Chapter 21 #2
And I did it all because I couldn't stomach the thought of that Italian pig cutting a single inch of my wife's skin.
"Get out," I whisper to Ivan. "Track the signal. Don't lose them. We only have a narrow window before that ship is loaded and turns around."
Ivan nods once. He looks completely sick with the reality of the war we lost. He leaves the office, and the lock clicks shut behind him.
We're alone again.
I turn slowly to look at Helena.
She's shaking violently. The white shirt she put on is ruined, stained with black soot, gray ash, and Lev’s bright red blood. Her face is pale, and her eyes are wide. Tears finally spill over her lashes, leaving clean tracks through the dirt on her cheeks.
She heard every single word Ivan said.
"I ruined it," she whispers. Her voice is broken and raspy, cutting right through the quiet of the room.
"Helena."
"I ruined your life," she sobs. She wraps her arms tight around her bruised ribs like she's trying to hold her own bones together.
The dam finally breaks. All the terror of the Foundry floods out of her in a tidal wave of guilt.
"You built this for twenty years," she cries, her voice echoing off the glass. "And I gave it away in minutes! Because I was scared. Because I'm weak."
She stands up on shaky legs and takes a step toward me.
"I should've let him cut it off," she cries.
She holds up her bandaged hand and shoves it toward me like proof of her betrayal.
"It's a finger. He could’ve had it. I never should've told him about the tablet.
And you... You should've left me there to die.
I'm not worth this. I'm not worth your empire. "
Something inside me snaps.
My restraint was already worn thin by the ambush, the blood, the loss of my men, and the terrifying fear of losing her. Now, it completely shatters.
Hearing her say she should be dead ignites a dark, violent fire in my chest. I can't stand hearing her price her own life so cheaply.
I cross the room in two long strides.
“You’re the only thing worth a damn,” I snarl, grabbing her by the waist. “Nothing else matters. No one else. There is only you.”
She gasps, but I don't give her a single second to breathe. I press my body flush against hers, trapping her between the cold glass and the heat of my chest.
"Don't you fucking dare ever say that again," I growl against her mouth, gripping her hips hard. "Don't ever wish for death. Your life doesn't belong to you anymore. It belongs to me, and I decide what it's worth."
She lets out a choked sob, her hands flying up between us.
But she doesn't push me away. Instead, she just grips the blood-stained fabric of my shirt, clinging to me like a drowning woman holding onto the only piece of driftwood.
The shock is finally breaking her down, and the raw terror of surviving is setting in.
"I'm so cold," she gasps, her whole body shaking against mine. She buries her face in my neck, crying hot tears against my skin. "I thought I was dead in there. When the truck hit us, and when he held the knife, I really thought I was dead. Don't let go of me."
"I’m here," I say, wrapping one arm around her back and burying my hand in her hair to pull her closer. "I’m not going anywhere. I've got you."
But as I hold her, my gaze wanders down to the clean white bandage wrapped around her thumb. It's visual proof that another man had her at his mercy. Proof that another man terrified her, tied her to a chair, and made her bleed.
A wave of pure, possessive rage rises in my throat and chokes out any rational thought. I need to burn the memory of Moretti out of her mind, replace his touch with mine until I'm the only thing she feels. I want to be the only monster she sees when she closes her eyes.
So I kiss her.
My mouth crashes down on hers, forcing her lips apart.
I kiss her with all the anger of losing my crown and all the raw terror of those hours I spent thinking I was too late to save her.
My tongue sweeps into her mouth, tasting the salt of her tears and the metallic hint of blood from her bitten lip.
She whimpers, but she meets my aggression with a frantic hunger of her own. She needs this as much as I do.
"I'm sorry," she cries against my lips, her nails digging deep through my shirt and into my shoulders. "I ruined everything. Take it out on me. Please, Konstantin. Punish me."
Her begging me to punish her feels like a physical blow to the chest.
She thinks I'm angry at her, that this kiss is payback for what she did.
I tear my mouth away and grip her jaw, pressing my thumb firmly against her cheek to force her head up. I make her look me in the eye. My chest heaves against hers, and our breaths mix in the small space between us.
"Listen to me," I breathe, my voice dropping into a dark promise. "I didn't trade my empire to break you. I didn't hand over a twenty-year war to bring you back here and punish you for surviving."
Her breath hitches. Her dark eyes search mine, wide and desperate, full of unshed tears.
"I traded it because an empire means absolutely nothing if I have to sleep in a graveyard to rule it. I chose you, Helena. I chose you over the Throne."
The air leaves her lungs in a sharp, stunned gasp.
