Chapter 11 Kira
Kira
"Kira." My name on his lips sends shivers running down my spine.
"Don't talk." I pull him closer. "Just—don't."
Because if we talk, we'll remember all the reasons this is wrong. That he hates me. That I'm marrying another man. That we're enemies in a war neither of us wanted.
But right now, I don't care about any of it.
His hands slide under my sweater, finding bare skin.
I'm already pulling his jacket off, letting it fall to the ground.
He makes a sound—half groan, half growl—and then he's walking me backward until my back hits a tree. The bark is rough through my sweater, grounding me in this moment. Making it real.
His mouth moves to my neck, finding the spot that always made me melt. Still does. My head falls back, giving him access. I feel his teeth graze my skin.
"I hate you," he murmurs against my throat.
"I hate you too." My hands are working his belt, desperate to feel him. "So much."
"Good." He yanks my sweater over my head, tossing it aside. His eyes rake over me, dark with need. "Because this doesn't mean forgiveness."
"I don't want forgiveness." I reach for his shirt, pulling it free. "I want you."
He captures my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand. The position leaves me vulnerable, exposed. At his mercy.
I should be afraid. Should remember that this man wants to destroy me.
Instead, I arch into him.
"Say it again," he demands, his free hand tracing down my ribs to my waist. "Tell me you want me."
"I want you." The words come out desperate. Honest. "I've wanted you every single day for six years."
Something breaks in his expression. The cold hatred cracks, revealing the raw need underneath. He releases my wrists to cup my face, his thumbs brushing away tears I didn't realize were falling.
"Kira." He sounds angry. Furious. "What are you doing to me?"
"The same thing you're doing to me." I pull him down for another kiss. "Destroying everything."
This kiss is different. Slower. Deeper. Like we're trying to memorize each other through touch alone.
His hands move to my jeans, working the button and zipper. This is different from the garden. Neither wants to admit we want this.
"Tell me to stop." His fingers slip beneath my panties, finding me already wet. "Tell me this is wrong."
"It is wrong." I gasp as he strokes me. "Do it anyway."
He makes that sound again—the one that's pure frustrated need—and drops to his knees.
The sight of him like this—Maksim Barinov on his knees before me—would be powerful if I had any brain cells left. But he's pulling my jeans and panties down, and I can't think about power dynamics or who's winning this war between us.
I can only feel.
His mouth finds me, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. We're outside. Anyone could stumble across this spot. But I can't bring myself to care.
His tongue works my clit with devastating precision. He remembers exactly how I like it—the pressure, the rhythm, the way I need him to—
"Maksim." My hands fist in his hair. "Please."
He looks up at me, and the sight of him between my thighs, his eyes dark with desire and something that might be love, nearly undoes me.
"Please what?" His breath ghosts over sensitive flesh. "Tell me what you need."
"You." The word breaks. "I need you."
He stands abruptly, leaving me teetering on the edge. I whimper at the loss. But then he's turning me around, pressing my palms flat against the tree trunk.
"Don't move." His voice is rough. Commanding. "Keep your hands right there."
I hear his zipper. Feel him behind me, hard and ready. His hand slides up my spine, into my hair, gripping just hard enough to send pleasure-pain shooting through me.
"Last chance to stop this." He positions himself at my entrance. "Once I'm inside you, I won't be gentle."
"I don't want gentle." I push back against him. "I want you to make me feel something other than this emptiness."
He enters me in one brutal thrust that steals my breath. I cry out, the sound swallowed by the evening air.
"Fuck." His hand tightens in my hair. "You feel—"
He doesn't finish. Just pulls back and drives into me again. Setting a punishing rhythm that has me seeing stars.
This isn't making love. This is fury and grief being channeled into something physical. Something we can control.
His free arm wraps around my waist, holding me steady as he takes me. Each thrust drives me harder against the tree. The bark scrapes my palms but I don't care. Can't care about anything except the feeling of him inside me. He’s the only man I’ve ever been with. The only man I will ever want.
And that kills me.
"Is this what you wanted?" His voice is ragged. "Is this what you missed?"
"Yes." I'm crying again, but I don't know if it's from pleasure or pain or the sheer relief of having him back. "God, yes."
He releases my hair to grip my hips with both hands. The new angle lets him go deeper, hitting spots that make me moan.
"You're mine." The words come out possessive. Absolute. "No matter who you marry, no matter what happens, you're mine."
"I'm yours." The admission costs me everything. "I've always been yours."
He makes a sound like I've wounded him. His rhythm falters, becomes less controlled. More desperate.
His hand slides down my belly with his strong fingers reaching out to find my clit, circling with perfect pressure. Pressure builds low in my belly.
"Come for me." It's not a request. "Let me feel it."
The orgasm hits like lightning. I cry out his name as my body clenches around him. He follows seconds later, his own release hot inside me as he buries himself deep.
We stay frozen like that—him buried inside me, both of us breathing hard, our bodies trembling from the intensity.
Slowly, he withdraws.
He turns me around gently, his hands steadying me when my legs threaten to give out. His expression is complicated—satisfaction and regret and something that might be tenderness.
"Kira—"
"Don't." I put my fingers over his lips. "Don't ruin this with words. Not yet."
