Chapter 39
Zoya
He holds himself rigid, a sculpture of violence and restraint hovering above me. He is waiting for submission, for me to recant my promise to protect him, but he won’t get it. Not the kind he wants.
“I belong to you,” I gasp, still shaking from the orgasm, digging my nails into his biceps, right where the muscle bunches hardest. “But you belong to me. If you die, I burn the world down. Including myself.”
Something in his eyes fractures. The cold blue turns chaotic, storm-tossed. My words hit the target his fists couldn’t reach.
“Fuck,” he roars, the sound torn from his chest.
He abandons control. The rhythm fractures into something frantic, merciless strokes. I match him, lifting my hips, taking every inch until there is no space left for air or regret. The friction burns, delicious and sharp, erasing the memory of the van, the ambush, and the fear.
He buries his face in the crook of my neck, biting down on the sensitive skin. His cock is throbbing inside me, but he holds on, edging himself. It spikes my arousal. He doesn’t want this to end.
Neither do I.
I clamp my thighs around him and roll us over, my breasts bouncing with the movement.
He groans as I lift off him until just his tip is inside me.
Then I slam back down. The impact wrings a guttural sound from his throat that is half agony, half bliss.
His hands fly to my hips to steady me, his grip bruising-tight, and I see the wince flicker across his battered face.
He’s broken in places, held together by sheer will and the same madness that drives me to grind my pelvis against his.
I set a punishing pace. My hair whips around my face, sticking to the sweat on my skin. Every time I sink onto him, I’m claiming him. I trace the ink over his ribs with my fingertips, worshipping the damage he took for me. He tries to thrust up, to take control back, but I shove his chest down.
“Stay,” I pant. “Let me.”
His eyes are dark, dilated pits of need. He stops fighting his body’s limits and lets me be the weapon for once. I clench my muscles around him, milking the groan from his lips, driving us both toward the precipice. The burn in my thighs matches the fire in my veins.
“Zoya,” he rasps, his head thrown back against the pillow, exposing his throat.
I don’t answer. I just shatter. The orgasm rips through me, blinding and absolute.
“Fuck!” he roars and lifts me, so he can thrust up, hard and fast. I ride the aftershocks of my release while he chases his, gripping my hips until I know I’ll have bruises.
With one final thrust, he empties himself inside me.
The sound he makes is raw, stripped of all the polished control he wears like armour.
I collapse against his chest, my lungs burning, heart hammering. He catches me, his arms locking around my waist as if gravity might try to steal me away. We lie there in a tangle of limbs and sweat, the silence of the room heavy after the storm.
“Alive,” he breathes, the word vibrating through my ribcage.
I lift my head, peeling damp hair from my face. His eyes are closed, exhaustion etching deep lines around his mouth, but his hand is firm where it rests on my lower back.
“Alive,” I agree, tracing the split in his lip with my thumb. “And you are a mess.”
One blue eye cracks open, dull with pain but sharp with intent. “I’m the pakhan’s heir. I have to look tough.”
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, sounding wet and jagged. “You look like you fought a giant and lost.”
“I put a bullet between the giant’s eyes. He lost.”
I nod slowly. “The crime scene. We are all over it.”
“It will be taken care of.”
“Petr?”
He doesn’t reply; he simply moves me off his cock and places me carefully next to him. He gets off the bed stiffly. “Hot shower,” he mutters and hobbles off, allowing me to see that vulnerability for a second before the door closes.
I don’t follow him.
He needs a minute. He is the toughest son of a bitch I’ve ever come across, but he is allowed to have a moment where he cracks.
I curl up and pull the sheets over me, waiting for his return, when I know he won’t accept anything other than being treated as if he is one hundred per cent at the top of his game. I will give him the illusion, even as I watch for signs of pain.
The shower runs for longer than necessary, and I imagine him heating up his back muscles under a scorching spray. I close my eyes and let myself drift on a wave of half-sleep.
The water finally cuts out. Silence reclaims the room, heavy and thick, until the bathroom door opens.
I crack one eye open as steam billows out, carrying the scent of cedar and soap, wrapping around Roman as he steps into the cool air.
A towel hangs low on his hips. He moves naturally now, having fixed his aches and pains through sheer force of will.
“Come to bed,” I murmur.
He drops the towel, unashamed, and for a second, the breath stalls in my throat.
He is a god of violence and brutality. He slips under the sheets and turns on his side, gathering me to him as I close my eyes again.
Within seconds, his breathing evens out.
The adrenaline that fuelled my madness in the van has curdled into a restless energy that prickles under my skin.
I can’t lie here. The silence of the house feels heavy, loaded with the ghosts of the men we left on that country road.
Sliding out from under his arm, I try not to disturb him. He grunts once, shifting into the warmth I leave behind, but he doesn’t wake.
I pull on a silk robe, cinching the belt tight. The pearls still encircle my neck. I unclasp them and let them pool on the dresser near the ducks. They feel like chains.
Downstairs, the house breathes with the quiet efficiency of a fortress.
In the kitchen, Katya sits at the island, a glass of clear liquid in front of her and a gun dismantled on a white cloth. She doesn’t look up as I enter.
“He sleeps?” she asks.
“Like the dead.”
She slides a spring back into place with a sharp click. “Good. He needs it. You should be doing the same.”
“I’m too wired.” I sit opposite her, the marble cool against my palms. “You need to leave.”
Her hand pauses. “You are displeased with me?”
“Don’t be daft, woman. You are Russian She-bear. But you have things to do.”
“I will do them. In my own time,” she says carefully.
I tap the cool marble countertop. “Go,” I urge softly. “Tonight. Roman is down, the estate is locked tight, and Andrei has the perimeter. If you’re going to move, do it while the city is distracted by my father’s funeral and Nik’s... absence.”
Katya finally lifts her gaze. Her eyes are flinty, stripping me down to the marrow. “And leave you? The wolves are not all dead, Zoya. Only the loud ones.”
“I’m not the same girl I was this morning,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “I drove a van into a man today. I claimed a throne. I have Roman.”
“Roman is held together by tattoos and stubbornness.”
“And I am holding him.” I reach across and cover her hand, still resting on the gun. Her skin is rough, calloused from years of violence. “Take the win, Katya. My father gave you that key for a reason. Don’t let it rust.”
She stares at me for a long beat, then sighs, a sound like a tyre losing pressure. She holsters the weapon and reaches for the bottle.
“One drink,” she bargains, pouring a measure of vodka into a second glass. “To fathers and the messes they leave.”
I take the glass. “And to cleaning them up.” The clear liquid scalds my throat, a fire that matches the one still smouldering in my veins. I don’t cough. I slam the glass down, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen.
“Go,” I repeat. “Before he wakes up and tries to make you stay.”
Katya studies me for a long beat, her gaze heavy with things unsaid. Then, she nods. She knocks back her drink in one swallow and stands. “You are not the girl who walked into this house,” she says, her voice rough.
“No,” I agree, the truth of it settling in my gut like a stone. “I think I killed her somewhere on a country lane.”
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “I will be back, Devochka.”
“I know.”
She doesn’t say goodbye. She just turns and vanishes into the shadows of the hallway, an armed spectre in an apron. The back door clicks shut, and I am alone.
I wash the glasses. Rinse, dry, put away. The domesticity feels absurd after the blood and the adrenaline, but it grounds me.
When I creep back upstairs, Roman hasn’t moved. He lies sprawled on his stomach, the sheet tangled at his waist.
I slide in beside him. He grunts in his sleep, his arm instinctively seeking me out, heavy and possessive. I let him pull me close. The war isn’t over; it’s only just begun, but tonight, the castle is ours.