Chapter Nine
~ Iren ~
The first thing I knew was silk, sliding under my back like a tongue.
The second was heat, not the gentle kind, but the tight, focused blast of a fireplace that had burned down to embers and was determined to go out angry.
The third was Vadim’s hands under the sheets, fingers splayed across my chest, and a mouth pressed to the nape of my neck, breathing slow and deliberate.
He wasn’t asleep. He was counting heartbeats.
I knew this because he was tracing the line of my sternum with his thumb, not in circles, but in methodical, almost forensic passes. The way you’d check a pulse to confirm a body hadn’t left you yet.
I let him do it for a while. The room was nearly black, the only light a bruised orange from the dying fire. All the edges were soft except him. When he held you, it was like being fitted to a vise lined with velvet. No amount of silk could disguise what he was.
I didn’t move until he did. The minute I rolled my head, his arm went around my ribs, locking me against him. I heard the click of his jaw, felt the tension in the knot at the base of his skull. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even aroused, not yet. He was checking for cracks.
He spoke into my hair, the words a scrape of sandpaper. “I almost lost you.”
Not a question. Not even an accusation.
I knew immediately what he meant. Not the guy from the club, not Sasha lurking like a statuary ghost in every hallway, but the bullet, the shot that had punched the car’s window and parked itself in the headrest where my head wasn’t by luck and two seconds.
I turned, fast enough to break the rhythm. His arm tensed, then let me. I rolled to face him and planted both palms on the sides of his jaw, thumb hard against the bristle.
“You didn’t,” I said, voice rawer than I wanted it to be. “I’m right here.”
It should have been enough, but I was dealing with a man whose entire life was a ledger of what he’d nearly lost and what he’d had to destroy to keep it.
I said it again, softer, like maybe the second dose would land. “I’m here.”
I kissed him, because words had never worked and this was the only language we both spoke.
His mouth was dry, but he bit me anyway, open-mouthed and greedy.
The taste was unfamiliar, not smoke or vodka but the stripped-down salt of a man who’d been up all night thinking about the shape of a bullet and the geometry of my skull.
I pressed in harder. It wasn’t a gentle kiss; it was a hand-off, a transfer of something desperate. He let me drive it for three seconds, then wrenched me onto my back with both hands like he’d finally decided to check if I was real all the way through.
The weight of him was the first thing I noticed. Every muscle flexed, every movement precise, but the rest of him stayed loose, like a panther mid-pounce, deciding whether to hunt or just tear you open for the hell of it.
He pinned my hands above my head, not rough, but with a force that left no room for negotiation. His eyes were black. Not the warm brown they pretended at breakfast, not even the dark gold I’d seen once or twice when he let his guard down. They were pure night, and they did not blink.
He said nothing at first. He just held me there, watching me. I could feel the vibrations in his chest, a hum so deep I wondered if he was even aware of it. His mouth hovered above mine, not touching, just sampling the air between us.
When he spoke, it was flat. “The first shot was aimed at your chest.”
I stared back, refusing to look away.
“The second, at your head,” he continued, voice so level it bordered on a threat. “If you hadn’t ducked, you’d be dead.”
“Not my best look,” I said, trying to keep it light, but he wasn’t having it. He squeezed my wrists until I shut up.
“You would be dead,” he repeated, as if rehearsal might make it less true.
I didn’t want to admit how much that fucked with me.
So instead I twisted my hands in his grip and tested the hold.
He let me try, watched the effort, and then made a decision.
He slid both my wrists into one hand, freeing the other to run down the side of my face, tracing the cut the glass had left.
His touch was clinical, but his hand shook—so faint you’d have missed it if you weren’t pressed against him in a bed built for the last tsar.
I licked my lips and went for the direct route. “I’m fine, Vadim. You fixed me up. No scars, no holes.”
He blinked, just once, and then his mouth crashed into mine again, tongue rough and not searching, but demanding.
There was no choreography. He bit, sucked, tried to devour every syllable I hadn’t said out loud.
His hand dropped from my face to my hip, fingers digging in with the kind of pressure that would leave a fingerprint tomorrow.