He kisses my fingers instead. Then my palm. Then pulls me against his chest, holding me with tenderness instead of someone he wants to destroy.
My hand drops to his bare chest. His scars are everywhere—raised lines across his chest, his ribs, his back. A roadmap of torture written on skin I used to know by heart. I trace them with shaking fingers, each one a reminder of what he endured. What he thinks I caused.
The guilt threatens to choke me.
"Don't." He catches my hand. "Don't look at them like that."
"Like what?"
"Pity. Regret." His voice is rough. "Like you feel guilty."
"I do feel guilty." The admission tears free. "Not because I caused them. But because I couldn't prevent them. Couldn't save you."
"You didn't want to save me." His mouth finds my throat. "You wanted me gone."
"That's not true." I arch as his teeth graze my skin. "That was never true."
“Liar.”
"Maksim." His name breaks on a sob. "God, I've missed you."
"Don't." His hand tangles in my hair, forcing me to look into his eyes. "Don't make this more than it is."
But it already is more. Has always been more. This hatred can't erase what we were.
What we still are, despite everything.
He steps away once again. I reach out. It’s a natural reaction. My hand lands on his hip. Another jagged, raised scar goes from his waist down his thigh.
"What did this?" My voice comes out strangled. It’s too wide. I know it should have been stitched closed. But it hadn’t been. The healing process would have been fraught with infection and pain.
"Broken glass." He doesn't look at me. "They liked to get creative when the regular methods stopped working."
I trace another scar. And another. Each one a story of suffering I couldn't prevent.
"This changes nothing," he says finally, his voice rough.
He moves away from me, and the brief moment of intimacy is over.
We dress in silence.
"About Anya."
The name makes me freeze. "What about her?"
"Roman's serious. The marriage. It's happening unless—" He stops.
"Unless what?" I whirl to face him. "Unless I'm a good little wife? Unless I don't cause problems? That's the leverage, isn't it?"
"Yes." At least he's honest about it.
"And you're going to let it happen." The realization makes me sick. "You're going to let him marry my nineteen-year-old sister to a sadist who will destroy her."
"I'm not letting anything happen." His voice hardens. "Roman makes the decisions. I'm just—"
"Participating." The word comes out vicious. "You're participating in the destruction of an innocent girl to hurt me."
I shove his chest, and he barely moves. "How dare you. How fucking dare you. Anya never did anything to you. She loved you. And this is how you repay that?"
"It's not my decision—"
"It is your decision!" I shove him again. "You could stop it. You have Roman's ear. His trust. You could convince him to send her to Paris like we agreed. But you won't. Because hurting me is more important than protecting an innocent girl."
Guilt flashes across his face—quick but unmistakable. For just a second, I see my Maksim under all that rage and pain.
"Roman wants leverage over you," he says coldly. "Anya provides that. It's strategy. Don’t fuck up and she’ll be fine."
"It's evil." I'm crying now, furious tears. "And you're complicit in it."
"Then I'm complicit. Add it to my list of sins."
"Is there nothing good left in you?" The question comes out broken. "Nothing of the man you used to be? Because that man would never—"
"That man died in Georgia!" His shout echoes across the water. "They killed him piece by piece! What came back is what survived! And what survived doesn't give a fuck about being good!"
We stare at each other.
"I'm marrying Roman to save her," I say finally. "That was the deal. I give up everything, and Anya gets to go to France. You're taking that away."
"Roman's taking it away. Not me."
"You're helping him!" I advance on him. "You're destroying my network, so I have no leverage. No resources. No way to protect her if things go wrong. You're making sure I'm completely powerless."
He shrugs like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
That’s what he wants me to believe he feels.
“Somewhere under all that rage, you know it, I can see the guilt,” I whisper. “The part of you that knows Anya is innocent and doesn't deserve this."
The guilt flickers again. Stronger this time.
I press my advantage. "If you stopped destroying my network, I'd have a chance. A way to protect her. To get her out if things go wrong. I swear, I won’t go anywhere. I’ll marry Roman. Just help me get her out of here.”
For a moment, I think I've reached him. Think the man I loved is still there under the armor.
And then anger flashes through his eyes, wiping out the guilt. “You want to save your sister? Convince Roman to honor the original deal. But stop trying to manipulate me with guilt."
"I'm not manipulating you!" I stand my ground even though he's trying to intimidate me. "I'm trying to reach whatever humanity you have left! Trying to make you see that Anya is innocent!"
"Everyone's innocent until they're not." His voice is dead. Cold. "Your father seemed innocent too.”
I roll my eyes. He’s fishing for information. Confirmation. I have my suspicions, but nothing solid.
And I’m certainly not telling him anything. He’ll just twist it back around to indict me.
"My father is weak and stupid." I refuse to defend him. "But I'm not my father. And Anya definitely isn't."
"Doesn't matter." He starts walking away. “I warned you. The rest is up to you.”
"Maksim, please!"
He doesn’t stop walking.
I watch him go. I want to scream until my throat bleeds.
Ten minutes ago, we were tangled together, and I thought—hoped—that maybe we could find our way back to each other. That sex would crack his armor enough to reach the man underneath.
But I was wrong.