Chapter 26 Mara
MARA
Ican feel his pulse beneath the blade—steady and strong, unafraid.
I should do it. I should press down, draw the blade across his skin, watch the life leave those icy eyes.
I should end this. He's a monster—he's admitted as much.
A killer, a criminal, a man who's destroyed my life without remorse because it got him what he wanted.
I should kill him. It's the only logical choice, the only way to reclaim my freedom, my life, my self.
But I can't.
The realization hits me like a physical blow, stealing my breath and making my vision blur with tears.
I can't do it. I can't kill him. Not because I'm weak, not because I'm afraid of the consequences, but because somewhere along the way—between Boston and the penthouse, between the gifts and the kidnapping, between that first kiss and this moment right now—he's become mine.
My monster. My darkness. My addiction.
Just like I’m his.
I’m not the same woman who locked eyes with him across a sidewalk in Boston any longer.
I tried to convince myself it was just chemistry, just a moment, but he’s been right all along…
it was so much more than that. And he’s sunk down into the core of me, found the darkness there, the duality of light and shadow that makes me who I am.
He’s the only one who ever has.
The only one who could ever make me admit it, even to myself.
He’s the only one who knew that the way he makes me feel is exactly what I've been searching for my entire life without knowing it.
But I can't be powerless. This can't be him taking and me giving until there's nothing left of me. If we're going to do this—if I'm going to wear his collar and accept what I am—then he needs to surrender too.
"I can't," I whisper, and my voice breaks on the words.
"I know." He doesn’t let go of my wrist, still holding the knife there. Still giving me the chance to end this. I think he’d let me do it, if I tried. He doesn’t want to live without me, not just as his possession, but as his. Of my own free will, wholly and completely.
“If you want me,” I whisper, “you have to be mine, too.”
Ilya laughs darkly, his throat moving against the blade, heedless of the blood that drips down. “I already am, Mara. What do you think obsession is, if not that?”
“You need to prove it to me.”
For once, I realize I’ve caught Ilya on the back foot. For a moment, undisguised surprise shows in his eyes, before his expression goes carefully blank again. "How?"
“If you’re mine,” I whisper, “then let me take control. Right here, now, in bed. Let me make you be the one to beg. Don’t do anything until I tell you that you can. Let me take what I want from you.”
His eyes widen slightly, and I see desire mixed with uncertainty flicker there. Ilya Sorokov, the man who orchestrates wars and commands empires, is not one who cedes control. And for probably the first time in his life, I reflect, he seems unsure of what to do next.
Except… I feel him throb between my thighs, and I know he doesn’t hate the idea. That, he can’t lie about.
Good.
"You want control?" he asks, his voice rough.
“Yes,” I whisper, staring down at him. "I can't be powerless, Ilya. I can't just surrender without knowing that you'll surrender too. So prove it. Give yourself to me the way you're demanding I give myself to you."
For a long moment, he just looks at me. I can see the war happening behind his eyes—the need to dominate warring with the need to give me what I'm asking for. The need to control warring with the need to be controlled.
Then, slowly, he nods.
"Tell me what you want," he says quietly.
The permission sends a thrill through me, dark and intoxicating.
I've never done this before—never taken control in the bedroom, never made demands, never claimed someone the way he's been claiming me. But I want to… with him. I want to find out what it’s like to make a man like this beg for me.
"Your hands," I whisper, my heart pounding in my chest. "Put them above your head. "
He complies, moving slowly and deliberately, his eyes never leaving mine.
His hands rest on the pillow above his head, and the position makes him look vulnerable in a way I've never seen before. He’s still holding the choker against my throat, and when he moves his hand to obey, he drops it onto the bed next to us.
It feels like a symbol in and of itself—he’s giving me a chance to take it.
To put it on, when I feel he’s surrendered the way he’s demanded of me.
"Don't move them," I command. "Not unless I tell you to."
"Yes." The word is throaty, hoarse, and I can see his eyes darkening with lust.
I drop the knife. It falls to the floor with a clatter that seems too loud in the silence of the room.
And then I lean down and kiss him, hard and rough, taking his mouth the way he has mine so many times before now.
He lets me do it, his mouth passive under mine, lips moving when I do, tongue stroking against mine, but not leading.
I’m setting the pace, taking what I want, and it’s intoxicating.
