Chapter 19
Kara
This was fucking stupid.
I was still only wearing the swimsuit I’d grabbed from the yacht.
Somewhere in the swim, I’d lost the thin silk robe I’d been wearing when I’d jumped in the water.
It made my skin crawl to be so exposed to the men holding us.
The rope binding my wrists and my ankles had rubbed my skin raw. Every time I moved, it bit deeper.
I’d barely escaped ARCHEON’s chokehold, a decision that had felt, in that all-too-brief moment, like freedom.
I’d chosen the Markovs, chosen to follow instinct instead of orders for once in my life.
I’d thought it was the smart play, or maybe just the right one, but apparently, the universe didn’t reward sentimentality.
A few hours later, here I was, tied to a chair, held captive by a different set of criminals.
My luck sucked.
Dmitri sat across from me, his posture somehow still perfect, even with his hands tied behind the chair. His expression hadn’t changed since they’d dragged us in here. Somehow, he looked like he was still calmly assessing the situation. Typical.
“Stop thinking,” I muttered. My voice came out a bit more roughly than I had intended.
He looked up, one eyebrow barely lifting. “I wasn’t aware you could read my thoughts.”
“I can,” I said. “They’re loud.”
That earned me the faintest ghost of a smile. “Then you know I’m working on it.”
“Working on what?”
He nodded toward his wrists. “This knot. They tied it fast and tight, but lazy.”
I shifted in my chair, trying to ignore the way the ropes scratched at my wrists. “You think you can get free?”
“I’ve certainly done more challenging things than untying a knot.” His tone indicated his confidence.
The only light came from the narrow window above and behind him. Outside, I could see the faint outline of a crane and the shimmering lights of the city beyond. The sight should have been comforting, but it wasn’t. The world looked close enough to touch and completely unreachable at the same time.
“They’ll be back soon,” I said. “You’re wasting time.”
“I don’t waste anything.” His hands flexed behind the chair again, the soft scrape of rope on rope letting me know he was hard at it. “Keep talking.”
“About what?”
“Anything. Distraction helps.”
I exhaled, my nerves too frayed for conversation, but the silence was worse. “You shouldn’t have come after me,” I said.
“Maybe not.” He glanced up, his expression unreadable. “But it’s what I do.”
The sound of his voice did something strange to my pulse.
I looked away. “You’re not getting out of those ropes.”
“Your lack of faith is disappointing.”
“Your arrogance is exhausting.”
He smiled again, barely, but it was there. “We make a good pair.”
“Don’t start,” I said.
He didn’t reply to me this time. The only sound was the rasp of rope fibers straining under slow, constant pressure.
His shoulders twisted once, then again. I watched, even though I told myself not to.
Every small motion was purposeful, testing, pulling, then adjusting a bit. The ropes creaked as he moved.
“Dmitri…” I whispered, a warning.
“Almost,” he murmured.
The knot gave with a faint pop. His hands came free.
For a heartbeat, I just stared. “How the hell—?”
“They used maritime line,” he said, flexing his fingers. “It swells in saltwater. Easier to loosen if you keep your wrists moving.”
“Show-off.”
“Efficient,” he corrected, crouching to untie his ankles from the chair legs.
He was free in seconds.
He stood, rolling his shoulders, his silhouette a looming, dark shape against the window. The dim light caught the hard lines of his face, the firm set of his jaw. He didn’t look at me. He just scanned the room, from the door to the walls, and then to the window high above.
Then he turned.
He crossed the small space in two strides and knelt in front of me. My breath hitched as his hands went to my sides, to the thin fabric of my swimsuit still clinging to my skin. I flinched, an instinctive, useless recoil that I was powerless to prevent.
“Don’t,” I said, the word a pitiful, broken sound.
“Shh,” he murmured, his fingers tracing the line of my shoulder, a touch so light it was almost a question. “This isn’t about what you want; it’s about what you need right now. You’re stressed out and you’re scared. Let me take care of you.”
His hands moved up, cupping my breasts through the fabric of my ravaged swimsuit.
My nipples, already tight from the cool air and the fear, peaked instantly, hard, aching points against his palms. He brushed his thumbs over them, a slow circle that sent a jolt of pure, fiery heat straight to my core.
I arched my back, a helpless, involuntary movement, a silent plea for more.
