CHAPTER FOUR
DMITRY
I wake up to her soft skin against mine.
My chest is tight; my lungs refuse to work right.
My mind races, my cock still firmly inside my girl’s sweet little pussy, and I’m still holding her tightly.
I can’t hold back and thrust hard into her.
My heart is pounding, my blood boiling, and all I see in my head is him.
That bastard. That fucking animal who used her. Who touched her. Who hurt her.
It enrages me.
I fuck her like I want to kill him all over again. Like I want to erase him with my body. And the more I think about it, the sicker I feel.
She brushes her fingers through my hair. “Dima?”
I can’t answer. Not right away. If I open my mouth, the truth will leave my tongue, and I know it’ll be ugly, raw, and possessive. I’m angry, not with her, but with myself.
I hear my own voice as it breaks and cracks through the silence. “I hate myself sometimes ... when I touch you like this, when I can’t stop.”
She cups my face, making me look at her. Her eyes are shining, not with fear—but with something else. Something I don’t deserve.
“You don’t hurt me,” she says, steady, certain. “You save me. Even when you’re angry—you’re not him, Dima. You’re you. And you could never be him.”
Her words cut straight through me, sharper than any blade.
My throat burns, my chest tightens. I shake my head, fighting the truth clawing at me.
“But I think about what he did to you. Every time. And then I fuck you like I want to destroy you. And I’m terrified, Natalia—terrified I’ll become the monster he was. ”
My girl kisses me softly, delicately, in a way that I don’t think she’s ever done before. Her lips are gentle, anchoring me when everything inside me feels like it’s unraveling. When everything else feels as though I’m going to lose my fucking mind.
She pulls back and whispers against my mouth, “he used me to break me. You touch me to put me back together.”
I close my eyes because I can’t stand the weight of her gaze. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve her.
“Natalia ... I don’t know what I’d be without you, what I’d do without you in my life.” I confess.
Her forehead rests against mine, her breath warm, and she grounds me. “You don’t have to wonder, Dima, because you’ll never find out. I never want to be without you.”
Her certainty is like an arrow through my chest. It pains me to know she’s committed, that she won’t ever leave, because I’ve never felt a woman’s love and the thought of hurting her terrifies me.
But knowing she’s choosing to be by my side, that she’s choosing to stay, that she’s choosing me, is also a relief.
Slowly, the rage in me starts to settle and the storm dulls into something quieter. My grip on her loosens, and my fingers fall away, but I don’t let go.
I’ll never let go.
I place my hands on her cheeks and press my lips to her forehead. My chest rising and falling against hers as the weight inside me finally starts to ease.
She’s the only thing that keeps me human. She’s the only reassurance I have that I’m nothing like Nikolai ... and the only person who makes me believe I’m not my father’s son, because both monsters make Satan himself look like a fucking saint.
And I swear to God, I’ll spend every breath proving her right.
The water is hot as it rains down over us both; steam fills the shower and pebbles against my skin.
Natalia stands in front of me, her back to my chest, her head tilts in my direction as I work shampoo through her hair.
Blonde strands slide through my fingers, slick and smooth, but it doesn’t sit right with me.
She’s beautiful like this, she’s beautiful no matter what, but the blonde was just a mask. A cover she wore when we had to survive. A cover I forced her to wear and that makes me feel like a piece of shit.
I lather up slowly, carefully, massaging her scalp, and she lets out the softest sigh as she leans back against me. My throat tightens. She trusts me with everything, with all her intimate moments.
“You know,” I murmur against her ear, my lips brush against her wet skin, “as much as you look beautiful with these golden locks, it’s not really who you are.
You’re naturally fire my Little Sparrow.
You’re like embers just waiting to reignite and spark the darkest fire within me.
The darkest fire a man can ever start. Your dark hair like a soft waterfall and deep soulful eyes that burn brighter than a thousand stars.
Most people follow the North star to find their way home, but when I’m with you and I look into your eyes, I know that it’s you.
You’re the girl who owns me. You’re the girl who’s my home. ”
Her shoulders stiffen for half a second, then she turns her face just enough for me to see her smile and the sparkle in her eyes.
“You liked my dark hair better?” She teases, her voice soft and playful under the hiss of the water.
I tilt her head back under the stream, rinsing suds away, my fingers still combing through her hair.
