Octavia
Milo leads me to his car. He starts the engine, and within moments we’re back on the road, heading towards the academy.
He drives in silence before glancing at me. “My men are looking into it as well. We’ll find him. And I promise you, his death won’t be easy.”
I smile.
By the time we reach the academy car park, first light is creeping in. We walk back to the dorm without a word.
It’s nearly eight. The sky hangs low and grey, lightening only faintly, undecided between breaking open or giving way to rain.
By the time we reach my building, I’m spent. I didn’t sleep, after being fucked into submission all night.
Sometime around four or five, I heard him get out of bed, I read the message on his phone while he was in the bathroom. Then he left the dorm.
Of course I followed.
A text from Adreno.
Seriously?
Not suspicious at all.
To say the least, I’m exhausted. I’m going back to bed. Classes can wait. Exams are over, and the term is all but finished.
I climb the stairs, and he follows. I roll my eyes but don’t waste the energy arguing.
When we reach our floor, Eleanor’s door opens and my breath catches for a second, expecting to see her.
It’s Ido.
He slips out quietly and closes the door behind him. My eyes narrow on him. What the hell is he doing in her room?
Before I can say anything, he walks straight past us, his shoulders set, not even sparing me a glance.
“What’s his deal?” I ask Markev.
He only shrugs.
I unlock my door and step inside, pulling it closed behind me, but he wedges his foot into the gap, stopping it.
I turn, narrowing my eyes at him, a smirk touches my lips. I shove the door harder, trapping his foot in the gap.
He looks at me through the narrow opening, his eyes darkening.
“You’re asking for it.”
He pushes hard, and it gives way. I am no match for him physically. He steps inside and shuts the door behind him, locking it.
As he turns back, I lunge, hooking my arm around his neck and locking my elbow tight against his throat.
For a split second, I have him. Then he moves, unwinding me without force.
He pivots and jabs, more teasing, before sending me down. I hit the floor hard, but I take him with me.
He pins my wrists above my head, his body hovering over mine, his nose brushing against mine.
“If you want foreplay, gorgeous,” he murmurs, “you can just say so.”
He licks my cheek.
I drive my foot into his groin and shove him off.
He laughs as he rolls onto his back, unbothered.
I stand and roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
I walk into my bedroom without looking back.
I take off my jacket, then the rest of my clothes, until I am left in nothing but my bra and panties.
I head into the bathroom, turn on the tap, and start washing my hands and my face.
I dry off with a towel when I feel him step up behind me. My back grazes his chest. He bends and presses a soft kiss to my shoulder, his hands roaming slowly over my body.
I close my eyes and tilt my head back, biting down on a moan.
I know how this looks, from hatred to this, but the truth is more complicated.
I still hate him.. in a way.
Or more accurate I hate what he represents, what his family stands for.
But he didn’t do anything to me directly.
Not really.
And that’s why I stopped resisting. Because he makes me feel things.
And I want to keep feeling them, even if only for a moment. To feel something other than pain.
Yes, it’s fucked up that the person who does this to me is a Markev.
But fuck, what am I supposed to do?
My thoughts threaten to pull me under, the guilt presses in, and the familiar void opens wide. Then he bites lightly at my neck, and it drags me back.
And here I stay.
His hands keep moving over my arse, one of them sliding forward until his fingers find my centre. He lifts his mouth from my neck and bends down, out of my line of sight.
I don’t look in the mirror. If I do, I’ll ruin this moment, and I can’t afford that.
I smirk to myself just as his teeth sink into my arse cheek. I gasp, my fingers curling against the counter, while his hand continues its slow movements.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “I need to fill you again. I need my cum dripping out of you, constantly.”
He tears my panties and bra away, tossing them aside. Then he straightens and, in one swift motion, lifts me into his arms, turning me and setting me down on the counter.
I don’t realise when he strips, only that he’s suddenly naked, his cock hard as he thrusts into me. I moan, my hands sliding up to wrap around his neck.
He pulls out slowly, watching me intently, before slamming back in.
I watch him, biting my lower lip, the sight of it so damn good it steals my breath.
“This pussy is fucking mine,” he grunts as he drives deeper into me.
“I’m close already,” I manage to say.
