Chapter 4
Kira
The moment his hand touches my shoulder, every instinct screams danger.
I start to turn, to fight, to scream—and then I'm against the wall, stone cold and rough against my back through the thin fabric of my dress. A hand covers my mouth, cutting off sound, cutting off air, cutting off everything.
My brain catalogs threats in the half-second before I see his face.
The moonlight hits his features, and the world stops.
No. No, it's not possible.
Maksim.
My Maksim.
The man I mourned, the man I dreamed about every single night, the man I loved so desperately that his death nearly killed me too is here.
He's alive.
And he's furious.
"Hello, Kira," he says softly, his voice rougher than I remember, edged with something dark and dangerous. "Miss me?"
The hand over my mouth prevents me from answering, but I couldn't speak anyway. Can't breathe. Can't think. Can only stare at him and catalogue all the ways he's changed.
Scars. God, the scars. One cuts through his eyebrow, another along his jawline. More disappear beneath his collar. I know—somehow I know—there are more hidden under his clothes. His face is harder, leaner, carved into sharp angles that make him look like a stranger wearing Maksim's features.
His eyes are what break me. They used to be warm, full of laughter and love and dreams about our future. Now they're cold. Dead. Looking at me with such hatred that I physically recoil against the wall.
This isn't my Maksim. This is someone else. Someone hell forged into a weapon and pointed directly at me.
He leans closer, and I can smell him—different cologne, or maybe no cologne at all, just soap and something sharper. Dangerous.
My heart is hammering so hard I'm surprised he can't hear it. The hand covering my mouth is calloused.
He removes his hand slowly, watching me like I'm a threat he needs to neutralize.
The second his palm leaves my mouth, I slap him.
The crack of skin-on-skin echoes in the garden. My palm stings. His head snaps to the side from the force of it, and when he turns back to look at me, there's something almost like surprise in those dead eyes.
"You bastard!" The words explode out of me, too loud, I need to be quieter, but I can't, I can't control anything right now. "You absolute bastard! Six years. Six years I thought you were dead!"
I go to slap him again—need to hit him, need to make him feel even a fraction of what I'm feeling—but this time he catches my wrist. His grip is iron, unbreakable, and I realize with sudden clarity that this version of Maksim could hurt me if he wanted to.
"Careful," he warns, his voice low and deadly. "You don't get to play the grieving lover. Not with me."
"Play?" The laugh that tears out of me is sharp enough to draw blood.
I cover my mouth, trying to hold back the emotion threatening to overflow. Tears are already streaming down my face, hot and mortifying. I hate that I'm crying in front of him. The Ice Queen doesn't cry. The Ice Queen doesn't break.
But apparently, seeing the love of your life return from the dead will shatter even the strongest armor.
"Where were you?" I demand, my voice breaking traitorously. "What happened to you?"
"A private prison where I spent six years being systematically destroyed. Thanks to you."
I can’t make sense of what he’s saying. “What?”
"You had me killed so you could take power. Congratulations, by the way. The Ice Queen. Very impressive."
The Ice Queen. He says it like a curse. I realize with dawning horror what he thinks. What he believes.
"You think I..." I can't even say it.
I want to grab him and shake him until he sees the truth. Instead, I grab the lapels of his jacket and hold on. I can’t let go. The way he’s looking at me with disgust twists something inside me.
We're too close. I can feel the heat of him, see the pulse in his throat, notice the way his eyes keep dropping to my mouth before snapping back to my eyes. The air between us is electric and filled with danger.
I should step back. Should create distance before I do something stupid.
But I can't move. Can't look away from eyes that used to look at me with such tenderness and now look at me like I'm the source of all his pain.
"I spent six years hating you," he whispers, and he's leaning closer despite the words. "Planning your destruction. Promising myself I'd make you pay for every scar and every moment of suffering."
"I can see it in your eyes. The hate. The rage. But Maksim... I never betrayed you. I swear on everything I have, I never—"
He kisses me.
The world explodes.
