Victoria
I don’t know how to hold what just happened.
That’s the problem. Not that it was too much, but that it was nothing like anything I was taught to expect. Two distinct moments. The only times in my life a man has touched me with intent other than to cause harm, and Leonid still hasn’t taken anything from me.
The thought settles strangely in me, heavy and warm and terrifying all at once. I pull up my jeans and sit on the ground in front of him, trying to make sense of the way my body still hums like it’s been tuned to a frequency I never knew existed.
He wants me. That much is undeniable. I saw it in his eyes, dark and desperate.
The hard line of restraint in his jaw. The unmistakable bulge beneath his trousers that he never once used to demand anything from me.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t push. He didn’t even offer.
He just… gave. Like my pleasure was something he wanted to witness.
That’s what unravels me.
I was raised to believe desire is a debt. That if a man wants you, you owe it to him to want him back. Boris drilled that into me carefully, patiently, until I learned to flinch from attention and fold myself smaller to avoid owing anyone anything. He was training me to be a Good Bratva Wife.
But Leonid doesn’t make me feel like that.
His eyes are still on mine as he pulls his fingers from his mouth with a low growl, like parting with the taste of me is the last thing he wants to ever do.
I press my palms into my thighs, grounding myself, trying to ignore the ache curling low in my stomach at the sight of him like this.
“What does it feel like?” I ask quietly before I can stop myself, the question slipping out before I’ve thought about it properly.
He blinks, surprised. Curious, maybe. “What does what feel like?” he asks.
I nod to his crotch. “To want something,” I say. “And not take it.”
His expression shifts from that dark desire to something deeper and far more dangerous.
“It feels,” he says slowly, “like standing at the edge of something powerful and deciding not to leap, because you don’t want to lose it in your own madness.”
My breath catches. I don’t look at him, because if I do, I’ll lose whatever fragile balance I’ve managed to hold onto.
“That sounds… painful,” I murmur.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “It never has been, until you.”
There’s no expectation in his voice. No implication. Just truth. And that, more than anything else, makes me want him in a way that feels frighteningly voluntary.
“Should you do something about it?” I ask, finally lifting my eyes to his.
He shakes his head. “No. I’m going to wait until you’re ready.”
I frown, narrowing my eyes at him. I want to tell him he is being presumptuous, but we both know it’s going to happen sooner or later.
“Boris called,” he finally says, breaking the silence with something I knew would be inevitable but still makes panic rise in me like bile.
“I need everything,” he says. “What you stole. Why you stole it and who from. And everything you know about your uncle. Every weakness. Every secret. I’ll take it to the Pakhan.”
I swallow. My mouth tastes like fear and old memories. “You’re going to try and have him exiled.”
Not kill. Not torture. Exile. The worst possible punishment for a man like Boris. Stripped of power, stripped of audience, stripped of the hoard he built by bleeding everyone else dry.
“Yes. I’ve already contacted the Pakhan.”
“I’ll tell you,” I say quietly. “All of it.”