Chapter 38
Roman
The iron gates roll back, and relief hits me harder than the giant’s fist. Zoya jerks the battered van to a halt in front of the main house. The engine ticks, cooling, sounding like a bomb that failed to detonate.
My spine feels like it’s been welded into a jagged line. Every breath draws a sharp stroke of fire across my ribs. I force my face into neutral lines. Pain is information, nothing more. I box it up and shove it deep. I can’t let her see the cracks.
“Out,” I say, my voice sounding like it’s been dragged over tarmac.
Laszlo groans from the back. “I need vodka.”
“You need stitches,” I correct my cousin, pushing the door open.
Andrei is on the steps before my boots hit the stones. He takes in the crumpled grille, the blood smeared across the bonnet, and the bruising already blooming on my jaw. His hand drops to his weapon, eyes scanning the perimeter. “How am I back before you?” he clips out.
“Ambush. Neutralised,” I say. I straighten my jacket, ignoring the way my body screams in protest.
“Gospozha Antonova is vicious,” Laszlo says, sounding impressed despite himself, hobbling forward. “She drove over one of them.”
Andrei’s gaze ticks to Zoya for a split second of approval before snapping back to mine.
Zoya slides out of the driver’s seat. Her hair is a disaster, her face pale, her hands trembling where she grips the doorframe. She looks wild. She looks like ruin. She is magnificent. She is mine.
I cross the distance between us in two strides and grip her upper arms. “Are you hurt?” I ask her again.
“No.” Her eyes search mine, wide and dark.
“Good.” I pull her in, needing the contact to prove she’s solid. “Because if you ever use a vehicle as a weapon against a man three times your size again, I will lock you in the cellar and lose the key.”
She lifts her chin, defiant even now. “Try it, and I’ll run you over next.”
A dark laugh tears out of my throat. She might actually do it. Part of me hopes she will.
“Lock it down,” I bark at Andrei. “Perimeter sweep. Double patrol. If a squirrel farts on the boundary line, I want to know.”
Andrei nods, already thumbing his radio.
I keep my arm around Zoya, half to anchor her, half because my back feels like shattered glass. If I let go, the floor might come up to meet me.
We move inside.
Katya appears from the kitchen, wooden spoon in hand, like she’s about to spank someone. Her eyes narrow at the blood on my shirt, then flick to Zoya’s dishevelled hair.
“Meat tenderiser?” she asks, pointing the spoon at Laszlo.
“Van,” Laszlo grunts, clutching his side. “And a very large fist.”
“Kitchen,” she commands, thrusting the spoon at me. “I have vodka.”
“That’s all I need.”
I turn to Zoya as they move away. She stares at the floor, the trembling in her hands worse now that the motion has stopped.
“Look at me,” I say, cupping her jaw.
“You survived your first hour as pakhan. I’d say you are on to a good stretch.”
“First hour. Jesus, Roman.”
“I know. I’d say it will get better, but it might not.”
She manages a weak, jagged smile. “You really know how to woo a woman, Voronov.”
“I try.” I steer her toward the stairs, my arm heavy around her waist. Every step sends a fresh spike of agony through the muscles in my back, but I lock it down.
I can collapse later. Once she is safe. Once she is safe from everyone except me.
I shove the wooden spoon into my back pocket as we take the stairs slowly, one at a time.
Zoya doesn’t comment, but I feel her grip tighten on me as we ascend.
Once we have made it to our room, I close the door and release her. I take off my jacket and kick off my shoes.
“Strip,” I say to her, meeting her gaze.
“What? Now?”
“Now.”
“Are you sure? You’re hurt—”
“Strip off your clothes now, Zoya. Don’t make me tell you again.”
Her breath hitches at my tone. But she does as I say.
She unbuttons the coat first. Her fingers fumble, the adrenaline crash making her clumsy.
I don’t help her. I need to see her move, need to verify that nothing is broken, nothing is bleeding.
The heavy wool drops to the floor. She kicks off her heels, losing inches of height but none of her defiance.
Next is the dress and slip. The black silk pools at her feet like oil. She stands before me in her underwear, her chest heaving, the pearls glowing against her pale throat. My eyes rake over her, searching for bruises, cuts, anything that wasn’t there this morning.
“Everything off,” I order.
With shaking hands, she removes her bra, her magnificent breasts tumble free, and I stifle my groan of longing. She slips the lace knickers over her hips and down her thighs, kicking them off.
“Turn,” I rasp.