“And what do I need right now?” I ventured.
He leaned in, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of my neck.
He didn’t bite, not exactly. Just a slight pressure, a scrape of his teeth that made my entire body tense with a pleasure so intense it was almost painful.
His tongue traced the line of my pulse, a languid, leisurely stroke that made my head fall back against the chair.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured, his voice low and possessive against my skin. “Don’t be scared, baby girl. I’ll protect you.”
“It’s cold,” I lied in a choked whisper.
He chuckled darkly, which only made me shiver harder.
“No, it’s not,” he countered.
His hands moved back to my chest. He pushed the fabric of my swimsuit top aside, revealing my breasts to his view. I trembled at the sudden exposure. He didn’t give me a moment to feel the shame. He didn’t give me a moment to think.
Immediately, he dipped his head, his mouth closing over one of my aching nipples. I gasped, a harsh, ragged sound that was swallowed by the silence of the room. He suckled, his tongue swirling, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak.
His other hand went to my other breast, his thumb and forefinger rolling the neglected nipple, a sweet, tormenting pressure that made me squirm in my seat. The dual sensations consumed me, making my head spin and my pussy clench.
He switched his attention to the other breast, his mouth hot, his tongue insistent. I could feel the heat pooling in my belly, a slow, creeping tide that was impossible to fight. I was wet, so wet that I could feel it, the slickness soaking through the thin fabric of my swimsuit bottoms.
He released my nipple with a soft pop, his tongue tracing a path up my chest, over my collarbone, to the sensitive skin of my throat. He kissed his way to my mouth, his lips soft and demanding. I didn’t hesitate. I opened for him, my tongue meeting his in a desperate, hungry dance.
The kiss wasn’t about affection. It was about possession. A silent, brutal conversation where he demanded entry and I shamefully, willingly granted it.
He pulled back after a long while, his breathing ragged, his eyes dark and fathomless. He looked at me, at my swollen lips, at my heaving chest, at the undisguised desire in my eyes. He looked at me like I was a feast he was about to devour.
His hands traced a path down my sides, his touch making my skin tingle.
He moved lower, his mouth following the trail his hands had blazed.
He kissed my stomach, his tongue dipping into my navel in a small, intimate touch that made my hips buck.
He kissed his way down, down, branding my skin with his mouth and his fingers.
Slowly, he parted my thighs as much as he was able as my ankles were still bound to each chair leg. He kissed his way down the inside of my thigh, his mouth hot, his tongue insistent. He nipped at the sensitive skin there, a sudden, stinging bite that made me gasp.
My head fell back, a low moan escaping my lips.
He moved to my other thigh, his mouth a delicious torture. He was in control, and he knew it. He was taking his time, savoring every moment, my every shudder and gasp.
Then he reached the juncture of my thighs. I was sure that he could smell my arousal, and he confirmed it when he smiled, his expression darkening with seductive intent.
He hooked his fingers into the sides of my swimsuit bottoms, pulling the thin, wet fabric aside. The cool air hit my slick, heated flesh, and I shivered. I was exposed to him, completely vulnerable.
He leaned in, settling between my legs, his breath hot against my most sensitive flesh.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
I lifted my head, my eyes meeting his. They were dark, fathomless, burning with a fire that mirrored my own.
And then his mouth was on me.
He licked me, parting my pussy lips with his tongue, a smooth, sensual stroke that sent a jolt of fiery sensation straight through me, making me cry out harshly.
Then his mouth was on my clit again, licking and sucking and teasing me.
His tongue was a masterful instrument, exploring every fold, every hidden place, every sensitive spot between my thighs.
He returned to my hard and aching clit and he circled it with the tip.
Within moments, I was a writhing, whimpering mess of need.
My hips bucked, and I couldn’t make them stop.
He slipped one finger inside me, then another, his long, thick digits stretching me, filling me.
He curled his fingers, finding that spot deep inside me, that place that made my vision blur and my toes curl.
He stroked me from the inside out as his tongue worked my clit in a relentless, demanding rhythm.
I could feel the tension coiling low in my core, a sweet, aching pull that promised orgasm if I would just let go.
“Don’t stop,” I sobbed, my voice hoarse. “Please, don’t stop.”
He didn’t.
