Chapter 13 - Yulia
Last night floods back in flashes the moment I wake—the emerald dress, the gala, Trifon’s mouth between my thighs.
Oh God.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars, as if I can somehow erase the memory of how easily I gave in.
I don’t know what’s worse. That I let him touch me like that. Or that I want him to do it again.
I have no recollection of how I ended up in bed.
He must have carried me up here after I fell asleep on the couch. Mortifying. I groan into my pillow, heat crawling up my neck as I remember how I’d practically begged him. Please.
My own voice haunts me.
I should get up, face the day, face him. But how? What’s the proper etiquette for the morning after your kidnapper-turned-husband gives you the best orgasm of your life?
Shower first, think later. That’s the advice I give myself.
Maybe I’ve gone insane. Because, despite everything, I can’t stop thinking about him.
I slide out of bed slowly, sore in places I didn’t expect to be. My body remembers him more vividly than I want it to. Every nerve feels… rewired. As if he had flipped some hidden switch I didn’t even know existed.
All this time, I thought people were exaggerating about sex. Friends in college, coworkers whispering behind hospital curtains, and even my cousin once hinted at it as if it were some life-altering revelation. I rolled my eyes after I had sex the first time.
It fell flat of the expectations that had been laid bare before me.
Now? I get it.
If it’s with someone who knows exactly what they’re doing—God. I get it.
Unfortunately, that someone happens to be a 44-year-old Bratva king who essentially owns me now.
And it wasn’t even sex.
If he can do that with his mouth and hands alone? I groan as I turn on the water in the shower. What the hell can he do with his…cock?
I lean my forehead against the cool glass and close my eyes.
I need to stop thinking about this. About him. I need to—
My thoughts drift.
Back to his voice in the dark. That low growl against my ear. The weight of his body pressing me down just enough to make me feel worshipped.
My thighs clench.
No. Absolutely not.
I yank the shower to a violent cold, trying to suffocate the memory. Finish the shower. Read something. Distract yourself, Yulia. Be normal. Be a doctor. Be logical.
After my shower, I dress in the most modest outfit I can find—jeans and an oversized sweater from the collection of clothes Trifon provided. Armor against whatever awaits me downstairs.
When I finally venture out, the house is quiet. No sign of Trifon. I exhale, relief mingling with an emotion I can’t believe is sweeping through me.
I’m…Disappointed?
Fuck no.
I find coffee in the kitchen, helping myself to a mug while studiously avoiding eye contact with the housekeeper, who’s arranging fresh flowers on the counter.
Does she know? Can she tell just by looking at me that I was sprawled across the living room couch last night, coming beneath her boss’s tongue?
Stop it, Yulia.
I carry my coffee to the library, needing to be alone with my thoughts. The shelves tower around me. I run my fingers along the spines, but I’m not seeing titles. I’m seeing Trifon’s face between my thighs, looking up at me with those ice-blue eyes.
This is ridiculous. I should be able to compartmentalize a sexual encounter.
But I can’t stop thinking about it.
All those years, all those lackluster experiences—fumbling college boyfriends who treated my body like a puzzle they couldn’t be bothered to solve, med school flings too brief and stress-filled to ever really catch fire—I’d convinced myself that explosive orgasms were just a myth, a fiction women perpetuated to make men feel better.
And then Trifon happened.
One night. One hour. And everything I thought I knew about my own body crumbled.
He made it look easy. Made me feel easy, like I’d been the simple one all along—not the men who couldn’t figure me out. Like all it took was someone who actually gave a damn about my pleasure instead of their own.
I sink into a leather armchair, pulling my knees to my chest. The clinical part of my brain—the part that got me through med school—tries to rationalize it. Physical responses to stimuli. Chemical reactions. Dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin.
But the rest of me? The part that arched and moaned and came so hard I nearly blacked out? That part doesn’t care about neurotransmitters. That part only knows his name.
And he’s seventeen years older than me. Practically old enough to be—no, that’s a stretch.
But still, there’s something about that age gap, about his confidence, his experience, that makes me feel simultaneously safe and terrified. Like I’m falling without a net, but somehow trusting he’ll catch me.
I try to distract myself by picking up a medical journal I find on the table. Anesthesiology research. Perfect. Nothing less sexy than dosage calculations.
