Aria
The mattress dips, as he slides between the sheets. I don’t open my eyes. The scent hits me instantly—fancy cologne mixed with the cold, crisp air of the city at night. Igor.
It’s one in the morning.
Heat radiates from his body as he slides under the duvet. His large hand seeks me out immediately, palm rough against the silk of my nightgown. He slides his touch up my thigh with a possessiveness that used to make my heart race. Now, it just makes my blood boil.
He pulls me backward, molding my back against his chest, his nose burying into my hair.
"No." My voice comes out raspy with sleep, but steady.
His body goes rigid against mine. He pulls back just enough to look at me.
I roll over to face him. Dim moonlight filters through the sheer curtains, painting shadows across his face.
He looks exhausted. Dark circles bruise the skin under his eyes, but his expression holds genuine shock.
He raises a dark brow—a silent, arrogant question.
"No," I repeat, firmer this time. I sit up, clutching the sheet to my chest.
"Aria?" His voice is a low rumble, laced with confusion and a hint of warning.
"You can't keep avoiding me all day." The anger I’ve nursed for three days spills over. "You come home late at night, wake me up to fuck me damn near raw, and then slip out of my bed first thing in the morning like I'm a prostitute and you're embarrassed to leave money on the table."
A muscle ticks in his jaw.
"I thought I was your wife."
"You are my wife." His tone drops an octave.
"Then treat me like one."
He sits up and scrubs a hand over his face, trying to wipe away the fatigue. "I cannot discuss this with you, Aria. It is business. It’s ugly."
"So, you don't trust me?"
His eyes burn into mine, intense and unyielding.
"If I didn't trust you, malyshka, you would never be this close to me.
You would definitely not be close to my grandmother.
" He sighs, leaning back against the headboard.
"We are preparing to go to war, Aria. The streets are going to bleed.
That is why I am gone. That is why I am distant.
" He pauses, eyes narrowing. "And I would appreciate it if you didn't mention this to your friend. "
I scoff. "That was unnecessary. I told you, you’re wrong about Danny. I thought we had moved on from this."
"I can’t move on while he’s out there biding his time."
“I haven’t heard from him since you sent him away.”
He rubs a hand over his face again. "I know."
"Then what is the real issue, Igor? Because it feels like you’re punishing me."
He looks at the far wall. For a moment, the mask of the ruthless Pakhan slips, revealing something fractured underneath.
"You were right," he admits quietly. "I am a possessive asshole."
I wait.
"The thought of another man putting his hands on you," he says, voice tightening.
"Another man wanting you. Even thinking about wanting you.
.. It makes me a little crazy." He turns his gaze back to me.
The raw vulnerability steals the breath from my lungs.
"It is insane. Because my father... he was the biggest asshole in the world.
A monster. He was insanely jealous of my mother.
He suffocated her. I never thought I would be that type of man.
I swore I wouldn't be. And now... now I am worried that I am exactly that type of man.”
“I get it.” He shakes his head, but I don’t let him retreat.
I grab his hand, intertwining our fingers together.
“You know I left home when I was seventeen. A friend from my job at a fast-food restaurant convinced me we made enough money to get an apartment. I jumped. I don’t think a kid has ever jumped so fast."
I squeeze his hand, grounding him. "We greatly overestimated how much it would take to live on our own.
Then she thought it would be better to let a few guys we knew use our place to sell their drugs.
It was crazy dangerous, but it was still better than returning home to that madness.
While I was gone, my grandmother passed away.
I started staying away for longer periods.
Until I was living on the streets full time. "
I meet his gaze, needing him to understand.
"I thought about going home, but after she died... I never thought about it again. I’m telling you this because I know bad men.
You’re not one of them. I’ve seen how you take care of Galina.
It shows even in the way you treat your brothers.
You’re one of the good guys. You may do bad things, but I know it doesn’t define you. ”
"But when I am with you, Aria, I don't know who I am." His thumb traces my knuckles. "I lose my discipline, my focus, my fucking mind. And whatever bit of goodness you see vanishes."
My heart softens. The anger drains out, replaced by a fierce protectiveness. He isn't pulling away because he doesn't care. He's pulling away because he cares too much.
I move closer, placing my free hand on his chest, right over his beating heart.
"Then don't think about that. I'm here. I'm yours. I would never let another man touch me like that."
