33. Erik
ERIK
S ix months of carefully laundered income is gone. Insurance won't cover arson, and the message was clear: Igor Lebedev wants his daughter back, and he'll burn our entire operation to get her—or at least he'll try.
The study door opens without a knock. Only my brothers would dare.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
I don't look up as Dmitri enters. His footsteps are measured and controlled—the walk of a man calculating angles.
“Drinking.” I tip the glass toward him in a mock salute. “Want some?”
“Why aren't you celebrating with your girl?” He settles into the leather chair across from my desk. “You got her out. Mission accomplished.”
“Did I?” The words taste bitter. “Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like I started a war.”
Dmitri's silence stretches between us. He knows as well as I do what this means. The Lebedevs haven't moved against us directly in over a decade. We've maintained an uneasy peace through careful boundaries and mutual respect for territory.
I shattered that the moment I kicked down Katarina's bedroom door.
“Igor's not going to stop,” I continue, downing the rest of my whiskey. “He'll keep hitting our businesses until we give her back or until one of us is dead.”
“So?” Dmitri leans forward, his ice-blue eyes sharp with interest. “We've handled worse.”
“Have we?” I set the glass down harder than necessary. “When was the last time we had open warfare? When was the last time someone torched our operations?”
“2018.”
“That was different. That was about territory, about business.” I gesture vaguely toward the window, toward whatever's left of our laundromat. “This is personal.”
“Even better.” Dmitri's smile doesn't reach his eyes. “Personal means predictable. Igor's rage will make him sloppy.”
I pour another drink, watching the liquid catch the lamplight. “And if it doesn't? If he's smart about this? We could lose everything.”
“For her?” Dmitri's voice carries genuine curiosity, not judgment. “Is she worth it?”
The question hangs between us like a cloud of smoke. Outside, somewhere in the city, Igor Lebedev is probably planning his next move. Another strike against our family. Another escalation in a war I started because I couldn't bear the thought of Katarina marrying anyone else.
“I don't know,” I admit finally.
Dmitri sits back, studying me with the same intensity he brings to hostile takeovers. “You rescued her from an arranged marriage. Risked all our lives to get her out. And now you're sitting here drinking alone instead of...”
He doesn't finish the sentence, but I know what he means. Instead of celebrating. Instead of claiming what I fought for.
“She's not a prize to be won,” I say quietly.
“No,” Dmitri agrees. “But she's also not your prisoner anymore.”
“If Tash was in a room down the hall,” Dmitri says, his voice dropping to something almost vulnerable, “I wouldn't be drinking. I'd be with her.”
I've watched my brother perfect his public mask for years—the charming philanthropist, the brilliant businessman. But underneath, he's as fucked up as the rest of us.
“But she's not,” he continues, fingers drumming against the chair's arm. “She made it clear that what I am, what we do—it's unforgivable. Too much blood on my hands for her pristine moral compass.”
I study his face, noting the cracks in his usual composure. “You tried to explain?”
“Explain what?” His laugh carries no humor. “That I've ordered men killed? That I've pulled triggers myself when necessary? That every dollar funding herart gallery came from enterprises she'd find revolting?”
The truth settles between us like broken glass. Dmitri's always been the one who could compartmentalize, who could separate the businessman from the criminal. But love doesn't respect compartments.
“She won't even take my calls,” he adds quietly. “I will go to see her, of course, but...”
“But you won't force her.”
“No.” He meets my eyes. “I won't become the monster she already thinks I am.”
The parallel isn't lost on me. Both of us fell for women who should hate everything we represent. Katarina is sitting three doors down from where I am, probably wondering what comes next.
“At least Katarina is here,” Dmitri says, his voice gaining strength. “At least she chose to come with you, even if it was the lesser of two evils. She could have screamed when you opened that door. Could have fought you, stayed with her father.”
“She was escaping an arranged marriage. That doesn't mean?—”
“Doesn't mean what?” He leans forward again, pinning me with that calculating stare. “That she feels something for you? We all see the way she looks at you.”
I knock back the rest of my drink, the whiskey hitting my system like liquid courage. The glass hits the desk with a decisive clink as I push myself to my feet.
“You're right. I'm done hiding in here.”
Dmitri nods, something like approval flickering across his features. “Good. Go to her.”
