Chapter 30 Zoya
Zoya
After dinner, I lead Roman upstairs. To his room.
To my surprise, all of my things have been moved into here.
I spot the crystal ducks on the dressing table with a hard swallow.
They are almost set out as I need them, but one is facing the wrong angle.
I adjust it and turn back to him, watching me.
On the bed, I spot a black pouch that makes my blood turn to ice.
“Your diamonds, Gospozha Antonova,” Roman says with a vicious smirk.
“You found them.”
“I did. You can’t hide anything from me.”
“And the cash?”
“It’s yours. I don’t steal from my woman.”
“Your woman?”
“You are, aren’t you?”
I pause, fingers brushing the black pouch, and meet his gaze head-on. “Am I?”
His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “Say it.”
The air gets tight. “Yes,” I say softly. “I’m yours.”
He closes the distance in three strides, one hand at my waist, the other cupping my jaw with a firmness that steadies more than it frightens.
The kiss he takes is claiming, hot and unapologetic, until I open for him and turn it into something that feels like an oath.
When he pulls back, my breath is fast, my pulse a drum in my throat, but my mind feels razor-sharp.
He rips at the dress, tearing it at the zip so he can remove it faster.
He lets me go and moves to the bedside cabinet and opens a drawer.
He withdraws a blade and approaches me with a wicked smile.
He grabs me by the belt and presses the blade to it, slicing it off me.
Then he moves to the dress, starting at the neckline and dragging the razor-sharp blade down the middle.
The dress parts with a whisper, wool gaping in a clean line that bares my goosefleshed skin to the cool air.
My breath stutters, not from fear but from the press of his focus. I lift my chin and hold still.
The tip kisses a path over my ribs. He slides the torn halves aside with his knuckles and lets the ruined dress fall.
The knife traces the inside of my thigh, a teasing threat that pricks heat under my skin.
My pulse trips. When he cuts the last thread and the fabric puddles, I feel keener than a razor—every nerve bright, every inch his.
He hooks the cold steel blade into the delicate lace of my knickers, the metal kissing my hip bone as he slices through the fabric.
The ruined lace whispers down my legs, pooling like black water around my ankles.
His eyes never leave mine as he trails the flat of the blade up my trembling stomach, leaving a path of goosebumps in its wake.
The metal warms against my skin as he nestles it under the front of my bra, the sharp edge pressing just enough to make my breath catch in my throat.
One flick of his wrist, and the last barrier between us surrenders.
My breasts tumble free to the cool air, nipples tightening under his gaze.
I don’t cover myself. I tilt my chin and give him the view he’s already claimed.
I feel the possession in his inked hands.
He drags the blade higher, the flat cool against my throat where his mark sits.
His mouth curls, then he turns me around.
He presses the tip of the knife to the nape of my neck.
“Who do you belong to?” he whispers roughly.
“You.”
“Say my name.”
I pant. “Roman.”
The tip stings as he buries it into my flesh. “Say yes,” he murmurs.
“Yes,” I breathe.
He scratches something into my skin. “You belong to me forever now, malyshka. Anyone who sees you naked will see my name carved down your spine, and they will know they touch my woman.”
I hiss as his words penetrate the haze of arousal.
Heat flares where the point bites. The scrape is shallow, more threat than harm, but my skin sings with it. I brace myself so I don’t sway as he scores a slow, deliberate line. The letters form under his touch, the sting a brand I accept with my breath held.
“Mine,” he murmurs, voice low as a brutal vow.
“Yes,” I gasp, the word pulled from somewhere molten.
He palms the back of my neck and drags his mouth down my spine.
His tongue laps the faint bleed, tasting me like communion.
The knife clatters to the bedside table.
His hands replace steel, hot and firm, mapping what he’s written until my knees threaten to give.
I claw at the quilt, grounding myself, body strung tight between burn and want.
“Don’t move,” he orders.
I don’t. I couldn’t if I tried.
He moves to the ensuite, and I hear the tap running. He returns and presses a cool, soft cloth to the cuts.
The sting dulls under the damp press. He dabs with patience that knots my throat. I breathe through it, counting heartbeats, soaked in the scent of him and steel.
“Too much?” he asks, low.
“No.” My voice is raw. “I wanted your name.”
“Good.”
I turn. The knife sits idle on the bed, gleaming like a sin that’s already confessed.
Roman stands close, his chest now bare, his pants undone, his tattoos stark under the lamp.
He picks up the knife and hands it to me.
