Chapter 017 Viktor
The phone vibrated against the nightstand like a trapped insect. I reached for it without thinking, one arm still locked around Isabella’s waist, her naked skin scalding against mine. Her thigh slid higher, brushing my cock—already hard since the first gray light leaked through the curtains—and I had to clench my jaw to keep from groaning.
Katya’s voice came through thin and frayed. “She’s asking for you.”
Isabella shifted in her sleep, pressing closer, breath warm against the ink over my heart—Dimitri’s initials, a permanent brand. I tightened my grip on her hip, stilling her before she unraveled me completely.
“She’s getting worse,” Katya said. “The doctors are worried.”
I stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster while my sister spoke. My mother was slipping away in Moscow, calling for a dead son and the living one who wouldn’t come.
“Is she lucid?” I asked.
“Not really. She keeps asking if Misha is there. If you’ve brought him home.” A pause, wet with unshed tears. “Viktor, please. You need to come. Now.”
Isabella’s fingers twitched across my ribs in her sleep, tracing scars she hadn’t yet catalogued. The memory of last night flooded me: her riding me until I begged, her tears when she came, the confession that she had erased the intelligence that could have gutted us. All while my spend still leaked from her body.
I had let her break me. And I had broken her right back.
“No,” I said. “I have things to handle here.”
Katya’s silence was worse than any scream. The call ended. I dropped the phone and let it clatter to the floor.
Duty settled on my chest like wet concrete. My mother was dying, and I was here, corrupted by the woman I should have executed weeks ago. Isabella’s hand spread across my sternum, possessive even in sleep. Her touch burned hotter than guilt.
I should have woken her gently. Instead I watched her.
Morning light painted her in merciless detail: hair wild across my pillow, lips swollen from my teeth, throat marked by my mouth. Bruises bloomed on her shoulder like dark roses. Mine.
Her eyes opened slowly—drowsy blue that sliced straight through me. For one heartbeat she smiled, soft and real, before memory returned. The smile didn’t vanish; it sharpened.
“You’re still here,” she murmured.
She sat up. The sheet slipped, revealing the perfect weight of her breasts, nipples tightening in the cool air. My mouth went dry.
She tugged the sheet higher, hiding herself. The absence felt like punishment.
I pushed upright, letting the linen fall to my waist. The air raised gooseflesh along my arms.
“This is my room,” I said. The words came out rougher than I intended, edged with something close to desperation.
Her head tilted, chin lifted. Sleep still softened her face, but her eyes were winter. She watched me the way a sniper watches a target—calculating distance, wind, intent.
My gaze dragged over her: the sheet clinging to the curve of shoulder, the hollow of waist, the tension in her arms as she clutched the fabric. I wanted to tear it away. I wanted to watch her decide whether to fight or spread for me. I wanted fresh bruises shaped like my fingers.
“I own everything in here.” I met her eyes and let her see the hunger.
Her lips curved—small, mocking. She thought I was bluffing. Or perhaps she knew I would devour her before I ever truly harmed her. Both were true.
I looked away first, reaching for the water glass. The motion was deliberate, careless.
Her hand moved faster.
It dipped beneath the pillow, slid under the mattress in one fluid arc. Steel flashed. The curved blade kissed my throat before I finished turning.
The edge was thin enough to sing. She pressed just hard enough for me to feel her steadiness—warm skin, cold metal. A bead of blood welled, rolled slow and hot down my neck.
“Are you sure about that?” Her smile was sweet poison.
My pulse hammered against the knife. One twitch and she could open my artery. I knew she wouldn’t. Not yet.
I leaned forward. The blade bit deeper. Pain flared bright and clean. Her pupils flared wider.
I pushed again, letting her feel the thrum of my life under her weapon. Blood traced a second path down my collarbone. I wanted her to understand: death was nothing. Losing her was the only thing I feared.
The knife trembled. Just once.
She hissed—frustration, not fear—and flung the blade away. It spun, struck the hardwood with a dull ring, and lay still.
“Oh, quite sure,” I said quietly. “Getting more certain every hour.”
She sat with legs stretched beneath the sheet, clutching it to her chin like armor. I straddled her thighs. The linen fell from me completely; my cock jutted heavy between us.