The corridor stretches ahead of me, each step echoing off the walls. My heart hammers against my ribs as I pass the familiar doors—Alexi's room, where he's probably still recovering, the spare bedrooms, the office spaces. Each footfall brings me closer to a conversation I'm not sure I'm ready for.
But I can't keep running from this. Can't keep drowning my feelings in alcohol while she sits alone, probably wondering what the hell happens next. She was probably planning her escape route, knowing Katarina.
The thought almost makes me smile. Even rescued, she's still thinking three moves ahead.
Her door looms in front of me, solid wood that might as well be a fortress wall. I raise my hand to knock, then hesitate. What exactly am I going to say? That I started a war for her? That seeing her in that room, knowing what Anton planned to do to her, made something snap inside me?
That somewhere between watching her push my buttons and feeling her fall apart in my arms, I fell completely?
My knuckles rap against the wood before I can second-guess myself again. Three sharp knocks that sound louder than gunshots in the quiet hallway.
“Katarina?”
The silence stretches for several heartbeats. Then footsteps, light and cautious, approaching the door.
“Erik?” Her voice carries through the wood, uncertainty threading through the syllables.
“Can I come in? We need to talk.”
Another pause. I can almost hear her thinking, weighing options, calculating risks. Always calculating, my brilliant captive who's no longer my captive at all.
The lock disengages with a soft click.
When the door swings open, she stands there in jeans and one of the soft sweaters from her wardrobe, hair falling loose around her shoulders. No makeup, no armor—just Katarina, looking at me with those sharp green eyes that see too much.
“We need to talk,” I repeat, my voice dropping to something quieter, more honest.
She steps back, opening the door wider.
“Yes,” she says simply. “We do.”
The door clicks shut behind me, and suddenly, the room feels impossibly small. Katarina leans against the closed door, her fingers still wrapped around the handle like she might need to escape at any moment.
“Thank you.” The words tumble out of her. “For coming for me. For risking everything.” Her voice cracks. “I didn't think?—”
“You didn't think what?”
“That anyone would.” She pushes off from the door, taking a step closer. “My father made it clear I was property to be traded. Anton saw me as something to break.” Her eyes meet mine, fierce and vulnerable. “You're the only one who's ever seen me as worth saving.”
The space between us is charged with electricity. I can smell her shampoo and see the pulse hammering at her throat. Every instinct screams at me to close the distance, to claim what I fought for.
But I force myself to stay still.
“Katarina—”
“Don't.” She moves closer, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her green eyes. “Don't tell me this was just about strategy or preventing an alliance. Don't lie to me.”
My jaw clenches. “It wasn't.”
“Then what was it?” Her hand lifts toward my chest, hovering inches from contact. The air between her palm and my shirt burns. “What was it, Erik?”
“You know what it was.”
Her fingers finally make contact, pressing flat against my chest. I can feel my heart hammering against her palm, giving away every secret I've tried to keep buried.
“Say it.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I need to hear you say it.”
The words stick in my throat. I've killed men without hesitation and torn apart empires, but three simple words feel impossible.
“I couldn't let him have you.” The admission tears out of me. “The thought of his hands on you, of him—” My hands clench into fists at my sides. “I would have burned down the entire city before I let that happen.”
Her breath catches. “Erik.”
“I started a war for you.” The truth spills out like blood from a wound. “My brothers think I've lost my mind. Igor's already hit our operations. Everything we've built is at risk because I couldn't?—”
Her mouth crashes against mine, cutting off my words. The kiss tastes like desperation and relief, like coming home after years in exile. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer until there's no space left between us.
I break away, breathing hard. “This complicates everything.”
“Good,” she whispers against my lips. “I'm tired of simple.”
Her admission breaks the last thread of my restraint. I slam her back against the door, my mouth finding the sensitive spot beneath her ear that makes her gasp.
“Mine,” I growl against her throat. “You're fucking mine.”
“Yes.” The word comes out breathless, desperate. Her nails dig into my shoulders through my shirt. “I'm yours.”
I bite down on her pulse point, marking her, and she arches against me with a moan that shoots straight to my cock. Three weeks. Three weeks since I've had her beneath me, since I've heard those sounds she makes when I take her apart piece by piece.