I moaned into his mouth, not because it hurt, but because it was the first honest thing I’d felt all day.
He broke the kiss with a sound that was almost a snarl. “Don’t joke about it,” he said, breath hot against my jaw.
“I wasn’t,” I said. It was a lie, but he didn’t punish it. Instead, he gripped my hip harder, so tight the bones ached.
His other hand never left my wrists. He wanted me pinned, not for fun, but for certainty. The second he let go, I’d disappear, and we both knew it.
I arched up, using leverage to slide my body against his. The silk of the sheets made it easy, frictionless. His cock was hard now, heavy and hot through the thin fabric of his shorts. I didn’t even try to play coy about noticing.
He pressed his thigh between my legs, forcing them apart, and ground down, the pressure perfectly calculated. Not too much, not enough to leave me bruised, but enough to get the message across.
I bit his lip, hard enough to taste blood. “You’re not going to lose me,” I said, the words coming out somewhere between a promise and a challenge.
His jaw flexed. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
He let go of my wrists, just long enough to flip me face-down on the sheets.
The move was so fast it made my head spin, but he caught my shoulders before I could process it.
He pressed his mouth to the back of my neck, teeth scraping the skin, then licking away the sting.
His hands mapped my spine, pressing down each vertebra like a piano key.
I rocked my hips up, shameless, needing friction. I wanted him to fuck me so bad it bordered on a medical condition, but he wasn’t going to make it that easy for me.
He tore my boxers down my legs and tossed them off the bed, and then kneaded my ass, spreading me open. He ran his tongue down my back, stopping just above the curve. His breath was wet and hot, his stubble scraping a line of sensation down to my tailbone.
I twisted around, planting an elbow under me so I could see his face. It was tight, almost pained, like he was fighting an urge he didn’t want to admit.
“Vadim,” I said, and his name came out like a plea.
He bent to my ear. “I’m going to leave marks,” he said, voice low and barely human.
“Good,” I said, and he laughed, a huff of air that was mostly relief.
He rolled me onto my side, caging me with his body.
His hands moved everywhere, fast, then slow, then fast again, like he couldn’t decide whether to savor or consume.
He caught my nipple between his teeth, bit hard, then soothed it with his tongue.
My whole body jerked, pleasure and pain perfectly balanced.
I tried to grab his hair, but he caught my wrist midair and pinned it to the mattress. His mouth never left my chest, but his free hand snaked down my stomach. I was so hard it hurt. He palmed me, stroking once, then letting go.
“Tease,” I said, breathless.
He looked up, face unreadable. “Not a tease. I want it to last.”
I could have called bullshit, but the truth was, I wanted that, too. I wanted to stretch this out until the fear and the adrenaline burned off and there was nothing left except us, locked together, marks and all.
He let go of my wrist, taking the time to run his hands down both legs as he did. He sat back on his haunches, just looking at me. The way a man looks at something he’d die to keep.
I spread my legs for him, an invitation or a dare. “Come on, Boss. Show me who’s in charge.”
He grinned, and this time it showed teeth. His cock was already hard and flushed dark at the tip. He stroked it, slow, eyes locked on mine, and I realized with a jolt that he wasn’t trying to intimidate or impress.
He wanted me to watch.
So I did. I watched the motion of his hand, the leak of pre-cum at the head, the way he ran his thumb over it before letting go. I wanted to taste it, but I wanted him inside me more.
He reached for the nightstand, grabbed the lube, and coated his fingers. He did it clinical, no performance. He slicked two fingers, then slid them down my crack, pressing at the entrance.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.
The first finger slid in easy. I was loose from anticipation and maybe the vodka from last night. He curled it, searching, and when he found the spot, I gasped, clenching around him. He added a second, then a third, opening me up with slow, steady pressure.
I wanted to tell him to hurry, but he’d already read my mind. He pulled his fingers out, rolled a condom on, and then lined up the head of his cock. He pressed in, just the tip at first, then pulled back. He did this twice, watching my face for any sign of pain.
