Chapter 19 #4
He closes the last bit of space, so near I feel the warmth of his breath, the familiar scent of him stirring memories I’ve tried to bury. I turn my head, meaning to break the hold of those memories, yet he angles me, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“Tell me you don’t still feel this,” he murmurs, and though his tone is quiet, the promise beneath it vibrates through me. The magnetic pull between us is maddening—every exhale, every heartbeat a reminder of nights I’ve tried to convince myself were mistakes even as I ached to relive them.
I draw a slow breath, fighting to keep my voice even. “Feeling it never stopped any of this from becoming a threat to our daughter.”
His hand finally lands against the wall beside my shoulder, caging me without contact, his body angled so close I sense each subtle shift of his chest. “I would never harm her, Nadya.”
“It isn’t harm in the obvious ways that frightens me,” I whisper back, my words trembling even as I cling to my resolve. “It’s the life that comes for us because of you.”
For a beat he says nothing, only studies me, as though memorizing every fissure in my defenses.
I feel him everywhere—heat curling through my belly, the unmistakable awareness low and thick.
I hate that it still happens, hate that just being near him unravels me while I struggle to keep my own name, my own will, intact.
He leans in, his mouth close enough that each syllable caresses my cheek. “Then let me fix it,” he says, and I hear the vow as surely as any binding oath.
My heart stutters, torn between longing and distrust. “You can’t erase the city you rule,” I breathe. “And you can’t pretend Anya isn’t here, too close, a reminder of how quickly you replaced me.”
A flicker of frustration shadows his expression—then something softer, regret perhaps, quick as a heartbeat. “She was never a replacement,” he says, the words ground out in a low rasp. “But this conversation ends the moment we start fighting ghosts instead of each other.”
I swallow, pulse thrumming where his nearness feels like a brand against my skin. “Then tell me why I should believe anything has changed.”
His answer is a whisper meant for me alone. “Because I nearly lost you both. And because losing you once was enough to break every line I thought I wouldn’t cross.”
The intensity in his eyes steals my breath.
I can’t let myself surrender to it, not yet—but in this small room, with his hand planted beside my head and his voice threaded through every nerve, resistance feels perilously fragile.
I square my shoulders, refusing to bow even as that magnetic heat spirals tighter.
“Words, Konstantin,” I manage, my voice husky, unwilling to crack. “Prove them.”
For the first time since I was pulled into that car, I see uncertainty flicker in his gaze.
He takes a step back—only one, but enough that my lungs fill again, enough that I’m reminded I still control my own body.
Yet the connection between us hums, unbroken, as if distance is only a temporary reprieve.
But then he closes the distance in a single, decisive breath, his mouth crashing onto mine with the ferocity of a man who has run out of patience and arguments alike, and though every rational thought screams that I should push him away, the shock of contact melts into something molten so quickly that I can only gasp against his lips, fingers curling in the front of his jacket as if they’ve been starved of this very texture for years.
The kiss is not gentle, nor is it careful—his need spills straight through the seam of my mouth, tongues sliding, teeth grazing, and the taste of him floods back so vividly that my knees threaten to fold.
He senses it at once, gathers me up with an effortless sweep of powerful arms, and before my next heartbeat he’s carrying me across the room, each stride sure and unhurried even while the kiss deepens, as if he’s determined to remind me that he owns every inch of space between us.
My back meets the bed in a rush of fabric and bracing air.
He follows me down without breaking contact, a low sound rumbling in his chest that vibrates against my sternum, pulling an answering shiver from deep inside me.
His palms frame my face, thumbs stroking across my cheekbones with a tenderness at odds with the hard press of his body, and I feel the tension between us—thick, inevitable, shot through with anger, grief, and the kind of hunger that refuses to be starved any longer.
He kisses me again, slower now but no less intense, exploring the shape of my mouth as though mapping all the ways it has changed and all the ways it has remained heartbreakingly familiar.