“Here,” he says, pointing to a patch on his lower abdomen that is free from ink.
“Are you sure?” I ask carefully.
“I’m yours, Zoya. I have been for a long time, ever since this vow was made. Do it now, or I will, and it will be ugly and crooked.” His smile is dark, delicious, and I giggle away from nerves.
“Not fair,” I murmur, moving closer, feeling the tightness of the marks on my back. “My name is shorter than yours.”
He chuckles. “Only by one letter.”
I grip the knife. It sits cool and sure in my palm like it recognises its new job. Roman’s eyes hold mine, blue and intent, daring me to make this real.
“Hold still,” I murmur.
He breathes out once and tips his head, giving me skin where ink hasn’t claimed him. I set the tip to the spot he pointed to, low and left, and draw the first line. It bites. A thin bead wells and trails. He doesn’t flinch. Heat coils tight in my belly at the control he keeps for me, because of me.
My hand is steady as I carve. This is not punishment. It is a vow cut in flesh. He doesn’t make a sound. I finish, neat and deliberate.
My name sits above his hipbone in red script. Mine on him. The sight makes my lungs forget their job for a beat.
He exhales, slowly, and takes the knife from my hand and tosses it onto the bedside table like it’s nothing more than a letter opener.
I take the cloth to the en suite, rinse, wring, and return.
I dab the marks I made, gentler than he was with me.
He stands easy for it, hands loose at his sides, as if giving me his body to tend is as natural as breathing.
I press the cloth one last time. The bleeding slows to faint pinpricks.
His gaze never leaves mine as he strips off.
I fall to my knees in worship. I part my lips and take him deep, tongue flattening as I swallow him to the base.
Heat floods my cheeks. His hand comes to the back of my head, not forcing, just there, a command written in touch alone.
I set the rhythm, slow at first, then faster as his breath turns ragged.
My palms bracket his hips, my nails biting lightly as I hollow my cheeks and drag back, then sink again until my throat protests and my eyes prickle.
“Look at me,” he orders quietly.
I lift my gaze, tears clinging to my lashes, and he groans like the sound has been torn out of him.
Power sparks low in my belly. I curl my tongue around the head and suck, tight and precise, then slide my mouth down again, one hand twisting at the base, the other cupping him.
His abs tense under the marks I made, a map I could trace blind.
“Mine,” I whisper around him, a muffled blasphemy.
He fists a hand in my hair and breathes a curse, control frayed. I set a brutal pace, taking him, giving him, everything wound tight as piano wire until he grabs my jaw and stills me an inch from the hilt.
“On the bed,” he grits, voice rough from restraint.
I crawl onto my hands and knees, heat slick between my thighs.
He follows. His fingers slide through my wetness, and he hums, pleased and dangerous.
He lines up and pushes in slow, filling me inch by inch until I can’t hold back the moan that climbs out of my chest. He sinks all the way, pauses, then withdraws and drives back hard enough to punch the air from my lungs.
“Say whose you are.”
“Yours,” I pant, clutching the sheet. “Only yours.”
His pace turns ruthless, a rhythm that stamps his name into me where he already carved it. My back burns where his letters sit, every thrust a reminder. I take him hungrily, pushing back to meet each snap of his hips, the drag and push an ache I crave.
“Good girl,” he rasps, and my pussy tightens around him.
His hand slides around, fingers circling my clit with cruel care. He doesn’t rush it. He denies, gives, denies again, teasing me right up to the edge before easing off until I want to scream.
“Roman,” I beg, shaking. “Please.”
He gives me two sharp strokes and presses, and I come apart, heat detonating through my belly, my thighs shaking, a cry ripped from me that’s more vow than sound.
He rides me through it, relentless until I stop shaking.
He withdraws and changes positions, pulling me down on top of him so I can ride him.
I straddle him, his thick cock filling me completely as I sink down. My thighs tremble from the stretch, the delicious burn making me gasp. Roman’s hands grip my hips, guiding me as I begin to move.
“That’s it,” he growls, his eyes locked on mine. “Take what’s yours.”
“You are mine. If any other woman looks at you, I will cut their eyes out.”
His eyes darken. “Possessive, malyshka. Say it again.”
I roll my hips, finding a rhythm that makes my body quiver.
The marks on my back burn with each movement, a constant reminder of his claim.
His name is etched into my skin just as mine is carved into his.
Blood pact. Ownership. A twisted kind of wedding vow that means more to me than any church ceremony ever could. “They touch you, they die.”
His answering groan is enough to make me feel like a queen.