“I dreamed about you,” she pants as I tear at her sweater, needing skin, needing contact. “Every night in that room. Your hands, your mouth?—”
Her sweater hits the floor. I palm her breast through her bra, rough and demanding. “What else?”
“Your cock filling me.” Her eyes meet mine, dark with want. “The way you make me come so hard I forget my own name.”
“Fuck.” The word comes out strangled. I unhook her bra with one hand, watching her pupils dilate as the fabric falls away. “Tell me what you need.”
“Everything.” Her hands unfasten my belt. “I need you to fuck me like you own me. Like you'd kill for me.”
“I would.” My voice turns savage as I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist.
She laughs, wild and reckless, and the sound makes my chest tight. This woman—brilliant, fearless, completely fucking unhinged—chose me. Chose this chaos we create together.
I carry her to the bed, dropping her onto the mattress before tearing off my shirt. Her jeans disappear in seconds, and then she's spread beneath me in nothing but black lace that I rip away without ceremony.
“Two weeks,” I growl, settling between her thighs. “Two weeks without tasting you?—”
“Erik, please?—”
I silence her with my mouth between her legs, tongue finding her clit. She cries out, back arching off the bed, hands fisting in my hair. I lick her until she's shaking, begging, right on the edge.
“Come for me,” I command against her wetness. “Show me you're mine.”
She shatters with a scream that would wake the dead, her body convulsing as I tongue her through it. When the tremors subside, I kiss my way up her body, leaving marks on her ribs, her collarbone, anywhere I can reach.
“More,” she gasps, pulling at my shoulders. “I need your cock inside me. Now.”
I shed my remaining clothes and position myself at her entrance, the head of my cock slick with her arousal. “Look at me when I fill you.”
Her blue eyes lock with mine as I push inside, inch by devastating inch. She's so tight, so perfect, her body welcoming me home.
“God, you feel—” I can't finish the thought. Can't think past the sensation of being buried deep inside her again.
“Move,” she demands, nails raking down my back. “Fuck me like you missed me.”
I pull out and slam back in, setting a punishing rhythm that has her gasping my name. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, punctuated by her moans and my harsh breathing.
“This is what you were made for,” I growl in her ear, each thrust deeper than the last. “Taking my cock. Being mine.”
“Yes,” she sobs, meeting my thrusts desperately. “Only yours. Always yours.”
The words shatter every wall I've built around my heart. This woman—fierce, brilliant, completely unbreakable—has claimed me as thoroughly as I've claimed her.
“I love you.” The confession tears from my throat without permission, raw and desperate against her lips. “Fuck, Katarina, I love you.”
Her body goes still beneath mine for one terrifying heartbeat. Then her hands frame my face, green eyes blazing with an intensity that stops my breath.
“I love you too,” she whispers, voice breaking on the words. “I love you, Erik.”
Something inside my chest cracks wide open. The careful control I've maintained for thirty-two years, the emotional distance that's kept me alive in this world—all of it crumbles with her admission.
I surge into her deeper, claiming her mouth in a kiss that tastes like salvation and damnation wrapped together. She moans into my mouth, her body arching to meet mine, taking everything I give her.
“Again,” I demand, pulling back to watch her face. “Say it again.”
“I love you.” Her voice strengthens with each repetition. “I love you, I love you?—”
The words become a chant between us as I drive into her, my rhythm turning desperate. Every thrust pushes the confession deeper into her body, into her soul. Her nails rake down my back, marking me as permanently as I'm marking her.
“Mine,” I growl against her throat, biting down hard enough to bruise. “You're fucking mine forever.”
“Yes,” she gasps, legs wrapping tighter around my waist. “And you're mine. Say it.”
“Yours.” The admission comes easier than breathing. “Always yours.”
Her inner walls start to flutter around my cock, signaling how close she is. I can feel my own orgasm building at the base of my spine, but I need her to fall first. Need to watch her come apart while telling me she loves me.
“Come for me,” I command, angling my hips to hit that spot inside her that makes her see stars. “Come while you tell me you love me.”
“Erik—” Her back arches off the bed as the pressure builds. “I love you, I love you—oh God?—”
She shatters around me with a scream that echoes off the walls, her body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash over her. The sight of her falling apart beneath me, the feeling of her clenching around my cock while she breathes my name like a prayer—it destroys me completely.