My hand found her throat. Thumb settled over her pulse—racing, betraying her. Her lips parted. I felt the slick heat gathering between her legs before I even touched her.
I kissed her hard, claiming. She melted, nails scraping my chest, dragging me closer. When we broke apart we were both breathing like we’d run miles.
I ducked my head, caught the sheet between my teeth, and dragged it down inch by inch. Cool air kissed her skin; gooseflesh rose. Her breasts, her belly, the flare of hips—everything exposed again. She gasped, arching slightly.
One finger between her breasts pressed her back to the mattress. I looked my fill: the flat plane of her stomach, the gold collar gleaming at her throat, blue eyes staring down the length of her body at me.
“You want the sheet to cover you?” I asked.
“No,” she breathed.
“Then why clutch it like a virgin?”
Her glare could have flayed lesser men. “Maybe I didn’t want to watch you realize how badly you need me.”
I laughed—short, sharp. Crawled up her body until I could grip her chin. “You cried last night, Isabella. Not me.”
She snapped at my thumb, teeth grazing skin but not breaking it. Her pulse fluttered wildly beneath my fingers.
“What do you want?” she whispered. Challenge only.
I twisted the sheet around my hand, dragged the linen across her thigh slow enough for her to feel the threat. Then I drove two wrapped fingers deep inside her.
She arched hard, a strangled sound escaping. The cloth soaked instantly; the wet sound was obscene. I ground my palm against her clit and watched her eyes roll.
“Here’s your precious sheet, kotyonok.”
She bucked, nails carving crescents into my shoulders. Pain flared bright and perfect.
I lay beside her, pressing my aching cock into the mattress for friction that only worsened the torment. Her leg hooked over my hip; she clenched around the intrusion, milking linen and finger alike.
I slid my free hand up, rolled her nipple until tears gathered at the corners of her eyes.
“You want it?” I asked against her ear. “You want to see what happens when you speak to me like that?”
She nodded—lie and truth at once.
I withdrew the soaked fabric, dragged it up her body, and stuffed it between her lips. She gagged once, then bit down, hips rolling frantically.
That look—defeat and fury and raw need—was what I wanted branded on my memory.
I moved down her body, spread her thighs wide, and pinned them open. Her cunt glistened, swollen, still marked by last night. The scent hit me like a drug—salt and honey and surrender.
I licked her slowly from entrance to clit, savoring the taste of us both. She jerked, legs fighting my grip. I forced them wider and did it again, harder, flattening my tongue until she sobbed around the gag.
Her thighs clamped around my head; sound dulled to a thick heartbeat. I let her try to suffocate me. If this was death, I would meet it gladly.
She yanked the sheet from her mouth. “Make me come, Viktor.”
I pulled back just enough to meet her eyes—lips shiny, chin wet. “You’d beg the man keeping you prisoner? The man who will burn your family to ash?”
She laughed, wild and desperate. “I’m not begging. I’m ordering. Make me come, or I swear I’ll fuck every guard in this house until I find one who can.”
Rage detonated behind my eyes. I bit the soft flesh above her clit hard enough to bruise. She yelped, but the sound was greedy.
I spat on her, watched it slide down her folds, then attacked her clit with lips and tongue and teeth. Two fingers slammed deep, curling ruthlessly. She shook like a wire drawn too tight.
When her thighs began to quake uncontrollably, I growled against her, “Now, kotyonok.”
She shattered. Hips bucking, nails raking bloody trails down my arms, cunt clamping around my fingers in waves. The sight and sound and taste undid me. I rutted helplessly against the mattress and came hard, spilling across the ruined sheets.
I crawled up her body, pinned her wrists beside her head. My spend painted her stomach; my cock still twitched. I wanted her to see what she did to me.
She looked up, chest heaving, eyes glittering. “Was that so hard?”
I leaned close, lips brushing her ear. “Next time I tie you to this bed and make you beg for hours.”
She smiled—slow, unafraid. “Promise?”
I kissed her then, bruising and deep, tasting blood and salt and us. She kissed back just as fiercely, teeth clashing, nails digging into my wrists.
For one suspended moment there was nothing else. Only her. Only this. Only the knowledge that I would break her a thousand times if it meant keeping her.