He covers my hand with his, crushing it against his chest. "I am glad to hear it. Because the future of the whole world relies on you keeping that promise. If anyone else touched you, I would go nuclear. I would burn this city to ash."
"You don't have to do that." I lean in until our foreheads touch. "All you have to do is trust me."
I kiss him—a soft, lingering press of lips. He groans. His hands immediately move to my waist to pull me under him, intent on claiming me, on dominating the space between us.
I push him down.
He blinks, surprised. I press my hands against his shoulders, forcing him back against the pillows.
"Trust me," I command softly.
I slide down his body. Tension coils in his muscles as he tries to figure out my game. I don't want him to take control this time. I want to give him something—my submission, but on my terms. A physical vow.
I yank the duvet away. He is already hard, straining against his boxer briefs. I free him. His cock springs loose—thick, heavy, and intimidating. For a second, my courage falters. I haven't done this before. Not really. Not like this.
I look up at him. He watches me with dark, hooded eyes, hands gripping the sheets. He doesn't push my head down. He waits. He trusts me.
I lower my head, kissing the velvet tip first. He hisses a breath through his teeth. Slowly, I take him into my mouth.
It’s a struggle. He is too big, filling me completely, stretching my jaw. I make a small, muffled sound.
"Easy." His voice is a rasp, strained. His hand comes up, not to force, but to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. "Relax your throat, Aria. Just like that."
He talks me through it, his voice a low, rough guide in the darkness. "Open wider... yes. Use your tongue there. Good girl."
The praise goes straight to my core. The power dynamic shifts. He is at my mercy, but he still leads. His hips buck involuntarily as I find a rhythm, swirling my tongue the way he directed. It isn't just physical; it’s acceptance. I accept every part of him—the darkness, the size, the danger.
His hips buck, breath hitching. Just as the edge comes into view, his hands clamp onto my shoulders. He stops me.
"Wait."
He hauls me up his body. I scramble for purchase, knees finding the mattress on either side of his hips. He doesn't let go until I’m straddling his lap, face-to-face.
"Not alone," he rasps, hands gripping my waist like a vice. "Together."
My breath catches. The position leaves me exposed, vulnerable in a way the darkness usually hides. I hesitate, hands hovering over his chest. "I don't know how to do this."
"I will show you."
He sits up, capturing my mouth. The kiss is possessive, a claiming. His hands slide down to my hips, guiding me, lifting me slightly.
He lines himself up. I gasp as he sinks into me. He fills me completely, stretching me, claiming every inch. The sensation is overwhelming—thick, heavy heat.
He doesn't let me hide. He holds my hips, controlling the angle, lifting and lowering me with a rhythm that steals my breath.
"Just feel me," he growls.
He snaps his hips up, grinding deep. The friction sparks a fire that consumes everything. My head falls back. I’m unraveling, the pleasure tightening until it’s pain, until it’s everything.
"Igor!"
I shatter. The release crashes through me. An instant later, he follows, his body bowing off the mattress, roaring my name as he pours himself into me.
Strength leaves my limbs. I collapse onto his chest, panting, listening to the thunder of his heart beneath my ear. We lie in the afterglow, limbs tangled. The silence feels comfortable for the first time in days.
"Illya thinks you have pussy-whipped me," Igor mumbles into my neck, voice heavy with sleep.
I snort, tracing the line of the tattoo on his chest. "Fuck Illya."
"No," Igor says, deadpan. "Don't."
I burst out laughing, the sound ringing clear in the room. Igor chuckles with me, a rumble deep in his chest. It’s the sound of a wall coming down.
Three days later, the peace shatters.
I’m in the library when my phone buzzes against the mahogany table. The screen lights up with a text from an unsaved number.
Danny: Hey Aria. It’s Danny from the coffee shop. I know it’s been a while.
My stomach drops. I haven't heard that name since Igor banished him, since the warnings about the looming war.
Danny: I heard you got married. To him. An Aslanov. I just need to know you’re okay. People say he’s a monster. I’m worried.
I stare at the screen. Igor’s warnings echo in my head.
He is a rat. He is dangerous. I trust Igor.
I trust his instincts, his protection, and the way he looks at me like I’m the only anchor he has left.
But Danny is playing the concerned friend, the innocent IT guy caught in crossfire he doesn’t understand.