Chapter 15 #3
His eyes burned into mine, jaw locked and dangerous. A muscle ticked in his cheek as if he were still holding back, even now. Still calculating. Still in control.
“Look at you,” he growled, voice low and wrecked. “All that fight, all that fury—undone by me.”
My chest rose sharply. “You’re delusional if you think this means anything.”
He let out a quiet, humorless breath as he leaned in, hand sliding beneath my jaw, holding it—almost gently.
“This means everything, Isabella,” he said. “Because you let me have you. Because you wanted it. Don’t lie to me now.”
I glared at him, my vision blurring with heat—rage, lust, humiliation. “I hate you.”
He grinned, a dangerous, wicked grin that carved into his face like a promise. “No,” he whispered, slamming into me again. “You need me.”
His pace grew wilder now, less precise. My breath caught as I felt the change—he was close. And for the first time, the cracks in his armor showed. The subtle tremble in his grip, the way his head dropped forward, growling my name like a curse between his teeth.
“Fucking mine,” he rasped into my neck. “You’ll never let anyone else touch you like this. Not after this.”
I clenched my eyes shut, swallowing back a sound I didn’t want him to hear. And when he stilled—when his entire body tensed and broke against mine—it was brutal. Possessive. Final.
And even through my haze of fury, pride, and confusion… a whisper of satisfaction threaded through my ribs like poison.
Because I broke him too.
His weight shifted off me, and the air in the room finally filled my lungs again. I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
My wrists still ached—tight and tender—while my pulse beat too hard in places I didn’t want to acknowledge. The silence pressed down, broken only by the sound of him grabbing his pants from the nearby chair.
I turned my head, watching as Rafael stood in the low golden light. He didn’t say anything, didn’t look at me as he fastened the button, as if the fire between us hadn’t just torn the world apart.
When he walked back toward me I was utterly unsure about his next move.
He stopped at the edge of the bed, then reached for my wrists. His fingers were careful now—annoyingly so—as he undid the leather straps that bound me.
“You’re welcome,” he muttered, no inflection. Just his usual roughness wrapped in gravel.
I blinked at him, then slowly pushed myself up onto my elbows. My gaze dropped to my wrists—red, irritated, and already blooming into something purple beneath the skin. Bruises. Of course.
“You’re a bastard,” I said quietly.
He didn’t flinch. “You didn’t say stop.”
I scowled, teeth clenching, but the heat in my chest wasn’t just rage.
He tossed something onto the bed. One of his shirts. Oversized, black, and warm from his skin. “Put this on before someone tries to walk in,” he said. It should’ve sounded cold. Dismissive.
But it didn’t. It sounded like a warning.
I snatched it up anyway, pulling it over my head. The scent hit me immediately—spice, smoke, him. And for some stupid reason, it made my chest squeeze.
He watched me silently for a second, then turned and disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of water running a second later.
I sat there, dazed. The walls of his suite glowed dimly under the light by the nightstand. My clothes were somewhere across the floor. My wrists throbbed. My legs felt like lead.
And Rafael Romanov… He was in my blood now. A storm I hadn’t planned for. One I couldn’t outrun.
I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the softness of his shirt brushing my thighs.
What the hell was I doing?
What the hell had I just let him do?
And why, despite the war still raging inside me, did I not feel even a shred of regret?
I didn’t move. The ceiling above me was silent. Still. But inside my chest… everything pulsed too loud. Too real.
The sheets were cool now, the storm of moments ago already cooling on my skin. And Rafael’s shirt… it was too big, swallowing me whole, like even now he had to leave his mark, his claim, on something.
My wrists throbbed—just enough to remind me that he hadn’t held back.
Not really. I should’ve left. But I couldn’t go back to my suite.
Kellan and Ash were probably still there, glued to the laptops, pacing like wolves.
I didn’t want to explain anything. I didn’t want to be seen. Not by them. Not after this.
The door to the bathroom creaked open, and I didn’t look. I didn’t need to. I felt him.
Rafael walked back into the room like he owned it—like he hadn’t just ripped it apart. His footsteps were steady, grounded, like nothing ever touched him.
I stayed on my back, still watching the ceiling. My fingers curled into the sheets as he slid into the bed beside me without a word.
The mattress dipped. He didn’t reach for me. Just lay there, both of us facing the same darkness, breathing in silence.
I glanced sideways. He had one arm thrown beneath his head, staring up like he was thinking about something that only made sense in Russian.