He just increased the pressure, his tongue circling my clit with a ferocity that was almost brutal, his fingers pumping into me with a steady rhythm. The pleasure was a sweet, exquisite torture that I never wanted to end.
Then I came, the fiery bliss racing up and down my limbs. My legs quivered and I threw my head back, just trying to survive the onslaught of euphoria coursing through my system.
Slowly, gently, he eased me down from the peak, his tongue slowing, his fingers stilling. He left soft, gentle kisses on my trembling thighs as I struggled to catch my breath.
He rose to his feet, his eyes dark and fathomless, his cock a hard, demanding ridge straining against the fabric of his trousers.
He hadn’t even taken his own clothes off.
I could see the outline of him, thick and long, proof of his own unsated desire.
I wanted to touch him, to feel the weight of him in my hand, to taste him on my tongue.
He reached out, his wet fingers tracing the line of my jaw. “We’re not done,” he murmured in a deep, dangerous rumble.
He leaned in, his mouth claiming mine again in a deep, hungry kiss. I could taste myself on his lips, the sweet, musky flavor of my own arousal. It was intoxicating, a dark, intimate reminder of the power he held over me and I loved it. I hated that I loved it, but I did.
I wanted to tell him to take me, to finish what he’d started, but the words were lost in the fog of my own desire.
His hands moved to the ropes binding my ankles, his fingers working at the knots with the same quiet, efficient precision he’d used on his own.
“When I get you out of these,” he vowed, “I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t remember your own name. You’ll only remember mine.”
A fresh wave of heat washed over me. I bit my lip and let a soft, breathless moan escape me.
The rope was loosening, the knot giving way.
And that’s when the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor, shattering the intimate silence between us.
Dmitri froze, his head snapping up, his body tensing. His expression went from raw desire to cold, lethal focus in the span of a single heartbeat. Quickly, he pulled my swimsuit top and bottoms back into place, covering me from whomever was about to come through that door.
The door to the room swung open with a deafening crash.
Several men stood in the doorway, their silhouettes framed against the stark light of the corridor.
“Well, well,” one of the men said. “Looks like we’re interrupting something.”
Dmitri rose slowly to his feet, moving with a deceptive calm. He was still hard, a fact that was impossible to miss, a thick, demanding ridge straining against the fabric of his trousers. He didn’t try to hide it. He just stood there looking like a predator facing down his prey.
“Grigor,” Dmitri said, his voice a quiet acknowledgment, but I heard respect, maybe, or recognition in his tone.
“Dmitri,” the man replied, his accent thick.
Behind him, two other men followed, both armed, silent, their expressions unreadable. One lingered near the door, the other at Grigor’s shoulder, close enough to move if he gave the order.
Grigor stepped further inside, his gaze sliding over me before settling back on Dmitri. “You can finish untying her,” he said. His tone wasn’t a suggestion.
Dmitri didn’t move. “Why?”
“Because,” Grigor said evenly, “I asked you to. Don’t make me ask again.”
The air in the room changed. Thickened.
Dmitri’s jaw flexed once—barely a tell, but I saw it.
He was calculating, deciding whether obedience was strategy or defeat.
Then, apparently finding his answer as his jaw flexed again, he knelt back down in front of me.
His fingers worked quickly, efficiently, the ropes loosening beneath his fingers.
His touch was impersonal, but it steadied me anyway.
Our eyes met and I felt warmth through his gaze.
He didn’t need to say it out loud.
He would protect me from whatever came next.
The ropes around my ankles fell away first, then he moved behind me to deal with the ones at my wrists. The blood rushed back to my hands in sharp pins and needles. I stood slowly, rubbing at my skin.
Grigor nodded toward the open door. “After you.”
His voice was polite, but there was no warmth in it, just that same calm command, like every word had already been planned ten moves ahead.
I followed him out of the room, conscious of the solid, reassuring presence of Dmitri at my back. We were led down a long, dark corridor, the only sound the echo of our footsteps on the concrete floor. The air was thick with the smell of damp and rust.
We went through a door, and the corridor opened into a vast outdoor space. There were stacks of shipping containers, their rusted surfaces gleaming dully in the harsh glare of floodlights. The air was cool here, the sound of our footsteps swallowed by the oppressive silence.
Then my heart stopped.
In the middle of it all stood Roman, waiting for us.
For the first time since we had been captured, I started to feel a sense of hope.