Chapter 7
Kiryan
Kiryan's palm pressed to the small of my back, holding me tight against him.
His kiss came hard and hungry, tongue pushing in like he owned my mouth, stealing what little breath I had left.
All I could do was fist his shirt and tilt my head back, take it.
But he didn't humiliate me like he had at the wedding.
He didn't treat me like Isabella. He kissed me again and again, like the woman in his arms was the one he'd been starving for.
"Kiryan..."
The second I said his name, he cradled the back of my neck and kissed me again. This one slowed down. He caught my lower lip and sucked gently, then licked the spot he'd bitten raw, so intimate it made me shake.
"Don't hide," he murmured against my mouth. "Look at me."
I opened my eyes. Those dark gray eyes held no disgust. No cold assessment. For the first time, I saw myself reflected there.
"So you finally want to see me?" I asked.
His fingers slid through my hair, tucking the loose strands behind my ear.
"I was the one who looked too late." His voice sounded rough, like it didn't quite belong to him.
The softest part of my chest took the hit. I didn't believe it. I was scared that if I blinked, he'd turn back into ice.
"I'm not Isabella."
"I know."
"I have freckles. And I don't even know how to be a proper Mrs. Morozova."
"So what?" His thumb brushed my cheek. "I want you."
Tears poured out before I could stop them. Kiryan dipped his head and kissed them away, one by one. The kisses at my lashes, the bridge of my nose, my cheekbones—light, careful. Nothing like the man I knew.
"Elena." He said my name like it mattered. "I never loved Isabella. I just never saw who I really wanted."
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not going to let you doubt me again."
His big body covered mine. Even through clothes, I felt the heat, the shift in him. His mouth traced my jaw, then my neck, each slow pull making my muscles melt.
"Do you like me?" I asked.
He lifted his head, eyes locking onto mine.
"It isn't like."
My stomach dropped.
Then he took my hand and pressed it to his chest. Under my palm, his heartbeat slammed—heavy, fast.
"It is love," he said. "I love you, Elena."
Something in me snapped loose. I kissed him first.
His hand slid under my hem, hot palm traveling up my waist. Everywhere his fingertips skimmed, my skin shivered. He shoved my nightgown up to my chest. Cold air hit for a second, then his heat swallowed it whole.
He lowered his mouth to my nipple.
"Kiryan!"
My body went rigid, my fingers tangling in his hair. His tongue moved slowly, circling, while his other hand kneaded my other breast. Pleasure stacked, tighter and tighter, until my back arched and I pushed into him without thinking.
He kept going lower, kissing down my ribs, my stomach. The nightgown came off completely. His hands spread my legs. Shame made me try to close them—he held me open.
"Don't cover up," he said. "I want to see you."
His mouth landed on the inside of my thigh, inching closer to the wet heat between them. I bit down on my hand to keep quiet, but when his tongue finally swept over the most sensitive spot, a moan broke loose anyway.
Kiryan didn't stop.
He worked me with his mouth, slow and teasing, then hard, sucking like he meant it. I couldn't take it. My hips lifted again and again, and he shoved me back down with his hand. The pressure climbed until I lost control—right when he pushed his fingers inside me.
"Look at me when you come," he ordered.
I forced my eyes open. Kiryan stared straight at me, fingers driving in and out of my soaked core, his tongue pressing down again on that perfect, brutal spot.
"Kiryan—" The tremor tore through me from between my legs. I clawed the sheets, my body bowing into an arc in his grip, crying his name like I couldn't stop.
Before the aftershocks even faded, he stripped and covered me again, his hard heat nudging at my entrance. My legs still shook from the orgasm. Kiryan didn't push in yet. He bent to kiss me.
"Tell me," he murmured. "Who do you want?"
"You."
"Say my name."
"Kiryan. I only want you."
He eased into me, slow.
The stretch burned for a beat, then turned into a deep, relentless fullness that made my head tip back. His breath hit my ear, heavy and ragged. He moved like he was holding himself on a leash—pulling out until only a little remained, then sinking back in to the deepest point.
"Elena, you have no idea how bad I want to have you like this." He caught my hand and laced our fingers together.
"I always belong to you."
His pace built. The mattress rocked under us. I felt every thrust, felt him slam into the most sensitive place inside me over and over until the pleasure climbed sharp and bright. Kiryan kissed me, swallowing my broken sounds.
"I'm not going to make you anyone's substitute again." He pressed his forehead to mine. "You are my wife. The one I love most."
