26. Dmitri
DMITRI
Iget Cara off the dining hall terrace before I twist Velenko’s wrist in front of every donor, judge, and charity saint pretending not to watch through glass. His pulse beats under my fingers, thin and fast, and I want to feel the bone give.
Cara touches my sleeve. “Dmitri,” she says, low enough to keep the guests from hearing.
Her voice saves him.
I let go of Velenko’s wrist with a shove, and he stumbles into the rail. “Leave.”
Velenko rubs his wrist and looks past me toward the dining hall. “You misunderstand.”
I catch his lapel and pull him close. “Say that again, and I’ll make it the last time you speak under Volkov’s roof.”
Cara grips my arm. “Dmitri.”
Her nails dig through my sleeve.
I take Cara’s hand and lead her through the side door before Velenko causes more trouble.
We pass one guard, a narrow corridor, and a service stair, away from the guests and the flowers and the dinner table.
Cara keeps up even with the limp, and that makes me angrier.
The door to my rooms shuts behind us.
“You baited him on purpose,” I say, turning on her.
Cara pulls her hand free and faces me with flushed cheeks and furious eyes. “Yes.”
My blood kicks hard. “He touched you.”
“He gave us himself,” she says, dragging one hand through her loose hair. “What is wrong with you?”
She fixes her coat. “Velenko matters because he isn’t Morozov’s soldier. He has a clean name. Retired judge. Charity-registration fixer. Customs contact. Men like him make New Harbor and Sable Crown look clean to Elena’s office.”
I step closer. “You let him corner you.”
Cara lifts her chin. “Patrick used Lena because people trust her. He used Velenko because he can open doors, clean records, and scare everyone into silence.”
“He put his hand on you,” I say, and my voice comes out rough.
“Yes.” She takes a step back. “Velenko showed himself because I challenged him. He corrected me, touched me, and warned me because men like him can’t stand being tested by a woman.”
Her voice breaks. Her hand goes to my shirt, fist closing in the fabric. Then she starts shaking.
I stop where I am.
Cara looks up at me. “Can’t you see?” she says, pulling me closer by the shirt. “I was scared. I did it scared.”
Every violent thought in me changes direction.
“You’re not Mata Hari,” I say, cupping her jaw with a hand that won’t stay steady. “And I’m not built to watch men put hands on you and call it strategy.”
She chuckles at that, and I sigh. “I don’t know how to protect you without becoming another man you have to fight,” I breathe into her hair.
Cara’s mouth parts. “Then stand with me.”
Her fingers press harder into my chest and I pull her in. Cara comes willingly. She comes into my arms hard, and I catch her like I’ve been waiting years to do it. My hands grip her back, her waist, anything I can hold, because letting go isn’t in me anymore.
“He walked away because you were there,” I say against her mouth. “If you hadn’t been, I would’ve ended him on that terrace.”
“I handled it.” Her fingers twist harder into my shirt. “I’m still handling it.”
“You're shaking.”
“So are you.”
She's right. My hands tremble against her back, and I hate it, and I can't stop. The image of Velenko's fingers closing around her waist plays behind my eyes like a blade turning.
“Look at me,” she says.
I do. Her eyes are bright, furious, wet at the edges, and the combination dismantles every locked door inside me. I kiss her, hard enough to bruise, and she bites back. The sound she makes into my mouth is half anger, half surrender, and it shoots straight through my blood.
I walk her backward through the apartment, past the bed, toward the tall cheval mirror that stands near the wardrobe. She stumbles once on the hem of her dress, and I catch her hip, steadying her, keeping her moving.
“Dmitri—” She pulls back, breathing hard.
“You wanted to be seen tonight.” I turn her around to face the mirror, standing behind her. “So look.”
Her eyes meet mine in the glass. Her lipstick is ruined. Her hair is half undone, strands falling across her neck. She looks shaken, furious, and alive under my hands, and the sight nearly wrecks me.
“You did this,” she says, watching me in the reflection.
“You started it at dinner.” My hands move to her shoulders, then down her arms, slow enough that she can feel every inch of intention. “You walked onto that terrace alone. You let him show us what he thought he could get away with.”
“To bait him. For you.”
“For us,” I correct.
Cara cups my face, her thumb brushing the corner of my mouth, and kisses me before I can ruin it with another word.
Her chest rises and falls. I pull the pins from her hair, one by one, and let them drop.