I turned back, jaw tightening. And then it slipped out—too dry, too sharp.
“So… you never use a condom?” My voice cut through the stillness like a blade.
He turned his head slowly, and I felt his gaze rake over me before he spoke. His voice was low. Even. “First time I didn’t.”
Something twisted in my stomach. I hated how my chest fluttered. It wasn’t romantic. It was maddening. “And I’m supposed to feel special now?” I muttered, eyes still locked on the ceiling.
“No,” he said simply. “You’re not.”
Silence stretched again. It wrapped around us like smoke, thick and heavy and refusing to dissipate.
“Then why?” I asked.
He didn’t answer right away. I thought he wouldn’t. But then— “Because,” he said finally, “something about you makes me forget to think straight.”
I rolled onto my side, facing him, propping my head on my hand. “That’s supposed to be a compliment?”
“It’s not.” He looked at me, his voice a shade darker. “It’s a problem.”
A pause.
“And yet,” I said, dryly, “here we are.”
His mouth twitched—almost a smirk, almost something dangerous. “We’re always somewhere we shouldn’t be.”
I stared at him. “You didn’t want this.”
“No,” he agreed. “I wanted to wring your neck half the time.”
“And the other half?” I asked.
His eyes locked on mine, voice sharp enough to pierce the air. “I wanted to bend you over the nearest surface.”
Heat curled low in my stomach, but I didn’t let it show. I just stared. “You’re still a bastard,” I muttered.
“And you’re still poison coursing inside me,” he shot back.
But he didn’t turn away. Neither did I.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. I could feel the weight of exhaustion tugging at my limbs, anchoring me to the bed. Everything in me burned.
I closed my eyes. His scent was still on my skin. His marks too. But something told me it wasn’t over. Not even close.
And the worst part?
I wasn’t sure I wanted it to be.
The silence stretched between us, heavy and thick, like the lingering humidity in the air after a storm. I stayed on my side, lying on Rafael’s bed, the warmth of his shirt draped over my skin, my bare legs tangled in the sheets.
My wrists still carried the faint imprint of leather, and though the sting had dulled, the memory hadn’t. I could still feel the weight of him. The way his eyes pinned me like a predator who didn’t know whether he wanted to devour or protect.
I stared up at the ceiling, every breath shallow as if the air in this room belonged to him.
He lay next to me, not touching, not saying a word. One arm bent under his head, his torso bare, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that should’ve comforted me—but didn’t. It only reminded me of what I’d just done with someone I swore to never trust.
The devil was in bed with me. And I let him in.
My voice came low, raw. “You always like this after?”
His head turned slightly toward me, his eyes catching mine. “After?”
“You know,” I said, keeping my voice even, “after you screw your enemies.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, like the start of a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re not my enemy right now, Isabella.”
“No?” I rolled onto my side, watching him. “What am I then?”
He didn’t answer. That silence of his—carefully constructed, sharp-edged—cut deeper than words.
“I’m not yours,” I added, quieter this time. “Don’t forget that.”
He let out a soft exhale, but there was no laugh in it. “You’re not anyone’s. That’s the problem.”
My chest tightened at that. He wasn’t wrong. And that’s what made it worse.
We didn’t speak for a while. The room felt still, but not peaceful. Like the pause before a gunshot.
I turned onto my back again, pulling the sheets tighter around my waist, his shirt riding up on my thighs. My eyes drifted to him, slowly, as if I were trying to memorize something I didn’t want to admit I’d remember.
The shadows of the room played across the ridges of his stomach, the bruises from the ambush still fresh, still angry on his skin. It should’ve made him look weaker. It didn’t.
I swallowed hard, my gaze climbing to his face. His jaw was tense, lips parted slightly as he stared at the ceiling like it held all the answers neither of us had the guts to ask.
And still, I looked at him. I didn’t know what I was searching for. But something told me he’d destroy me long before I ever found it.
The light was soft when it touched my face. Warm. Too warm. The kind that didn’t belong to my sheets or my bed or anything familiar. For a moment, I stayed still, blinking against the morning haze, my limbs heavy and slow to respond. The air smelled faintly like clean soap and something darker—him.
Then it hit me. Last night.
My pulse kicked in my throat, and I sat up, the movement sharp and jarring. The silk sheets slipped down my body, and my eyes dropped to the marks lining my wrists—red, raw, beginning to bruise.
A sharp breath left me. Not in pain. Not even in regret. Just awareness.