strokes.
“I fucked you with my fingers as I killed that piece of shit Marco. You came so goddamn hard after I put a bullet in that mudak’s head for you.
Although you didn’t need me … did you?” She licks her lips, her stare never leaving my hand as my pace quickens.
“You want me to walk over there and push those panties aside and slide inside you. I’d push in so deep you’d feel me in your throat. ”
Her hips shift, trying to find friction. But there’s nothing. Just air and desperation.
“I’d start slow,” I continue, my voice hoarse. “Let you adjust to me again. Then I’d fuck you so hard you’d forget your own name. Forget every lie you’ve ever told me. You’d just be mine. Taking my cock. Coming for me over and over.”
I’m close. Pressure builds at the base of my spine.
Tears slide down her cheeks but she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t close her eyes.
“Look at what you’re doing to me,” I husk out. “How hard you make me. How much I want you even though you’re a pretty little liar.”
But she stays silent as I stroke myself faster, harder, chasing the release that’s building.
My orgasm slams through me. I come with a rough groan, cum spilling over my fist and onto my stomach, thick ropes of release that seem endless. I pump myself through it, stare locked on hers, making sure she sees every drop.
When it’s done, I slump back against the couch, chest heaving.
For a moment we just stare at each other. Me catching my breath. Her shaking and desperate and unfulfilled.
Then I grab tissues and clean myself up. Tuck myself away. Stand on unsteady legs.
“That could have been inside you,” I tell her, crossing to the chair. “Could have been dripping out of your beautiful cunt. Such a waste of my cum.”
“I hate you,” she whispers.
“No, you don’t.” I cup her face, her skin burning under my palm, and press my lips to hers.
She chases my mouth but I deny her more than a brief flick of my tongue.
“You want me. And if you’d tell me the truth, I could untie these restraints and take you to my bed and give you everything you’re begging for.
But you want to protect your secrets more than you want me. Let’s see how long you hold out.”
I grab a throw blanket off the couch and drape it over her, covering her exposed skin.
“Get some sleep,” I tell her. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
“I-I can’t sleep like this.”
I brush a strand of hair from her face. “That’s your problem, my little liar.”
Then I walk away, leaving her desperate and aching and alone.
I get a few hours of restless sleep before my brain starts buzzing again. Too much happening. Too many variables beyond my control. I take a long shower, throw on a pair of sweatpants, and check on Evelina in the living room.
She’s still sleeping tied to the chair, head tilted at an awkward angle that’ll wreck her neck. The drug has her completely under, chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths.
I should leave her there to wake up stiff and sore and learn lying to me has consequences. My nose throbs like a motherfucker after that move she pulled. Knowing all this, I’m still weak for her.
I untie the restraints and lift her into my arms. She’s warm and pliant against my chest, trusting me even when unconscious. I carry her to the spare bedroom and settle her on the bed, pulling the blanket up to her shoulders.
A piece of hair falls across her face. I brush it back without thinking, my thumb grazing her cheek. She makes a soft sound, almost a whimper, and shifts toward my touch, seeking comfort.
I force myself out of the room, closing the door quietly behind me before I do something stupid like climb into bed with her.
Beyond the window, the city wakes. Millions of people starting their day, all living separate lives, all keeping secrets. Just like the woman sleeping in my spare bedroom. The woman who came here looking for her mother.
Or at least that’s what she says.
Could she have ties to the Ghost?
The pattern doesn’t fit. The Ghost is methodical and strategic. Breaking into retired traffickers’ apartments for decades-old information doesn’t fit their pattern.
A phone call jolts me out of my thoughts.
“Sir.” Security’s voice comes through when I answer. “Your father is here. He’s demanding to come up.”
Blyat . Exactly what I need right now. But he’s my father and pakhan, and after last night’s mess I can’t put him off any longer.
“Send him up,” I say.
I drain my coffee and set the mug down harder than necessary, bracing for whatever shitstorm is about to walk through my door.
I glance toward the spare bedroom. Evelina’s clothes from last night are gone, folded and put away.
Between the drugs and exhaustion, she’ll sleep through it. My father won’t know she’s here.
The elevator opens and Ruslan strides in like he owns it. His suit is immaculate despite the early hour, but there’s fury written in every line of his body. He stops in the middle of my living room, feet planted, arms crossed.
I stay where I am, leaning against the kitchen counter. Let him come to me.
“You want to explain what the fuck happened last night?”
“Good morning to you too,” I respond, taking a sip from my mug. “Coffee?”
“You crashed my poker game. Stabbed Abram through the hand with an ice pick. Disappeared for hours without answering a single call. You owe me an explanation.”
“You were there. You saw it.” I set my mug down, meet his gaze head-on. “Abram disrespected Evelina.”
