Chapter 9 Inessa #2
"It is now." Yuri moves to a small bar cart near the windows, pouring champagne into two crystal flutes.
"You're my wife. This is where we sleep."
"I won't share a bed with you."
He holds out one of the glasses.
When I don't take it, he sets it on the nearby dresser.
"You will. Eventually."
The certainty in his voice ignites something hot and vicious in my chest.
"No, I won't."
"Inessa—"
"No."
I back away from him, putting space between us.
"I said the words. I signed the papers. I played my part in your little theater production. But that's all this is—a performance. I will never be your wife in any real sense."
My arms flail about as I talk, and I'm adamant that I won't do what he wants.
Though, the way he watches me reminds me of that kiss, and the heat creeps back into my cheeks at the thought of how possessive he is.
He studies my face, then reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a key, setting it next to the champagne glass.
"What's that?"
"The key to this room.
And to the front door, the garden gate, and the garage—a master key.
You're not a prisoner anymore, Inessa.
You're my wife.
You can go wherever you want in this house."
I stare at the small piece of metal. Freedom, or at least the illusion of it.
"I can leave?"
"You can."
His voice is calm, matter-of-fact.
"But where would you go? Your company needs my backing to survive. Kozlov is still looking for Dominic's replacement in the arms deal. Your mother—"
He stops himself, shaking his head.
"There are threats everywhere. Here, at least, you're protected."
"Protected." I laugh, and the sound comes out sharp and bitter.
"By the man who forced me to marry him at gunpoint."
"By the man who will kill anyone who tries to hurt you."
The words should terrify me.
Instead, they send a confusing rush of heat through my veins.
I push the feeling away, focusing on the rage that's easier to understand.
"Get out," I tell him.
"This is my house."
"And this is my room, apparently. So get out of it."
He doesn't move.
"We need to discuss—"
"No."
The word explodes from me, carrying all the fury and grief and terror I've been holding back.
"We don't need to discuss anything. You've taken everything from me—my freedom, my choice, my name. You've made me into your property, your trophy wife, your convenient solution to a business problem. But I will never accept it."
I grab the champagne flute and hurl it at the wall.
Crystal explodes against the plaster, sending shards across the floor.
The sound is satisfying, cathartic.
I reach for the second glass, one he sipped from and set down next to mine.
"Inessa, stop," he growls.
I throw it anyway, watching it shatter near the first.
Then I move to the bar cart, sweeping bottles and glasses to the floor in a cascade of breaking glass and spilled liquor.
"Stop."
Yuri crosses the room in three strides, catching my wrists before I can grab the decanter.
"You'll hurt yourself."
I struggle against his grip, trying to break free. "Let go of me."
"Not until you calm down."
"I'll never be calm. I'll never accept this. I'll break everything in this house if I have to."
He pins me against the wall, using his body to cage me in.
I'm trapped between his chest and the plaster, breathing hard, my heart racing with adrenaline and fury.
"You're done," he says quietly.
I look up at him, seeing my own reflection in his dark eyes.
My face is flushed, my hair disheveled, my lipstick smeared.
I look wild, desperate, exactly how I feel.
And then I spit in his face.
Saliva hits his cheek, and for a moment we're both perfectly still.
I expect him to strike me, to show his true nature, to prove that underneath the expensive suits and civilized manners, he's exactly the monster I know him to be.
Instead, he wipes his face with the back of his hand and crushes his mouth to mine the same way he did in the church.
The kiss is nothing casual or gentle.
It's claiming and demanding, his tongue pushing past my lips, his teeth nipping at my lower lip until I gasp.
I bite him back, tasting blood, but he doesn't pull away.
If anything, it seems to drive him higher, even when I push at his chest to hold him back.
His hands frame my face, holding me still as he kisses me again and again.
Each one is deeper than the last, more desperate, and I find myself responding despite everything.
My body betrays me, melting against his, and when he presses closer, I can feel how much he wants me.
The large bulge in his pants grinds against my thigh, and I find my hands fisted in the lapels of his suitcoat.
This should all disgust me and make me hate him more, but the warmth in my groin and the fire in my veins have my fingers pulling at his buttons.
I hate him.
I hate this.
I hate how good his mouth feels on mine, how his hands make me shiver, how my treacherous body responds to his touch.
But I can't stop kissing him back.
His tongue is still in my mouth when he growls against me, low and rough, “I married you to own you, Inessa. And tonight, I’m going to fuck you until you remember whose name you wear.”
The words punch heat straight into my core.
I shove against his chest, but my body betrays me, clenching and aching, desperate for friction.
My thighs squeeze together, the throb between them unbearable.
He drags my wrists above my head, pinning them to the wall with one massive hand, while the other tears the bodice of my bloodstained dress.