The dark weight of it falls down her back, and I gather it to one side, exposing her neck.
I press my mouth to the skin below her ear, and she shivers.
"Watch," I tell her.
She swallows. Her reflection is flushed, chest rising, lips parted. My hands move to the zipper at her back and drag it down. The dress loosens. I push the fabric off her shoulders, and it pools at her waist, then drops to the floor.
She's standing in front of the mirror in almost nothing, and I'm still fully dressed, and the imbalance is deliberate.
"You're staring," she says.
"I'm looking at what's mine."
A muscle twitches in her jaw. "I'm not—"
"You are." I unclip her bra, slide it down her arms, and drop it. "Right now, in this room, you are."
Cara's reflection stares back at me, breasts bare, nipples tight from the air and from whatever I'm doing to her. Her face is furious and flushed, and her breathing has gone shallow.
"Bastard," she whispers.
"Sit." I pull the chair from the vanity and place it directly in front of the mirror. "On my lap. Face the glass."
She hesitates for one breath, then turns and sits across my thighs, her back against my chest, her eyes fixed on our reflection. I'm still dressed. She's nearly naked. The contrast is vulgar, and her skin against the fabric of my suit is the most obscene thing I've ever felt.
"Look at yourself," I say, and my voice comes out like gravel.
She does. I watch her eyes in the mirror travel over her own body, over my hands where they rest on her bare thighs, over the flush spreading across her chest.
"He touched you here." My hand moves to her waist, to the exact place Velenko's fingers had closed. I press my palm flat against it, covering the ghost of his grip. "No one touches you here."
"Not even you?" she asks, and the challenge in her voice is razor-thin.
I squeeze. She gasps. "Especially me."
My other hand slides up her ribcage, slow, deliberate, until my palm covers her breast. She arches into it, and the sight of it in the mirror—my large hand over her, her back curving, her head tipping against my shoulder—makes my cock strain against my trousers so hard it hurts.
"You're wet already," I say. I can feel the heat of her through the fabric still clinging to her hips.
"Shut up."
"Tell me to stop." My thumb drags across her nipple, and she makes a sound she immediately tries to swallow. "Say the word, and I stop."
She says nothing. Her hips shift on my lap, pressing back against my erection, and I bite down on the groan that rises in my throat.
"Lift your hips," I say.
She braces her hands on my thighs and rises just enough. I strip the last piece of fabric down her legs, and then she's bare on my lap, and the mirror shows everything—the length of her legs, the curve of her hips, the slick shine between her thighs that she can't hide.
"Look at you," I breathe. "Look at how fucking beautiful you are."
Her eyes meet mine in the glass, and they're burning.
I free myself one-handed, roll a condom on with practiced efficiency, and position myself beneath her. "Lower yourself. Slowly. I want you to see it."
She sinks down inch by inch, and the angle gives the mirror a full view of my cock disappearing inside her. She watches. Her mouth falls open. Her thighs shake.
"Oh, God," she whispers.
"That's right." I grip her hips, holding her still for a moment, because if she moves too fast I'll lose this. "Look at that. Look at how you take me."
"Stop talking."
"No." I lift my hips, driving deeper, and she cries out. "You watch. You wanted to be seen tonight. So see yourself."
I start to move, lifting her slightly with each thrust so that the mirror catches the rhythm—my cock sliding out, glistening, then pushing back in. The visual is filthy. The wet sound of it is worse. She's dripping down my shaft, and every stroke makes her clench tighter.
"Dmitri—" Her voice breaks.
"Tell me." I thrust harder, and her body jolts. "Tell me how it feels."
"Like I'm going to die." Her hands grip my knees, knuckles white. "Like you're going to break me."
"I won't break you." I drive up deep, and she screams. "But I will take you apart."
Her head falls back against my shoulder. I cup her jaw and force her eyes back to the mirror.
"Watch," I say. "Don't look away."
She watches. Her own reflection stares back at her, fucked open and shaking on my lap, and the sight pushes her over.
She comes with a broken moan, clenching around me in pulses that make my vision blur.
Her whole body arches, and I hold her hips down and fuck her through it, hard, relentless, until my own orgasm tears through me from the base of my spine.
I bury myself to the hilt and come inside the condom with a groan I muffle against her neck. My hips jerk involuntarily, once, twice, and I feel her tighten around me one final time before the aftershocks fade.
I hold her against me and understand one thing for sure. Velenko touched her to send a message, and now I’m going to answer it.