I watch the shift happen in real-time. The fragile, guilty survivor melts away under the sheer weight of what I confessed. In her place, the unbreakable woman who faced down the Bratva Council of Elders rises to the surface.
Her eyes darken. The vulnerability is replaced by a fierce heat, and the trembling stops entirely.
She reaches up and slides her hands to the back of my neck. Her grip is surprisingly strong, twisting tight into my hair. She pulls my face back down to hers. Her submission transforms into a fierce, absolute demand.
"You traded your crown for me," she breathes. Her voice is a whisper that sets the blood in my veins on fire. "You threw away an empire to keep me."
"Yes," I rasp, my gaze dropping to her mouth.
"Then own me, Konstantin," she demands. Her hips press up against mine, sealing the friction between our bodies. "Claim what you bought. Show me I was worth it."
My control snaps completely.
I grab the hem of her ruined, soot-stained blouse and pull it up hard.
The buttons pop off and scatter across the concrete floor.
I tug her skirt up, my rough hands gripping her bare thighs.
When I lift her off the floor, she wraps her legs around my waist, locking her ankles tight at the small of my back.
I rip my belt open, freeing myself, desperate for her heat. But even through the red haze of my lust and my anger, a protective instinct screams in my head.
She’s bruised.
My cock hovers at the tip of her wet entrance, but I don’t push any further. My muscles tremble with the strain of holding back. I grip her hips firmly, supporting her entire weight so I don't crush her bruised ribs.
"Am I hurting you?" I ask, searching her face, hyper-aware of the deep tissue bruising the doctor warned about. "Tell me if I'm hurting you."
She lets out a frustrated sigh and reaches down, grabbing my hip with her bandaged hand before pulling me forward.
"No," she gasps, her eyes burning into mine. "Don't stop."
I drive into her.
She cries out, throwing her head back against the glass as I push all the way in.
I set a hard, relentless rhythm. Every thrust is a physical claim that she is mine. She takes every ounce of brutality and matches it.
Ecstasy flashes through my veins as she bites down on my shoulder, sinking her teeth into my skin and stifling her moans against my shirt so the armed men below won't hear. Her muscles clench around me, drawing me deeper, demanding more, taking everything I have to give.
Breathing hard, I drop my forehead against hers and gaze deep into her eyes, watching the pleasure and the pain of the night crash through her. I'm erasing the Foundry, Moretti's knife, the violence, the darkness. I’m burning it all away until there’s nothing left inside of her but me.
"You’re mine," I growl. "My wife."
“I’m yours,” she echoes before the climax hits her. A split-second later, she shatters around me, her body bowing against the glass. My name erupts from her lips, filling every inch of the quiet office.
I follow seconds later, my grip tightening on her hips as the last of my control breaks.
I slow my rhythm, burying my face in the curve of her neck to absorb her tremors until they fade into exhausted, heavy breaths.
When she’s had enough, I untangle her legs from my waist and lower her gently to her feet. She sways, adrenaline drained now, and I wrap her in my arms.
"I've got you," I murmur.
For a moment, we stay locked in the embraced. Locked in each other. Then I pull away and adjust my clothes before pulling her ruined shirt back over her bare shoulders.
Without a word, I guide her away from the glass and into the small, private washroom attached to the office.
Inside, I lift her onto the edge of the marble counter and run the sink until the water is warm, then take a clean hand towel and gently wash the black soot, ash, and dried blood from her face.
I wipe the dirt away with slow, careful strokes, making sure not to bump her bruised ribs or the fresh bandage on her thumb. She leans into my touch, her eyes heavy. The terror is gone, replaced by exhaustion.
"It's past midnight," I tell her softly, brushing a damp strand of hair behind her ear. "You need to sleep."
Her nod is lazy, like she’s already dozing off. So, I keep as quiet as possible as I carry her back to the office and set us both down on the deep leather sofa at its center. She curls into my lap, and I drape my ruined suit jacket over her shoulders like a blanket.
Within seconds, she goes limp. Her breathing evens out as sleep finally drags her under.
I sit in the quiet shadows, resting my chin on the top of her head, and look out of the glass wall at the armed soldiers pacing the warehouse floor below.
Moretti thinks he won tonight. He thinks he crippled the Bratva.
He doesn't realize I planted a micro-tracker in that hardware. We have a narrow window before the Anastasia turns around, and I intend to use every single second of it to hunt the Italians down, kill them all, and take back what’s mine.
Sure, Moretti has my tablet, but as I hold my wife against my chest, feeling the steady beat of her heart against mine, I know one thing for certain.
He doesn't have my soul.