Chapter 55 Ivan
IVAN
Fuck…she’s beautiful.
And she’s mine.
My wife.
My little spy, my little hummingbird, caught in a spider’s web.
But the creamy satin robe, showing too much fucking leg with the belt that’s loosened, the neck that’s fallen open revealing too much cleavage, is going to make me commit murder.
The men know better than to loiter around, looking at her or waiting to see what I’m going to do. Because I’m going to do something. Pounding for an hour at this bag has dulled my rage, and I’m sweat-drenched, chest heaving with exertion, but I’m still wound tight with sexual frustration.
I need to fuck, and then she walks in here like this? Without my fucking permission?
The need to claim her, to override every hurt that’s been committed to her body, still rushes through me, but I’ve stalled. She’s a traitor in my house, and the last time that happened, I had to kill the man I thought was my best friend.
To be honest, I’m fucking tired of thinning out my inner circle.
A door swooshes closed, and Yuri rushes up the wide corridor.
He’s fast but soft-footing it like a panther, showing he’s still fit for a fight, our training muscle memory.
Without a doubt, he’s here to keep the peace, but he doesn’t know the full extent of her deception yet.
When he speaks to her, she acknowledges him, but doesn’t move.
She stands proud as I stride out of the gym, never taking my eyes off her. In her gaze, there’s a slight cower as I come to stand right in front of her.
Yuri looks at his feet, despite his rank knowing better than to stare at my wife when she’s dressed like this.
I raise my hand to fix her robe, but she leans back with a flinch.
“Ivan—”
She’s clearly expecting a blow of sorts, and it fucking kills me.
I slow the movement, inch closer, and with the lightest touch I can possibly manage, slip a fingertip underneath the gown, at the top where it’s sliding toward the tip of her shoulder.
She inhales softly and bites her lip. Her nipples, visible where they are pressed against the silk, seem to harden even more, and I curse my dick for being a dick and twitching in response.
“Hush, moya ptichka,” I say softly as I meet her gaze, fully in charge of myself now after an hour at the punching bag. “Now isn’t the time to throw fuel on the fire.”
I tug the fabric lightly, and it shifts to cover her cleavage, and then I trail my fingers between her breasts, noticing the gooseflesh, her strained breathing, lower to where the thin belt is loosening.
Soon, it will unknot, the robe will fall open, and anybody would be able to see her beautiful body, the alluring softness of her inner thighs, all her little secrets.
“Breathe, moya ptichka.”
“Ivan—”
“Shh.” I take my time to untie and tie the knot again, making sure she’s as decent as she’s going to be in a sexy-as-fuck robe like this. “It’s cold out, too cold for this flimsy fabric.”
It’s a diluted reprimand from the one that came to mind the moment I saw her, but that’s because my men—without a doubt a bunch of perverts—were still around. Now it’s just us, and Yuri is standing a yard behind her, respectfully not watching.
“Ona govorít po-russki, Pakhan,” Yuri says, breaking the silence.
She speaks Russian.
I let go, the whole exercise a test of my control. I really want to press her against the wall, tear open the robe, and pound into her.
“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” I answer in Russian. “She’s full of secrets, but we’ll unravel them all, won’t we, my little bird?”
“I’ll tell you everything,” she whispers, and I smirk.
She really does speak Russian. Not great, but Russian all the same. No wonder she never asked me what moya ptichka means. And to think that’s been bugging me. Always trust your instincts.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Gabriella,” I say with a sigh.
“Yuri is going to raid your room to find every single thing you’ve brought from home.
Check every pill and every powder for poison.
” I cut him a glance. “You saw the clip? There’s a burner phone in the bathroom, in a box of sanitary napkins. ”
Yuri nods.
Gabriella blinks, and all color drains from her face. “I can explain—”
“I hope you can, because right now, things look rather bleak for you.” But I can’t do this here. Not like this. Not in the fucking barracks. I’m still sweat-drenched and in my wedding trousers. “I’m going to shower, and check in on my girls, since clearly, nobody is currently close to them.”
“I called Kostya as soon as Igor let me know shit was going down,” Yuri says. “He’s with the girls.”
“Good. Best give him a raise. The man is multitasking beyond the scope of his job description.”
Yuri nods and walks off, leaving me alone with my wife.
We stare at each other. She doesn’t look down; she doesn’t step away and bolt. She just nervously chews her bottom lip, making it wet and plump, ripe for kissing.
“Don’t do that,” I grunt. For all that’s transpired, I still want her.
“I didn’t know how to tell you.” She blows out a breath. “I-I—”
“Need a drink?” I suggest, because this is becoming a long night for all the wrong reasons. “Save the explanations for now, until you’ve ordered your thoughts. I want bullet points, so I don’t need to torture the truth from you in a way that makes logical sense.”
“Don’t you dare—”
I grab her wrist, and she strains against my easy hold, gaze flashing. “Don’t I dare what?”
“Hurt me. My brothers have Milana—”
Oh, boy. “And anybody who hurts a hair on my sister’s body will reap my vengeance in return.”
As if the past few hours have taught her nothing. As if the few times we’ve pushed her boundaries, I haven’t been the most considerate fucking man on the planet, so patient with my sweet virgin. As if I would hurt a woman, but I don’t spell that out for her.
The fire in her eyes screams that for all Gabriella pretends to be a docile, timid convent girl, there is a little devil rattling its cage inside of her, one she’s locked up for far too long.
“And what about Darya? How she died? Are you going to make me commit suicide, too? Now that you’ve labeled me a spy.”
Fuck me. This is totally uncalled for. To imagine she has this intel is too much, but it seems she knows already that I kill gently when it comes to the opposite sex.
“Now you’re fucking with the wrong side of this Russian,” I hiss, and she jerks against my firm hold on her wrist, ready to make a run for it, but lessons will be learnt tonight.
I bend and toss her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Gabriella squeals at this unexpected move, and the sound is so adorable, I chuckle because it’s not as if I can do anything else. Her brothers have Milana, and this one…she’s my wife.
Fuck my life.
She’s featherlight, and immediately starts to squirm, but I don’t give a damn.
I’m still glowing with post-workout heat, and her robe might get sweat-drenched, but at least we’ll cover the stretch between the house and the barracks at my pace and not hers.
Like this, she can’t put up a fight, and my body heat will keep her warm, which this flimsy fabric hardly does.
“Put me down, Ivan,” she croaks, hands slapping at me, so softly, it’s as if she’s patting one of the girls on the head.
She might be a spy, but this one can’t harm a fly.
“Nope. I’m going to say this once and only once, so take note, wife,” I say as I stride out of the recreation room. “You are never to set foot in the barracks again, so putting you down right now isn’t exactly an option.”