It doesn’t take long. He seals his lips to mine and I’m gone, clenching around him as he fucks me like there’s no tomorrow.
“Come for me, gorgeous,” he growls. “Right the fuck now.”
I let the orgasm take me and feel him empty inside me.
“Fucking perfect,” he murmurs, kissing me. “Fucking mine.” He bites my lip.
I’m spent. I don’t even know if my legs still work, and he chuckles as if reading my mind. He keeps me in his arms, my hands locked around his neck, his cock still buried deep inside me as he carries me out of the bathroom.
He sets me down on the bed and withdraws slowly, watching.
I feel his cum spill out of me, and he pushes it back inside with his fingers.
He withdraws them and presses them to my mouth. I taste us on his skin as he slowly pulls them free again and brings them to his lips.
Then he slides into bed beside me, pulling the covers over us. I end up with my head on his chest, following the lines of his tattoos with my fingers.
I don’t know how long we lie there in silence.
As my fingers continue their pattern, a thought occurs to me.
“You’re twenty five,” I say, looking up at him. “Why are you in my classes? Shouldn’t you have finished your degree by now?”
He gives me a knowing smile.
“For you.”
I narrow my eyes. “So you’re taking all my classes because you’re not actually here to study?”
I press a little harder, because I already know the answer.
He shrugs. “I’m here for you.”
“And the Ferrum Syndicate?” I ask quietly. “You expect me to believe this is only about me?”
“Believe it or not,” he replies evenly, “it is. Isaak has his own plans. I don’t care what they are.”
Fuck.
I knew there was more to them being here.
I turn my face away, but he catches my chin, forcing me to look at him.
“I would’ve come here with them or without them,” he says calmly. “I’m here for you. The first night I met you, I knew I wouldn’t let you go.”
I exhale slowly and change the subject. This isn’t new information.
At first, I thought he’d come to kill me. Then it became clear he was… a bit obsessed with me?
And whatever Isaak is planning, that’s between him and the cartel princess.
Not me.
“What’s your degree in?”
A slow smile plays at his mouth. “I also have a master’s.”
My brows lift. “In what, exactly?”
“Well,” he says mildly, “I’m Bratva. I didn’t need a degree.”
He pauses, watching me. “But as part of the Ferrum Syndicate, attendance at the academy was non-negotiable.”
“So you studied…?”
“Finance,” he replies without enthusiasm. “Corporate structures. Laundering laws. The sort of crap that keeps money moving and governments confused.”
His mouth tilts. “Mostly bullshit.”
He shrugs lightly. “And a lot of combat training. Weapons, tactical operations, shooting.”
“That part,” he adds, “I didn’t mind. I actually enjoyed it.”
“But you’re very good at art,” I say.
“Yeah. That’s a gift I never figured out where I inherited from,” he replies.
“I was just grateful I had a pen and paper growing up. Whenever things got hard, it helped.” He pauses briefly before continuing.
“I stopped for a while, though. Then I came here. Taking your art classes, it’s been nice to come back to it. ”
I smile.
“So how come you weren’t forced into some bullshit like finance, on top of combat and shooting drills?” he asks.
“Oh, but I am,” I say lightly, answering his question. “My father made me start early. I finished a degree in finance in my second year.”
I continue more evenly. “Combat and training have been part of my life for as long as I can remember. Since I was thirteen, I think. I still practise and keep myself in shape.”
I pause, choosing my words. “I don’t think I need more shooting classes anymore. There’s always room to improve, of course, but I have years of experience behind me.”
I laugh softly. “This year was actually meant to be my rest period. Before everything else began.”
He laughs at my choice of words.
“Who did your tattoos?” I finally ask, my hand slows as I stop at one in particular. A built man, dark wings stretching from his back. Not too big, not small either. The detail in the wings is incredible. I trace the edge with my finger.
“You like them?” he says, a smirk pulls at his mouth.
“Yes.”
“I designed them,” he replies.
“Wow.”
He laughs. “That might be the best compliment I’ve ever had from you, gorgeous.”
I swat his chest. “Stop. They really are amazing.”
“Don’t worry,” he says easily. “I’ll design something for you too.”
Despite myself, I whisper, “I think I’d like that.”