When he finally draws back, the space of a breath separating us, his forehead rests against mine, both of us panting, eyes open, the air between our lips humid with everything we haven’t said.
His heartbeat gallops beneath my palm, matching the wild rhythm behind my ribs, and the silence feels alive, charged with questions neither of us can risk voicing while desire still speaks louder.
I should push him away, remind him of every reason I ran, every bruise I now hide beneath long sleeves, but his mouth descends again—soft this time, coaxing rather than demanding, and the plea lodged in my throat dissolves into a sigh that gives him permission he doesn’t even need.
One hand threads into my hair, tilting my head to the perfect angle, while the other skims down my side, tracing the curve of my waist through thin fabric, leaving goose bumps in its wake.
I arch instinctively, caught between craving the press of him and fearing how completely it unravels me, and for a moment he pauses, reading the war in my eyes.
I cling to his shoulders, nails pressing through fabric, a muted gasp slipping free as he explores the familiar territory of my ribs, the subtle dip of my waist, each caress a whispered question—Do you remember? Do you still want? Will you let this burn away the walls we built?
My answer is the hitch in my breath, the way my hips lift just enough to bring our bodies into full alignment. His groan vibrates against my lips, rough and unguarded, and I feel the entire room tilt around the axis of that sound, every unresolved tension sharpening into need.
When we finally part once more, foreheads touching, breaths tangled, he speaks in a voice hoarse with restraint. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
His tongue parts my lips, pushing past every last defense I thought I still had, and the kiss turns ravenous, wet, deep, his teeth dragging along my lower lip, drawing out a gasp I can’t hold back.
Every hungry sweep of his tongue tangles with mine, stroking, tasting, daring me to give in, to let go of everything but the heat building between us.
He kisses me like a man starved for years, and I match him with everything I’ve been denying.
My hands fist in his hair, pulling him closer until he’s half on top of me, his weight pinning me to the mattress, his thigh wedging between mine.
I arch up, pressing against him, desperate for more friction, more proof that he wants me just as much as I want him.
His mouth drags from my lips to my jaw, then down the long column of my throat, pausing at my racing pulse.
He licks there, slow and deliberate, the scrape of his teeth making me tremble, then soothes the sting with another open-mouthed kiss.
I feel his breath at my ear, his voice low and rough. “You still taste like home.”
He nips at the spot just below my ear, his tongue tracing circles lower and lower as he works his way down my neck.
Every kiss lands hotter than the last—my skin burning, my pulse thrumming wildly beneath every press of his mouth.
He sucks hard at the hollow just above my collarbone, and I moan, my back arching up to offer him more, anything, everything he’ll take.
His hands never stop moving—one sliding up to cup my face, angling my head so he can feast on my throat, the other drifting down, spreading over my ribs, his thumb stroking the swell of my breast through the fabric.
He palms me there, teasing, then trails his hand lower, down my stomach, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my pants.
He kisses back up to my mouth, tongue plunging deep, swallowing the needy sounds I make as his fingers move lower, lower, brushing through the heat at my core.
His touch is confident, claiming, exactly as I remember—he strokes me with two fingers, slow and unhurried, spreading the slickness he finds, circling my clit in lazy, devastating patterns.
I buck against his hand, gasping into his mouth, my hips seeking more, my need laid bare for him. He eats every sound, drinking down my pleasure like it’s his own oxygen, his kiss only breaking so he can murmur filth into my ear—every word a promise, every breath a dare.
“God, you’re already so wet for me. I missed this—missed you, every fucking inch of you.” He bites at my earlobe, teeth gentle but possessive, and plunges two fingers inside me, thick and perfect, curling until I see stars behind my eyes.
I can’t hold still—my legs fall open wider, desperate to feel him deeper, my body arching up off the mattress as he works me, his thumb circling my clit, his fingers pumping, stroking, relentless and skilled.
My hands scramble at his shoulders, my mouth finding his again, open and wet, tongues tangling as he fucks me with his fingers, building me higher and higher, until every thought blurs into heat and wanting.