His mouth is on mine, hard and angry and desperate. For a heartbeat I'm too shocked to respond. Then six years of grief and longing and love that never died crashes over me. I'm kissing him back just as desperately.
This isn't the gentle, sweet kisses of our youth. This is fury and pain and need all tangled together into something that burns. His hands are in my hair, ruining the careful styling. I don't care. My fingers dig into his shoulders, feeling muscles that weren't there before.
I'm crying and kissing him, and I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
He tastes different. Sharper. Like he's been drinking something bitter for so long he's forgotten what sweetness is. Or maybe it’s me. All of my bitterness is bubbling to the surface. But underneath, he tastes like Maksim, and that's all that matters.
Six years dissolve. The Ice Queen melts. The armor I've built cracks and falls away. I'm eighteen again, sneaking kisses and planning a future that seemed so certain.
His body presses me harder against the wall. I can feel every line of him—harder, leaner, dangerous in ways he never was before. But it's still him. Still the man I loved more than breathing.
Still the man I thought I'd lost forever.
His kiss turns savage. Punishing. I meet it with equal ferocity. My hands slide up into his hair—shorter than he used to keep it—and I pull hard enough to hurt. He groans against my mouth. The sound sends electricity straight through me.
This is wrong. We're in a garden at my engagement party. Roman is inside. Security could find us at any moment.
I don't care.
Six years of grief and longing explode between us. His hands drop from my hair to my waist, gripping hard enough to bruise through the thin fabric of my dress. I arch against him, needing to be closer, needing to erase every inch of space between us.
"Kira." My name sounds like a curse and a prayer falling from his lips. He breaks the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead pressed against mine. "I hate you."
"I know." My hands are shaking as they frame his scarred face. "But you're kissing me anyway."
"Because I'm weak." His eyes are wild, torn between rage and desire. "Because even knowing what you did, I still—"
I kiss him again before he can finish that sentence. Before he can say something we'll both regret. His resistance lasts approximately two seconds before he's kissing me back with renewed intensity.
His hands slide down my sides. When his fingers find the slit in my dress and slip underneath to touch bare thigh, I gasp against his mouth.
"Tell me to stop," he demands, his hand sliding higher. "Tell me this is wrong."
"It's wrong," I breathe, but I'm pulling him closer, not pushing him away. "So wrong."
"Then why aren't you stopping me?"
"Because you’re not the only one that’s been dead for six years." The truth tears out of me.
Something breaks in his expression. The cold hatred cracks, revealing the raw pain underneath. His thumb strokes the inside of my thigh. I bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
"You ruined me," he whispers against my throat, his mouth finding the pulse point there. "Destroyed everything I was."
"You ruined me first." My head falls back against the stone wall as his teeth graze my skin.
His hand moves higher, fingers finding the edge of my panties. I should stop this. Should push him away before we cross a line we can't uncross.
Instead, I widen my stance, giving him access.
"We can't do this here," I manage, even as my body betrays every word. "If someone finds us—"
"Let them." His fingers slip beneath the fabric, finding me already wet and ready. "Let them see exactly who you belong to."
The possessiveness in his voice should anger me. The Ice Queen doesn't belong to anyone.
But I'm not the Ice Queen right now. Right now, I'm just Kira, and the man I love is touching me like he's trying to reclaim something that was stolen from him.
"Maksim." His name breaks on a moan as his fingers find exactly the right spot. He knows my body like no time has passed at all. Knows exactly how to touch me, where to press, how to drive me out of my mind.
"Say it again." His free hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back so he can see my face. "Say my name."
"Maksim." I'm trembling, barely able to stand. "Please."
"Please what?" His fingers are moving in slow, deliberate circles that are going to make me come apart. "Please stop? Please continue? Use your words, Kira."
"Don't stop." I grip his shoulders for support, my nails digging in. "God, please don't stop."
He adds a second finger. I bite down on his shoulder to muffle the sound I make. The pain seems to drive him wild. He increases the pressure, the pace, his thumb finding my clit while his fingers work inside me.
"Look at me," he commands. I force my eyes open to meet his. "I want to watch you. Remember who I am. Who I was."