Fabric rips, beads scatter across the floor.
Cool air hits my bare skin, and I shiver, my breath stuttering.
“Look at you,” he snarls, mouth at my throat, teeth grazing hard enough to mark me.
“You walked down my aisle in rags, trying to shame me. And now you’re trembling because you need me to ruin you.”
“No,” I gasp, but the denial collapses under the way my hips tilt toward him.
His thigh wedges between mine, grinding against the ache I can’t hide.
My body grinds back without permission, heat flooding through me.
His laugh is dark, satisfied.
“Your body knows the truth, little wife. You want your Pakhan to break you in.”
My pulse slams in my ears.
He yanks the gown down to my waist, cupping my breast and rolling my nipple until it hardens against his palm.
“Say you hate me again while I make you drip for me.”
“I hate you,” I choke, but the sound comes out ragged, breathless.
His mouth clamps down on my breast, sucking hard, while his free hand slides under my skirt.
Panties shred with one vicious pull, and he groans when his fingers sink inside me, thick and unyielding.
My back bows against the wall, every nerve screaming as he thrusts.
“Already wet,” he mutters, grinding his thumb against my clit.
“So fucking tight. This cunt was made for me.”
My hips roll against his hand.
A sharp moan breaks free before I can smother it.
I'm so fucking needy.
“That’s it,” he breathes against my skin, teeth grazing my jaw.
“Moan for me. Let everyone hear how badly my wife wants to be fucked.”
The shame is molten, twisting with the hunger that drives me harder against his hand.
I want to claw him, spit at him again, anything to resist—but the flood building inside me drowns out everything except the need for more.
The ruined gown hangs half-off me already, and Yuri tears the rest of it down my body in one vicious rip.
Beads scatter across the floor, silk shreds at my feet.
He doesn’t even look at it.
His eyes are locked on me, bare and trembling against the wall.
“Mine now,” he growls, yanking his belt open.
His cock springs free, flushed dark with need.
“This pussy’s mine to ruin.”
I open my mouth to spit venom, but the words vanish when he lifts me by the hips and slams into me.
My scream rips the air, half fury, half desperate pleasure, as he buries himself to the hilt.
My nails dig into his shoulders, clinging to him as the wall rattles behind me.
“Fuck,” he snarls, pounding me hard and fast, each thrust brutal, merciless.
“So tight, little wife. You were made for this cock.”
“Bastard,” I gasp, though my walls clench greedily around him, betraying me with every wet slap of our bodies.
His hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back so he can bite my throat, his teeth leaving marks that will brand me as his.
“Hate me all you want. You’ll still come on my cock. You’re dripping for it already.”
My hips buck against him, shame and hunger tangling until I can’t separate them.
The stretch burns, the pressure unbearable, every savage thrust driving me closer to the edge.
My body betrays me, pulsing, slick, desperate for release.
“Take it,” he groans, grinding deeper, the head of his cock battering that spot inside me until stars explode behind my eyes.
“Come for me. Let me feel you fucking break.”
My scream tears from my throat as climax detonates through me, my pussy spasming around him.
My body writhes against his, clenching, sucking him deeper, milking every inch.
“Fuck yes,” he growls, teeth scraping my jaw as his thrusts turn ragged.
“Come on my cock while I fill you.”
One last brutal drive and he shudders, groaning into my mouth as he floods me.
Heat spills inside, his cock twitching as he pumps me full.
My body seizes around him, locked in aftershocks, and all I can do is hang on while he spends himself deep inside me.
We’re both panting, sweat and sex between us, my body trembling in his grip.
His chest presses to mine, his cock still buried in me, and even with the taste of blood and bile in my mouth, I can’t deny how badly I wanted that release.
When I come to myself and realize what I've done, I push him away with shaking hands.
He's breathing hard, his hair mussed, his shirt hanging open.
He looks satisfied and dangerous and completely unrepentant.
"Get out," I whisper.
Shame burns in my cheeks, and I feel moisture on my cheeks.
I'm crying.
He studies my face, taking in the tears I can't stop, the bruises his mouth left on my throat.
"Inessa—"
"Get out!"
The words tear from my throat in a raw, desperate roar.
He straightens his clothes, running a hand through his hair.
At the door, he pauses.
"This changes nothing," I tell him before he can speak.
"It was a mistake. It won't happen again."
He doesn't argue.
He just looks at me for a long moment, then leaves, closing the door softly behind him.
I sink onto the bed and finally let myself cry, great, ugly sobs that shake my whole body, mourning everything I've lost—Batya, my freedom, my sense of self.
But underneath the grief is something else, something I don't want to acknowledge.
The way he made me feel, the dark hunger in his eyes when he looked at me—I didn't hate that.