The words made my tears fall harder.
For the first time, I wasn't the sister who never measured up to Isabella. I wasn't the backup bride shoved into a gap. I wasn't someone who had to hide in corners. Kiryan knew exactly who I was—and he still chose me.
All those years of wanting finally got answered. I almost believed that if he kept holding me like this, everything I'd endured would mean something.
I shook in his arms, my body clenching around him. Kiryan drove harder, then after the last deep, brutal thrusts, he crushed me to his chest. Heat spilled deep inside me.
He stared at me, like he was about to say something—
And the light behind him suddenly turned vicious and white. His whole face blurred in it. His lips still moved, but his words stretched far away, fading. I reached for him in a panic and caught nothing but cold sheets.
I jerked awake.
The room was dim. There was no Kiryan. No scattered clothes.
The curtains stayed closed. A warm yellow lamp glowed by the bed. I lay alone, my nightgown untouched, the blanket pulled up tight to my chest.
It had all been a dream. But my body hadn't gotten the memo. I was sticky between my thighs, the most private part of me still twitching faintly from the orgasm. I squeezed my legs together, shame burning up from my chest to my ears.
I had dreamed Kiryan said he loved me. I had dreamed he touched me like that. Worse—every sensation had felt too real. The kisses, the weight of his arms, the satisfaction when he filled me—it all clung to my nerves like it had actually happened.
The fever seemed mostly gone, but the leftover heat had rushed straight to my cheeks. I shut my eyes, trying to shove the images away, but the things he'd said in the dream only sharpened.
"You are my wife. The only woman I want."
I hid half my face under the blanket. I was out of my damn mind.
On the bedside table sat half a glass of water and opened fever meds, the instructions pinned under the box.
What I remembered from before the medicine dragged me under started to float up through the dream.
I remembered Kiryan's thumb brushing the corner of my eye—so light it didn't feel like him.
I'd gone still all over, like even my tears had paused.
He had fed me, helped me take the pills. The meds had hit fast. After my consciousness sank, someone had still moved around the room. Someone had murmured my temperature. A cold stethoscope had pressed to my chest. And Kiryan's voice—low, tight—had asked the doctor when the fever would break.
The sounds had come in pieces. I couldn't tell what had been real and what my brain had made up. I didn't know who tucked the blanket around me. I didn't know when I'd grabbed someone's wrist. But the hand that wiped my tears had belonged to Kiryan. That part had been real.
Maybe that was why I'd had that ridiculous dream—because Kiryan had been gentle in a way he never was.
Two soft knocks sounded outside the door.
I hadn't even pulled myself together when the door opened. A broad-shouldered woman with gray-streaked hair walked in carrying a glass of water. I'd never seen her before. When she came closer, I caught the worry on her face—no attempt to hide it.
"Good. You're awake." She set the water down by the bed and studied me. "How do you feel? Your face still looks flushed."
"Better." I braced a hand on the mattress, trying to sit up. "Just... kind of hot."
My head felt clear now. The fever haze was gone.
She steadied my shoulder and propped my pillow properly. Then she touched my forehead, checking, and her tension eased.
"The fever's down." Her expression softened. "I'm Olga, the housekeeper."
"I'm Elena."
"I know." She grinned, loud and easy, and tapped my hand with a palm that looked like it could break a man's nose. "You're the lady of this house."
Lady of this house made me freeze. Since I'd come here, nobody had ever said my place out loud like it was normal.
"Are you hungry? That little bit Kiryan brought you wouldn't last long." She sat on the edge of the bed, voice gentler.
I remembered the bowl of semolina porridge—I'd eaten less than half. My stomach was basically empty.
But hearing his name kicked the dream back into my head: naked skin, fingers tangled, his mouth at my ear, all those words.
"I'm not really hungry," I said, looking away, awkward as hell.
Olga watched me, sighed once, then spoke.
"When Kiryan left, he told the kitchen to keep making food that is easy on your stomach.
" She paused. "The doctor said you got chilled from the rain, and you hadn't been eating.
That's why you got so sick. Kiryan waited until the doctor confirmed your fever would break before he went to deal with anything. "
So it hadn't been my imagination.
Kiryan hadn't just fed me and given me medicine—he'd called a doctor. My heart kicked up again. Somewhere deep inside me, a part I'd forced down for years dared to hope.
I killed it fast.
I knew the truth. Kiryan didn't like me. Maybe he just didn't want me dying in the Morozov house. I'd been delirious, and I'd turned basic obligation into something else.