"Maksim, I—" The words dissolve into incoherent sounds as the pressure builds. Six years of grief and longing and repressed desire all coiling tighter and tighter until I can't breathe.
"That's it." His voice is rough with his own need. "Come for me. Show me you're still mine."
The orgasm hits like lightning, white-hot and devastating. I shatter against his hand, my body convulsing. His other arm around my waist keeps me upright. I bury my face in his neck to muffle the sounds, tasting salt and soap and him.
Suddenly, he’s spinning me around, my face connects with the stone wall. His hands jerk up my dress, baring my ass to him. I feel the tug and then hear the tearing sound of my thong being ripped away.
Then the sound of his zipper.
I brace myself against the cold stone, my palms flat, my heart hammering so hard I think it might explode. Behind me, I hear the rasp of his belt, feel the heat of him as he presses against my back.
"Tell me you want this," he growls in my ear, one hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. "Tell me you want me."
"I want you." The words come out broken, desperate. "I've wanted you every single day for six years."
He makes a sound—half growl, half groan—and then he's pushing inside me in one brutal thrust that steals my breath. The stretch is almost too much. I cry out, the sound escaping before I can stop it.
His hand clamps over my mouth. "Quiet," he commands against my ear. "Unless you want everyone to know what's happening out here."
I nod frantically, my body adjusting to the invasion. It's been so long. Too long. And he's bigger than I remember, or maybe I've just forgotten what it feels like to be claimed like this.
He doesn't give me time to adjust. His hips pull back and slam forward again, setting a punishing rhythm that has me seeing stars.
Each thrust drives me harder against the wall.
The stone scrapes my palms, but I don't care.
Can't care about anything except the feeling of him inside me after all these years of emptiness.
"Is this what you wanted?" His voice is rough, savage. "When you had me killed, did you think about this? About what you were throwing away?"
I shake my head frantically against his hand, trying to tell him he's wrong, but he's not listening. He's lost in his own fury and need, using my body like he's trying to exorcise demons.
His free hand slides around my hip, finding my clit. The dual sensation—him pounding into me from behind while his fingers work that bundle of nerves—is overwhelming. I'm going to come again, impossibly soon, my body wound so tight I can barely breathe.
"That's it," he rasps. "Feel what you did to me. Feel what you destroyed."
But his touch contradicts his words. Even in his rage, even believing I betrayed him, he's making sure I feel pleasure. His fingers know exactly how to touch me, the pressure and rhythm that drives me wild.
I'm close. So close. My legs are shaking, barely holding me up. If it weren't for his arm around my waist and the wall supporting me, I'd collapse.
"Come," he orders against my ear, his voice strained. "Come on my cock so you remember who you belong to."
The orgasm rips through me like a tidal wave. I scream against his palm, my body clenching around him so hard I see spots. He groans, his rhythm faltering, and then he's following me over the edge, his release hot inside me.
We stay frozen like that for several heartbeats, both of us breathing hard, bodies still joined. The reality of what we just did crashes over me.
I had sex with Maksim in the garden at my engagement party to another man.
He pulls out roughly. I feel his release start to drip down my thighs. I hear him zip up behind me, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet garden.
I turn around slowly, my legs still trembling, and find him watching me with an expression I can't read. The rage is still there, but it's mixed with something else now. Confusion maybe. Or regret.
"Maksim—"
"Don't." He cuts me off, taking a step back. "This changes nothing. You still betrayed me. This was just..." He gestures between us, his jaw tight. "Unfinished business."
The words hurt more than they should. I straighten my dress with shaking hands, trying to regain some dignity even though I can feel him dripping down my legs.
"I didn't betray you," I say quietly. "I don't know what you think happened, but I loved you. I mourned you. Everything I built, I built because I had nothing left to lose after you died."
"After you had me killed," he corrects coldly.
I’m sobbing. Again. My emotions are all over the place. I don’t know what to think. What to feel.
He’s alive.
I can’t get my head around the fact he’s standing front of me.
I don’t know if this is a dream come true or the start of a nightmare.