“After all of that, that’s what you took away?
” I chuckle. “I love your hair any color, but I love it darker the most because it’s real, because it’s you.
” My hands slide down her shoulders, along her arms, slow, and reverent.
“And I want all of you. Not the mask. Not what we had to pretend to be. Just you, Sparrow, always you.”
Her breath hitches, and when I turn her in my arms, her eyes are shining up at me. Drops of water cling to her lashes, her lips part. I kiss her softly, no rush, no rage—just her mouth against mine, the taste of her, the warmth of her.
When I pull back, I press my forehead to hers. “I’ll dye it back myself if I have to. Black. Your color. Our color.”
Her laugh is quiet, almost shy, and I kiss the corner of her mouth again before I reach for the soap. I wash her slowly, every inch of her, not with hunger but with care, and with love. I erase the fingerprints of her past by replacing them with mine.
My hands caress every curve, cleanse every part of her body. She’s flushed from my touch; her chest rises fast. Her smile doesn’t fade, but it changes from playful to seductive.
I press one last kiss to her wet temple and step back. “Stay here. Finish up. I’ll get dressed.”
She catches my wrist as I reach for the glass door. “Dima.” Her voice is soft, almost pleading.
Look at you. Steam swirling around your body like a fucking goddess rising from the mist of madness.
Droplets of water remind me of sweat as they slide down your precious skin.
You look like you’ve won a war and you’re riding your warhorse home in victory.
Proclaiming your rightful place on the throne.
A beauty so rare that it stops men in their tracks.
You’re fucking ferocious but gentle. Like a lioness preening herself but ready to attack if she needs to.
Fucking perfection.
Fucking mine.
“I’m not going anywhere.” I promise, and kiss along her neck. “Just going to get dressed so I can go downstairs and bring breakfast to you. I want to take care of you properly.”
Her hand lingers on me for a heartbeat longer before she lets go. I step out of the shower, leaving her in the warmth, and for a moment I breathe in the sight before me and admire the outline of her curves through the fogged-up glass. She really is exceptional.
How the fuck did I get so lucky?
I don’t care what color your hair is, blonde or black—it doesn’t matter.
You’re mine, Sparrow.
Always mine.
I slip on a pair of dark denim jeans and a shirt and make my way downstairs where I find my grandpa sitting at the breakfast table in the kitchen. I sit across from him.
“Dima,” Grandpa says and pushes the thick leather journal across the table. “It’s yours now.” His voice is rough, as though it’s been scraped raw by secrets he’s carried too long.
I stare down at it and trace my fingers across the word ‘ROPED’ which has been carved into the leather.
My stomach twists knowing that inside the pages lie more ghosts, more secrets and truths I don’t know if I’m ready for.
“Grandpa ... I can’t.” I look at the old man’s face as he stares at the closed book.
He lifts his gaze, and his pale blue eyes meet mine. They sparkle even though they’re tired. There’s an iron strength buried deep within his soul. I mean, he survived the Soviet Union after all.
“Roped is my story. It contains the blood of this family ... every last drop of it. How I became a Rope. Our family origins. The names. The feuds. The betrayals. The debts paid, and those still outstanding. Every sin that built the ground you walk on. Your real mother. What happened to that piece of shit monster. What I did to him. Ruslan’s death.
Your real father—as much as I know about him.
What Anna told me. What she left behind. ”
I nod and with shaking hands I flip it open. The writing is scrawled across the yellowing pages in black ink—names, dates, confessions. Each word is a scar etched into paper. My throat tightens as I turn page after page.
Truths. Darkness. Violence. Death.
Then I find it. The passage about the man who hurt me. The man who hurt her—my sweet Sparrow. My chest caves as I read the words. ‘Dealt with by my hand.’
I look up. “You wrote down what you did to him?” I ask, but I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it.
He nods and pushes himself up from his chair and takes slow steps toward the open fire. He faces the flames.
I stand to join him and take in his face carved from stone.
He places a hand on my shoulder and exhales slowly. “I created Hell on Earth. The night I found out what he’d done. He touched my blood. He hurt you. I couldn’t let him breathe another day. But I wasn’t going to make it quick either. He deserved a real Ropes’ death.”
Something inside me breaks. Not relief. Not gratitude. Just ... hollow. It’s an unfamiliar feeling. I usually feel ... something.