“Who cares? She’s a nobody, a stupid server. Abram has been loyal to me for decades, and you drove an ice pick through his hand because he yelled at some waitress?” He leans forward, palms flat on the marble countertop. “That’s not like you, Kirill. I want to know what’s going on.”
At the time, I was sure Abram grabbed her ass or something by the way Evelina went white and dropped the bottle. Now I understand. It wasn’t what Abram said; it was what she’d seen. Those cathedral domes inked on his forearms, the same symbol burned into her nightmares.
“Maybe I overreacted.” I shrug like it doesn’t matter. “Dealing with the Ghost has me on edge. Abram ran his mouth at the wrong time and I snapped. It won’t happen again.”
My father straightens. “I saw the way you looked at her when you walked into that game.” His voice levels out, flat and stripped of emotion. “What is this woman to you?”
“What does it matter? Unless you’re interested yourself.”
He chuckles darkly. “If that’s what you think, you don’t understand me at all. I’m concerned you’re distracted when you need to be focused more than ever.”
“She’s nothing to me,” I say, raking a hand through my hair. “An employee I felt protective of when Abram berated her in front of everyone.”
He sighs, then does something I don’t expect.
He moves around the island, closing the distance between us until we’re standing face to face.
“Kirill. You’re my son. My heir. Everything I’ve built, everything this family has become, it will be yours.
” His hand rises and grips my shoulder. The touch is firm, grounding.
“I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye.
I know you think I’m too hard on you, that I’m stuck in the past.”
My father’s shoulders drop an inch, shedding the armor he usually wears. This isn’t the speech I expected, and his words catch me off guard.
“Maybe I am hard on you,” he concedes. “My father was hard on me. Harder than I’ve ever been on you or your brothers.
He believed the only way to prepare a man to lead was to throw him into the fire and see if he came out steel or ash.
” His grip tightens. “I didn’t agree with all his methods, but I understood what he was trying to teach me.
A pakhan can’t afford weakness. Can’t afford distractions.
The men who follow you, the enemies who test you, they look for cracks. For soft spots they can exploit.”
“Wanting to do things differently doesn’t make me any less fit to lead.” We’ve never had a conversation like this, but it feels good to say it out loud without the usual roar of an argument drowning out the point.
“I allowed you to handle the Ghost situation because you’re the future.
This is the first of many impossible challenges ahead.
” He drops his hand from my shoulder but doesn’t step back.
“I won’t be here forever, Kirill. Someday, maybe sooner than either of us wants, you’ll be pakhan.
And when that day comes, you’ll face things worse than the Ghost. You’ll face them alone. Without me standing behind you.”
“I know that,” I admit. “And I will rise to the challenge.” I mean it, too. I can handle the Ghost and whatever else the old man leaves behind.
“Not if you allow yourself to be led around by your dick. Not if you keep seeing that server. It’s time to cut her loose. Anyone or anything clouding your judgment has to go.”
His focus on Evelina is interesting, but my father’s always been wary of women draining our time and focus, which is why I suspect he’s angling for an arranged marriage. A union based on power. A wife who is an asset.
“I know you’ll do things differently than I did,” he says.
“Your generation always does. You want cybercrime and digital operations instead of the old ways. You want to build something cleaner.” His mouth twitches, almost a smile.
“I’m not saying you’re wrong. Change is inevitable.
I’ve accepted that. But some things don’t change, syn .
Legacy. Loyalty. The willingness to sacrifice everything, including the things you want, for the family’s survival. ”
“I’ve never put anything above this family.” The words come out defensive. Just because my ways are different doesn’t make me any less dedicated.
“I know you haven’t. That’s why I’m here.
” He glances toward the windows, the city beyond.
“Last night, when I saw you with that girl, I didn’t see my son the strategist. I saw a man distracted.
A man compromised.” He looks back at me.
“Women are a weakness. They force us to choose between duty and desire.”
A grim silence follows his words, echoing the thoughts I’ve been avoiding. Evelina has gotten under my skin in ways that make me reckless. Made me kill Marco. Made me drive an ice pick through Abram’s hand. Made me bring her here instead of bringing her to our basement.
“Prove to me you’re worthy of wearing my crown.” His hand rises again, cups the side of my face briefly before falling away. The gesture is so unexpected, so unlike him, I almost don’t know how to respond.
“You know I am.”
“I’m hosting dinner tomorrow night at the estate,” he says, stepping back and straightening his suit jacket as if the moment never happened. “The Morozov family is visiting from Russia. Important business contacts. I’d like you to join us.”
It’s not really a request, but it’s not an order either.
“I’ll be there,” I say.
“Good.” He crosses to the elevator, presses the call button. The doors slide open immediately. He steps inside, turns to face me. “You’re more like me than you realize, Kirill. You’ll realize it sooner than later.”
That’s high praise coming from my father. But what he hasn’t figured out is I’m not interested in being like him. I will be better.