Chapter 13 Zoya
Zoya
Ididn’t sleep. I lay on the cot with the blanket pulled tight, the heater humming beside me, the bunker sealed and quiet like a held breath. Every sound sharpened my nerves; every second stretched thin. I wasn’t afraid of the dark. I was afraid of what he’d bring back with him.
When the lock turned, it was soft and controlled, measured in a way that told me he was already contained. No rush. No hesitation.
I was already sitting up when the door opened. Dmitry stepped inside and shut it behind him, securing it without looking. He didn’t scan the room or check the perimeter. He looked only at me, his gaze sharp and assessing, as if he needed confirmation that I was still exactly where he’d left me.
I noticed immediately that he was clean. Not just freshly showered, but scrubbed with intent, because I knew where he’d been going when he left earlier. He wore a fresh shirt and pants, and his gray hair was still damp at the nape of his neck. The scent of soap and cold night air clung to him.
Whatever he’d done, it had been savage and brutal, and he’d stripped every visible trace of it away. The violence hadn’t followed him back, and I knew it was because he didn’t want me to see it.
I searched his face for wounds, for blood he might have missed, but all I found were his dark eyes locked on me and the firm line of his mouth beneath his trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, like he was keeping it shut on purpose so he didn’t say something that would scare me.
“You’re awake,” he said.
“I waited,” I answered honestly.
His jaw tightened, just barely, and before I could register the shift, he crossed the room and stopped in front of me. Dmitry stood close enough that my knees brushed his thighs. Heat radiated off him, contained and dangerous.
“Why?” he asked quietly.
I swallowed around the sudden thickness in my throat. “I wanted to.”
His gaze flicked to my mouth and then back to my eyes, his expression calculating and controlled, like he wanted something he refused to allow himself to take.
“It’s done,” he said before I could ask.
A dark, twisted relief loosened something in my chest. “Are you hurt?”
Surprise flashed across his face and vanished just as quickly. It hit me then that he hadn’t expected concern from me at all.
“No.” The word was flat, but I caught the subtle shift in his stance, like my worry unsettled him more than the violence he’d left behind.
For a long, heavy moment, we stared at each other. I felt bare beneath his gaze, like he was at war with something inside himself. A deep, low sound rolled out of his chest, almost animalistic.
Then his hand lifted slowly, deliberately, giving me time to pull away. I didn’t. His thumb brushed my cheek once, rough against my skin, and when he pulled his hand back, I saw his fingers curl into a fist.
His thumb was still warm where it had touched me, as if the contact had cost him something he wasn’t used to spending. He didn’t look away when I met his gaze, but his jaw flexed tightly.
“I don’t touch people,” he breathed, not as a warning but a fact. “Not like that.”
My heart picked up at his admission. “I know,” I whispered.
His eyes darkened, something dangerous shifting there. Not comfort or reassurance. But possession, raw and unfiltered.
“I don’t think you understand what that means,” he said. “What it does. What it costs.”
“I don’t understand?” I breathed.
“It means anyone who thinks they can come between us won’t live long enough to regret it.”
The space between us disappeared. He stepped in, bracing one hand on the cot beside my hip as his body caged me in. Every inch of him was restraint held by force, not hesitation. His mouth hovered just above mine, breath steady and deliberate.
“Tell me to stop,” he said low, not because he needed permission, but because once he crossed this line, there would be no pretending it didn’t matter.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t speak. That was enough.
His mouth came down on mine hard, claiming rather than asking. The kiss was deep and uncompromising, all control and intent, as if he were staking ground he had no intention of surrendering. There was no gentleness, no apology. Just certainty.
I gasped, hands fisting in his shirt without realizing it, and the sound that tore from his chest was rough, dragged out like he hadn’t meant to let it escape. His hand slid down my spine, firm and possessive, anchoring me at the small of my back as if he refused to let me move even an inch.
“Zoya,” he groaned against my mouth, my name stripped raw and unguarded.
My body reacted instantly. Heat bloomed low in my belly, sharp and insistent, nerves sparking in ways I didn’t understand but couldn’t ignore. I was already wet; the dampness seeping through my pants.
He felt it. I knew he had. In the way my breath hitched, the tremors I couldn’t hide, the way my hips shifted toward him without permission. Dmitry knew exactly what he was doing to me, and he took control without asking.
He leaned in, mouth brushing my ear. “I can’t help myself,” he muttered, as if the words were ripped from him. “You’re already wet for me, Zoya. This untouched body reacting to nothing but my hands.”
I moaned softly; the sound escaping before I could stop it. I’d never had anyone speak to me like that, vulgar and unapologetic, and it made my pulse race.
He moved back, lips hovering near mine, his movements never rushing. “You don’t need to understand what I’m doing to you,” he said. “You just need to stay still and let it happen.”
God… I wanted this to happen though, and he knew that. He could feel it in the way I trembled and hear it in the way I moaned.
His voice dropped even lower. “You’re shaking,” he observed, like a fact, not a concern. “That tells me everything I need to know.” His grip tightened on my waist. “I should stop,” he said, darker now. “But I won’t. You’re mine to touch. Mine to claim.”
The promise carried the same edge as everything else about him. He could destroy things and still be careful when it mattered.
His hand slid down my stomach, slow and deliberate, before easing beneath the waistband of my sweats. His knee nudged between my legs, opening me, and I let him. He exposed me to the cool air.
I gasped when his fingers brushed my bare skin. He started light, spreading the slickness he’d drawn from me, his thumb circling once, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving my face.
“Look at me,” he ordered quietly. “Let me see what this does to you.”
Our gazes locked. His thumb pressed firmer, rubbing steady circles as one thick finger teased my entrance without pushing inside. He made me wait, let me feel it, let me understand who was in control.
When he finally slid that finger into me, I gasped, and he growled.
“So tight,” he muttered. “I’m going to make you ready.” He bared his teeth, and it was clear he was trying so hard to stay in control. “This is restraint,” he whispered in a voice so deep and gruff it made me visibly shake. “Don’t confuse it for mercy.”
He was slow, careful, letting me adjust to the fullness even as it burned. I whimpered, hips rocking forward, and when he added a second finger, stretching me wider, the pressure built relentlessly.
His arm wrapped around my back, locking me against his chest so I couldn’t pull away even if I wanted to. I didn’t want to.
“Come for me, Zoya,” he commanded against my neck, biting hard enough to make me gasp. “Let me feel you break.”
I shattered, pleasure crashing through me as my body clenched around his fingers. I cried out, nails digging into his arms as he held me through every wave until I was shaking and oversensitive.
He eased his fingers out slowly and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean while holding my gaze. The sight alone sent heat racing through me again.
Then he pulled me close, positioning me against his chest, one hand cradling the back of my head so my cheek rested over his heart. His breathing stayed steady, controlled, as if he’d never lost himself at all.
“You’re mine,” he hissed, the words heavy and final.
He kissed me again, slower this time, deeper, like a vow. When he finally pulled back, he murmured, “Sleep now.”
His arms stayed locked around me, protective and possessive. Exhaustion tried to drag me under, but his presence anchored me. Dmitry’s voice came again, quiet and final. “This isn’t where this ends. It’s where you stop pretending you’re not already mine.”