Except every paragraph I read dissolves into memories of his hands, his mouth, the rasp in his voice when he called me beautiful. I slam the journal shut, frustrated with my own lack of focus.
Maybe I just need more sleep. I didn’t get much last night, after all.
I curl up in the chair, letting my eyes close. Just for a few minutes. Just to reset my brain.
I drift off almost immediately.
I’m standing in front of the mirror in that emerald gown. The slit’s higher, the neckline lower, like the dress itself has decided to misbehave. My lipstick is smudged, mascara smoky. I look like sin. Like, I know exactly what I’m doing.
And the second I turn? He’s behind me.
Trifon.
In a black dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up, the collar open. His jaw’s dark with stubble, and his hair’s slightly mussed, like he just ran a hand through it. The kind of hair men kill for, straight out of GQ.
He doesn’t speak.
Just steps up behind me and drags his knuckles along my bare shoulder. I shiver.
“You wore this dress,” he murmurs against my neck, lips barely brushing skin, “knowing I’d take it off.”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
“You want me to ruin you again?” he growls, and I nod, helpless.
The gown slips from my shoulders with a whisper. I’m naked beneath it.
He catches my reflection in the mirror. Holds my gaze.
“Look at yourself,” he murmurs, hand sliding between my thighs from behind. “This is what I wanted. You. Just like this.”
I whimper as he drags his fingers through the wetness he finds there. His other hand cups my throat—not choking, just holding. Possessive. Unyielding.
“I told myself I’d be patient,” he says. “But you’ve been in my bed. In my mouth. And now you’ll dream about me for the rest of your life.”
He pushes into me from behind—slow and deep and deliberate. I cry out, bracing against the mirror. His name falls from my lips like a prayer.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let me look away.
“Seventeen years younger, and you still think you have the upper hand,” he grits out. “But tell me this, Doctor—why are you the one begging in your sleep?”
He rams his cock into me.
My body clenches. Everything tightens.
I come hard, eyes locked on his in the mirror, moaning like I’ve never moaned in real life. It’s raw and wild and feral.
And then—
I wake up gasping.
The library is quiet. My heart isn’t.
I sit bolt upright, pulse hammering, sweater clinging to damp skin. My thighs are clenched tight. My breathing is ragged. There’s no mistaking what just happened.
I just had a full-body orgasm in my sleep.
Because of him.
Trifon Yuri.
What the actual hell is wrong with me?
I sit up, straightening my clothes, checking the clock. It’s been over an hour. The house is still quiet, the library empty save for me and my humiliation.
I need to do something—anything—to get my mind off Trifon and what happened last night. What I apparently want to happen again, if my subconscious is any indication.
Maybe watching some TV will help.
I leave the library and am about to make my way downstairs to the living room when I hear voices coming from behind the partially open doors to Trifon’s office.
I should keep walking. I really should.
But I don’t.
Instead, I find myself inching closer, drawn to the sound of his voice like a moth to flame. I press myself against the wall beside the door, out of sight but within earshot.
When I take a peek in, I see Trifon seated at the head of a table. His brothers are spread out around him: Valentin, Leonid, Iosif, and Miron.
“Volkov’s shipments are delayed. Again,” Trifon says. His voice is ice. “Either he’s stalling, or he’s lying. And I don’t tolerate either.”
His brothers nod.
“Move the meeting to New York. I want eyes on all ports—Boston, Newark, Baltimore. If the Italians are testing us, I want to make sure they regret it.”
There’s no debate. No pushback. Just instant obedience. And somehow… It’s not just terrifying. It’s magnetic.
This is who he is. He’s laying out orders like a general commanding troops, and they’re falling in line without question.
It’s so different from the man who knelt between my thighs last night and looked up at me with hunger in his eyes.
But it’s still him. Still Trifon. Just a different facet of the same dangerous, compelling man.
I shouldn’t be turned on by him running his criminal empire, giving orders that probably involve violence. I should be horrified, disgusted.
Instead, I’m pressing my thighs together again, trying to quell the ache building between them.
I shift my weight on the floorboard.
A creak.
Shit.
His eyes snap toward the door—and find mine. For one breathless second, neither of us moves. He doesn’t say a word. But his gaze drops—very deliberately—to my mouth. Then lower. Then back up.
I flush so fast I nearly choke on it.
Does he know what I was dreaming about? Can he see it on me?
I take a step back, heart slamming, and turn to flee.