I was impatient. I rolled my hips, trying to take more, but he held my hip in place, grinding in a little more each time. When he finally bottomed out, I was so full I could barely breathe.
“Okay?” he asked, voice cracked with effort.
“Fuck yes,” I said, and he laughed, just once, before he started to move.
He set a brutal rhythm, fucking me deep and hard, each thrust landing with enough force to push me up the mattress. I grabbed the headboard for leverage, but he pinned my hand again, fingers digging in just shy of breaking skin.
Every thrust lit up my whole body, the pleasure spiraling out from my spine to the tips of my toes. I moaned, loud, no shame at all. He didn’t try to muffle me.
If anything, he wanted to hear it.
He bent down and bit my neck, just above the collarbone, and the sharp pain pushed me over the edge. I came, hard, with his name on my lips, the sheets clenching in my fists.
He followed a second later, grunting as he buried himself to the hilt, body shaking against mine.
For a long time, neither of us moved. My heart felt like it might explode out of my chest. His was a drumline against me, every beat an echo of the night that almost erased me.
He didn’t pull out. He just held me there, breathing hard, face pressed into my shoulder like he was afraid I’d vanish the second he looked away.
I stroked his hand, the one still gripping my wrist. “You good?” I whispered.
He nodded, just once, but it felt like a promise.
He never let go.
Afterward, we lay there, breathing like we’d just outrun a fire, not caused it. For a long minute, the only sound was our blood cooling and the faint crackle of the fireplace.
Vadim slid off me, silent, condom disposed of with the same care as evidence at a murder scene.
He didn’t speak, didn’t wipe away the sweat or the bite marks he’d left on my shoulder.
He just hooked an arm under my ribs and dragged me back, pinning me to his chest as if my body was a life raft he’d been ordered not to abandon.
He pressed his face into the crook of my neck, the breath still harsh, the stubble burning a raw line along my jaw.
His arms went around me and locked there, hands overlapping at my navel, one thumb unconsciously tracing circles against my skin.
The hold was not comfortable. It was the grip of a man clutching something he knew he didn’t deserve to keep.
I waited for the muscles in his back to unclench, for his heart to fall back into a normal rhythm, but it took longer than I expected.
I was aware, in a way I’d never been before, of just how close I’d come to being erased from the universe by an anonymous bullet.
The knowledge sat under my skin like an unpopped blister: tender, not yet healed, but proof of survival.
I ran my hand up his forearm, feeling the shiver of tension still cording the muscle. “You’re not going to lose me,” I whispered, too quiet for the fire to hear.
He grunted, more an animal noise than an answer, but didn’t let go.
I stroked his hair, slow, letting my fingers comb through the strands that had finally come undone from the gel and the night. He made no move to stop me. If anything, he leaned into it, letting the weight of his head settle on my shoulder.
I kept at it, over and over, because I’d read somewhere that animals needed repetitive touch to believe they were safe, and I was pretty sure he was the closest thing to an animal I’d ever met.
I listened to his breathing, slow and ragged at first, then evening out, each inhale and exhale stretching the distance between us and the world outside this room. It was like waiting for a bomb to finish ticking and realize it had no reason left to explode.
He fell asleep first. I could tell by the way his hands relaxed, the thumb stopping its motion, the tension in his jaw dropping a fraction. I kept stroking his hair, even after I was sure he’d gone under, because I liked the sensation of keeping him here, tethered to my world.
I didn’t sleep. Not right away. My brain was running in a loop: checking for new wounds, replaying the memory of the bullet, the glass, the way his face had looked when I’d told him “I’m here.”
I’d been fucked by Vadim before, but never like this.
Never with this level of desperation running underneath, the fear that tomorrow he’d wake up and find me gone.
He’d fucked me like a man trying to erase a crime scene, and I realized, with a thrill and a little terror, that I wanted to be the evidence he could never scrub out.
I wasn’t sure if anyone had ever seen him like that. Not Sasha. Not Lin. Maybe not even Yuri. I filed the knowledge away in a mental safe deposit box, a secret I’d never spend unless I needed to. But it made me feel dangerous in a way I hadn’t before.