She obeys slowly, presenting her back. The angry red lines of my name are still there, stark against her skin. Good.
“You’re shaking,” I observe.
“So are you,” she counters, turning back to face me. She steps closer, ignoring my command to stay put, and reaches for my shirt. “Let me see the damage.”
I catch her wrists. Her pulse beats frantically against my thumbs. “I’m fine.”
“You’re a liar.” She pulls her hands free and starts unbuttoning my blood-stained shirt. “You can barely stand, Roman. Sit down before you fall down.”
“Turn around and place your hands on the bed.”
“Roman.”
“Do it, Zoya.”
She inhales slowly and turns around, placing her hands on the edge of the bed.
I approach her slowly, pulling the wooden spoon out of my back pocket. I run my hand over her right arse cheek, and then I spank her with the wooden spoon, hard enough to make her yelp in surprise.
“What the hell?” she growls.
“That is for not driving away when I told you to.”
Her breath catches roughly.
I spank her left arse cheek. “That is for disarming yourself.”
“Roman,” she gasps.
The third spank blooms a warm red over her right cheek. “That is for putting me before yourself.”
The fourth has her panting. “That is for not remembering who you are.”
She quivers as I punish her for putting herself in danger.
I deliver one final, sharp strike. The crack echoes, a brutal punctuation to the terror that nearly hollowed me out on that roadside.
Her skin is flushed a deep rose, the heat radiating against my palm when I finally drop the spoon and flatten my hands over the sting. She gasps, a broken sound.
“And that,” I rasp, stepping closer, “is because you are mine to protect. Never the other way around.”
I grip her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh. My body screams. My face feels like it got flattened and then blown back into shape, my back seizes with every breath, but the pain is a distant noise compared to the reality of the fear I felt when she disobeyed me.
“Face me.”
She rotates, eyes wide. Tears cling to her lashes, but she doesn’t look broken. She looks alive. Viciously, beautifully alive.
I don’t give her a chance to speak. I crash my mouth down on hers, devouring the protest, the fear, the defiance.
It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s a claim. A confirmation that we are still here, still breathing.
She claws at my neck, her nails digging in, ignoring the blood on my shirt, pulling me closer until there is no air left between us that isn’t shared.
She rips my shirt open, scattering buttons, but neither of us cares.
Her palms flatten against my bare chest, seeking the heat.
I hiss when she presses a tender spot over my ribs, but I don’t pull away.
I want her to feel the damage. I want her to know the cost of her safety, so she never gambles with it again.
“You’re hurt,” she murmurs against my lips, tasting of desperation.
“I’m alive,” I growl, driving my knee between her legs. “And so are you.”
I shove her down onto the mattress. She bounces, hair fanning out like a dark halo, her chest heaving. She winces as her sore arse hits the sheets, a reminder of my discipline, but her gaze holds only fire.
I shed the ruins of my shirt and kick off my pants, ignoring the way my body protests the movement. When I crawl over her, caging her, she wraps her legs around my waist, settling the weight of her thighs against my hips. It’s a vice grip. A demand.
“Make me forget about today,” she begs, reaching up to claw at my back.
I capture her wrists and pin them above her head. “No. You will remember every second. You will remember that you survived because I made it so.”
I sink into her without foreplay, hard and deep, reclaiming the breath the ambush tried to steal.
We have the rest of our lives for pleasure.
This is about survival. I drive into her, the friction searing and perfect.
My back spasms with every thrust, a white-hot line of agony I welcome because it proves I am still standing.
She cries out, arching off the mattress to meet me, her nails digging into my biceps.
“Mine,” I grit out against her throat, biting down.
She gasps, wrapping her legs tighter around me. “Yours.”
It is a frenzy. There is no finesse, only the brutal, savage need to erase the image of losing her. I punish her mouth with mine, swallowing her moans, tasting the metallic tang of blood from my split lip.
She takes everything I give, matching my rhythm with a desperate hunger. Her hands roam over my bruised ribs, her touch ghosting over contusions that will turn black by morning. I don’t flinch; I don’t stop. I cannot stop.
“Say it,” I command, pulling back just enough to lock gazes with her. “Say you won’t risk yourself again.”
“I can’t,” she pants, defying me even now, her face flushed and wild. “I won’t let you die for me.”
The admission hits harder than the fist that nearly broke my nose. I growl and drive deep, hitting the spot that makes her unravel. She shatters around me, her cunt clamping down, milking me until I can barely hold back.
But I do. Because I’m not ready for this to be over yet.