Chapter 58 War
Chapter fifty-eight
War
I’m livid.
Livid and relieved.
That gargantuan bastard could have shot me, but I was ready, more than willing to die if it meant getting my Olivia away from that blue-haired motherfucker.
She trails behind me into the penthouse, her voice, soft, apologetic, beautiful, chasing me through the silence. But I can’t hear her.
I can’t hear anything except the roar of my own blood in my ears.
I yank open the fridge, grab a bottle of water, and slam it shut. The sound cracks through the kitchen. She flinches beside me.
Damn it.
I drag in a breath. My voice is rough when I turn to her.
“Olivia—”
“War, I’m sorry, okay? I just wanted to get the building back, and I know Wesley may be angry at me, and I—”
“You could have been killed!”
The words rip out of me, sharp and violent, like they’ve been carved from bone. I barely recognize my own voice.
“But—”
The bottle cap snaps in my hand, water spilling down my wrist.
“But nothing, Olivia.” My throat burns. “Men like Korsakov kill women like you for less than what you did. Demanding to see him? Walking into his place of business? Alone with him?”
“War, I’m sorry.”
Her fingers brush my jaw. That simple touch sends a bolt down my spine, but it doesn’t calm me, it only makes me ache more.
“For?” I bite out.
“Scaring you. Upsetting you.” Her eyes glisten, her voice trembling but steady. “Leaving without telling you.”
I grit my teeth. “Never telling me you have a degree in cybersecurity?”
“I tried to tell you,” she whispers. “When you hired me. I told you I worked for WesTech, but I couldn’t explain because you kept cutting me off.”
The fight drains out of me, caught on her truth.
I swallow my next words because she’s right.
I stare at her.
My Olivia.
My brilliant, reckless, infuriating woman.
My pulse is still thundering in my ears, but she’s right. She tried to tell me. I didn’t listen.
Still—
None of that excuses what she did.
She walked into a den of wolves.
Alone.
My hand tightens around the bottle before I finally set it down on the counter with a sharp clack.
I step into her space.
She doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t move.
Of course she doesn’t.
She’s too damn brave for her own good.
“I should put you over my knee for what you did,” I say, my voice quiet and dangerous.
Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t break eye contact.
“I was just—”
“Don’t,” I growl. “Don’t justify it.”
I reach for her wrist and tug her toward the kitchen island. She lets me.
Her footsteps are hesitant. Her body tense.
Good.
“Hands on the counter,” I order. “Bend.”
“War—”
“Now, Olivia.”
She obeys, leaning forward, palms pressed flat on the cold marble.
The hem of her skirt shifting as she moves.
I step behind her and slowly flip the skirt up over her hips, exposing the soft curve of her ass and the soft fabric of her underwear.
She’s already breathing harder.
“You don’t walk into Bratva territory ever.”
My voice is low. Controlled. But barely.
“You don’t lie to me.”
I raise my hand.
“And you never, ever put yourself in danger like that again.”
I bring my palm down hard.
Her soft flesh bouncing.
She gasps—sharp and sudden.
“That’s for leaving without a word.”
Another slap.
She bites her lip, shoulders curling inward.
“For letting Maksim fucking Korsakov breathe near you.”
A third strike. Sharper this time. She lets out a soft whimper.
“For not trusting me to handle it.”
I pause, watching her back rise and fall as she breathes through it.
“You should be furious with me,” she whispers, pressing back against me.
“I am,” I snap. “But more than that; I was scared. And I don’t do scared, Olivia.”
I lean closer, my hand resting on the small of her back, holding her down gently.
“You belong to me,” I murmur at her ear. “And I don’t like when people play with what’s mine.”
Her fingers curl against the marble.
“I’m sorry,” she breathes.
“Not yet you’re not.”
Another spank, firmer. Her skin pink and hot under my palm.
She chokes out a sound—part pain, part apology.
One more.
Then I grip her waist. Not for control, but to steady her.
“You hear me, Olivia?” I ask, voice low but firm. “You don’t go to men like that without me.”
“I hear you,” she whispers. “I won’t. Never again, I swear.”
Good.
My hand lingers a second longer, fingers grazing over her soft skin, calming the burn I left behind. She shudders under my touch, and I know she feels it too; that ache. The sting. The heat between us that hasn’t cooled one bit.
I should walk away.
Calm down.
But I can’t.
Not when she’s like this.
Not when anger and fear have melted into desire and dominance.
Not when she’s bent over for me. Still. Silent. Waiting.
I slide my hand down her thigh, then back up, slow and possessive. My fingers hook under the seam of her panties and tug them to the side.
She gasps.
I unbuckle my belt, unfasten my pants, and free myself, thick and hard and aching to be inside her.
I don’t wait.
I thrust into her in one brutal, claiming push.
She moans—high, breathless, hungry.
And I curse under my breath because she’s fucking soaked.
Clenching.
Welcoming.
She enjoyed her punishment.
I grip her hips hard, grounding myself in the feel of her.
She takes every inch like she was made for me.
Because she was.
Her body shudders.
Defiant. Needy.
And I know what she’s thinking.
This doesn’t feel like punishment.
My grip tightens.