He never lets up—he keeps whispering how good I feel, how much he’s craved me, his voice thick with need, his mouth traveling from my lips to my throat and back again, licking and sucking every patch of skin he can reach.
Every moan he drags out of me only drives him harder—he adds a third finger, stretching me, stroking just right, his palm grinding against my clit until my body tightens, desperate and trembling, every muscle straining for release.
He catches my mouth in another searing kiss, tongue thrusting deep, swallowing the cry that breaks from me as I come—hard, sudden, shuddering against his hand, my thighs trembling, my hands digging into his back as pleasure rips through me.
He holds me through it, murmuring praise against my lips, his fingers never easing up until I’m spent, gasping, boneless beneath him.
He finally pulls his hand away, slick and shining, and brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting me with a groan that vibrates all the way down my spine. His eyes are wild, dark with need and something dangerously close to love.
I lie there, breathless and undone, every part of me still humming with aftershocks. He leans in and kisses me again—slower now, sweet and possessive, as if to remind me that I belong to him, that I always have.
He pulls my shirt up, baring my skin to the cool air and his hungry gaze.
His mouth descends, hot and reverent, kissing across the tops of my breasts, tongue circling, teeth grazing softly until I gasp and arch into him.
He cups me through my bra, mouth moving lower, his breath scorching where it lands, and for a moment there’s nothing but heat and the heady, rising pulse of want.
Then he freezes, his lips hovering over the edge of my ribs.
His hand tightens at my side. The atmosphere changes instantly, the tension crackling with something darker—protective, furious.
His fingers trace the darkening smudges just beneath my skin, thumb skimming over the marks left behind by someone else’s violence.
I open my eyes, breath caught, the question heavy in the space between us.
He lifts his head, searching my face, his expression thunderous. “Who did this to you?” His voice is quiet but trembling with barely leashed rage, every word weighted with the promise of vengeance.
I hesitate, the heat of moments ago draining away, leaving only my vulnerability and his concern. I know what it costs to tell the truth, but the lies are even heavier right now.
“It happened…when we were being brought here.” My voice is soft, eyes darting away from his. “Viktor’s man. The one who grabbed me outside the school. He was rough with both of us.”
His jaw flexes, his eyes turning glacial and sharp with anger. For a moment, I think he might get up and tear the world apart to avenge me. His thumb traces the bruise again, gentler now, as if he could erase it with a touch.
He presses his forehead to mine, breathing hard, his voice a harsh whisper. “I swear to you, Nadya, this will never happen again. I will take care of it. No one lays a hand on you—ever.”
The promise in his words is both terrifying and oddly comforting, the violence in him suddenly redirected, aimed outward instead of at me.
He pulls away before I can reach for him, anger lighting up his face as he pulls his shirt down, already halfway to the door.
“You don’t have to do anything,” I say quickly, but he’s already gone, footsteps echoing down the hallway, the promise of retribution trailing behind him.
The room feels too large and too empty. I sit up, tug my shirt back down with shaking hands, trying to smooth away the evidence of what just happened—trying to gather myself before anyone else comes in, before I have to face the world that’s still spinning out of my control.
I brace a hand on the duvet, take a deep breath, and swing my legs over the side of the bed, trying to stand. The moment I push up, the room tilts. A sudden wave of dizziness hits me, sharp and unexpected, and I catch myself on the edge of the mattress, eyes squeezing shut.
What was that? I rub my temple, trying to will the strange sensation away, waiting for the world to steady. My heart thuds hard in my chest, a cold line of sweat prickling down my spine.
It’s nothing, I tell myself. Just exhaustion. Stress. The rush of adrenaline leaving my system.
But as I sit there, waiting for the spinning to pass, a thread of worry slips into my thoughts, cold and unwelcome.
I touch my forehead again, trying to remember the last time I truly felt like myself.
Something isn’t right.