I can feel how wet I am, drenching my panties, and I rock against his stiff length, moaning into his mouth as I feel the friction on my clit.
“Don’t you dare come,” I tell him as I pull back. “If you come before I tell you that you can, we’re done here. I’ll never put that collar on.”
Ilya swallows hard. “Mara—” His breathing is ragged, and I can tell he’s struggling for control. Whether he’d ever admit it aloud or not, this is turning him on in a way he probably didn’t expect.
"Do you agree?" I interrupt. "Do you give me control?"
He nods, letting out a slow breath. “You’re in charge, kotenok.”
The words are like a drug, flooding my system with power and desire.
I reach for my nightgown, pulling it slowly over my head as I gently rock my hips, sliding myself over his stiff length.
Ilya’s eyes are blown dark with need, his jaw tight, but he doesn’t move as he watches me inch the dark purple silk he chose for me up over my body, revealing my hips, my taut stomach, and then finally my breasts as I pull it up and over my head.
I leave my panties on, for now. I look down at him, my hands on my thighs, and I can see the struggle in his face, the need to just flip me over onto the bed and take what he so desperately wants.
He’s laid there the entire time, his hands still above his head, his body tense with the effort of not moving.
He’s so beautiful, so dangerous, like a deadly predator, wild and primal. And if he doesn’t fail my test, then he could be mine.
We could be each other’s.
Slowly, so terribly slowly, I start to touch him.
I feather my fingers over his lips, his jaw, his throat, over his nipples and down to his abdomen, caressing the muscles of his arms, his chest, the ridges that lead down to the Adonis lines above where I’m slowly riding him.
I keep up that slow rocking against his cock, feeling him throb against me, hearing his hiss of breath as he watches me.
When I slide back enough to brush the wet silk of my panties and my heated core over his cockhead, his eyes close briefly, and I reach up, grabbing his jaw.
“Eyes on me, Ilya,” I command. “I want to see how all of this makes you feel. I want to see you surrender.”
I run my fingers over him again, feeling the scars that I find in some places on his flesh.
Those, and his tattoos, are unable to be seen clearly in the dim light coming in from the city outside, but I can trace the marks of the violence that he’s been a part of all his life—on his chest, his right arm, his hip, his ribs.
I trail my fingers all the way down to just above his cock, sliding over him with a bit more pressure now, and Ilya groans.
“Fuck, you're torturing me," he gasps.
"Good." I increase the pressure slightly. "You've been torturing me for weeks. Now it's your turn."
I slide back, trailing my fingers over his thighs, up the inside, his cock completely untouched now. I can see the pre-cum gleaming on the shaft, see his muscles twitch, his abdomen flexing as his cock jerks and twitches with every touch. “Mara,” he gasps, and I pause, looking up at him.
“If you come, we’re done,” I warn him. “Don’t lose control until I give you permission.”
He lets out a ragged groan, clenching his hands in the pillow above his head as I finally brush my fingers over where he needs me the most. I trace a finger up the center of his tight sack, up the underside of his cock, all the way to the dripping tip.
I circle his cockhead with one finger, teasing until he’s moaning helplessly, and then I rub my fingertip underneath it, pressing it against the slit.
Ilya lets out a desperate whimper, his hips arching up. “Fuck, Mara, fuck—”
When I pull my finger back, a thread of pre-cum coming with it, I see another drop immediately pearling at the tip. I lean in, catching it with my tongue, and Ilya lets out a gasping moan.
“Fuck… I…”
“Don’t come,” I warn, and I move up, straddling his thighs. “I come first, Ilya. Always. You’ve made sure to do that, at least, since you brought me here. Don’t stop now.”
I wrap my hand around his cock, the first firm touch I’ve given him since we started, and I spread my thighs, leaning back so he has a perfect view as I pull my panties off and toss them aside, then press his rock-hard shaft against my swollen clit.
And then I start to use him as my own personal sex toy.
I grind against him, holding him firmly as I rub myself up and down his shaft, moans dripping from my lips at the intense pleasure—not just the sensation, but seeing him lie there in surrender, watching me, allowing me to use him.
I’m so fucking close. I see his jaw clench, and I slide back a little, bringing his cockhead against my clit as I rub him against me in two quick swipes… and start to come.