4. Ilya
ILYA
The monitor in my office shows a grainy, black-and-white feed of the North Suite.
Viallentinka isn't crying. That’s what I expected to see when I came here.
But she isn’t. She’s on her knees in front of the oak door, her back to the camera, shoulders working with a focused energy.
What the fuck is she doing?
I lean closer, my drink forgotten on the desk. She’s got a small, silver hairpiece in her hand—something she must have pulled from the wreckage of that ridiculous hairstyle—and she’s jamming it into the biometric scanner’s casing.
Stubborn little beast.
She’s trying to bypass the electrical relay. It’s a smart move for a girl who’s supposed to be a sheltered princess, but it’s a useless one. The secondary circuit is embedded in the frame. All she’s going to do is give herself a nasty shock or break her makeshift tool.
I watch her for another minute. The way her lace sleeves are torn at the shoulders, revealing the pale, creamy skin I want to sink my teeth into.
The way her breathing is visible even through the low-res feed, her chest heaving with every frustrated grunt.
My pulse thickens. It’s a heavy, low-frequency thrum that has nothing to do with the war I’ve just declared on her father and everything to do with the fact that she’s under my roof.
I stand up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. I walk down the hall and straight to her room.
The biometric scanner chirps as I press my thumb to it. The door swings inward, and for a split second, she doesn't move. She stays frozen on the floor, the silver pin still clutched in her hand, her head bowed.
Then she turns.
Her face is pale, and her eyes are wide, filled with raw panic. Her breathing is jagged, her chest moving so fast, it looks painful. She tries to hide the hairpiece behind her back, but she’s too slow.
"Looking for a way out, Via?" I ask. I keep my voice low, the words sliding out like a blade from a sheath. I step into the room and the door clicks shut behind me, the lock engaging with a sound that makes her flinch.
"I was looking for a light switch," she says. Her voice is shaking, but she’s still trying to lie to me. "It’s too dark in here. I can’t see."
"Liar." I walk toward her, and she tries to scramble backward on her knees, her white dress bunching up around her thighs. I don't give her the space. I reach down, grab her by the upper arm, and haul her to her feet.
She’s small—smaller than she felt over my shoulder. My hand almost completely circles her bicep. I can feel the frantic, hummingbird beat of her pulse through her skin.
"Let go of me," she whispers. It's not a command this time. It’s a plea.
"You were trying to pick the lock of a Pakhan’s door," I say, my grip tightening just enough to make her gasp. "In my house, that’s considered an act of war. Do you have any idea what I do to people who declare war on me?"
She looks up at me, her lower lip trembling. She’s trying to find that sharp-tongued girl from the car, but she’s failing. "You're going to kill me anyway. Does it matter if I try to leave?"
"I’m not going to kill you, Viallentinka.
" I move my other hand, my thumb tracing the line of her bottom lip. It’s soft, wet from where she’s been biting it, and so goddamn tempting I can feel my own restraint fraying.
"But you need to learn the rules. Rule one: you do not touch the door.
Rule two: you do not lie to me. And rule three... "
I lean in, my nose brushing against hers. I can smell the vanilla on her skin, mixed with the sharp tang of her fear.
"Rule three is that you look at me when I’m talking to you."
She tries to turn her head away, her eyes fluttering shut. I don't let her. I hook my hand under her chin, forcing her face up. I use my thumb to press down on her bottom lip, dragging it until the pink inner flesh is exposed.
"Look at me," I growl.
She opens her eyes. They’re swimming with tears she refuses to let fall, but the fire is still there, buried deep under the terror.
"I hate you," she says, her voice a ragged thread.
I move suddenly, spinning her around and forcing her toward the bed.
She lets out a small, muffled shriek as her knees hit the mattress, and I follow her down, my body pressing her into the velvet duvet.
I pin her wrists above her head with one hand, my other hand coming up to bridge her neck, my thumb resting right over her windpipe.
I don't squeeze. I want her to feel the absolute power I have over her breathing.
"You think your mouth is going to save you?" I rasp, my face inches from hers. "You think if you make enough jokes about my suit or my ego, I’ll forget that you’re a Denisov? I’ll forget that your father is currently planning my execution?"
"I'm not... I'm not my father," she gasps, her chest heaving against my suit jacket.
"No. You're mine."
The words feel right. They feel like a fact of nature.
I shift my weight, my thigh sliding between hers, forcing her legs apart through the heavy lace of her dress.
I can feel the heat of her, the softness that Mikhail never got to touch.
The thought of that coward even looking at her makes my blood boil.
I release her neck and slide my hand down, my fingers tangling in the silk of her bodice. I pull the fabric taut until her breasts are pushed up, the hard peaks of her nipples visible through the lace.
She lets out a sob, a real one this time, and tries to twist away. "Please. Ilya, stop."
"I told you not to say no to me, Via." I lean down, my mouth grazing the shell of her ear. I can feel her heart hammering against my ribs. "You want to know what the punishment for disobedience is?"
I don't wait for an answer. I move my hand lower, bunching up the endless layers of her white skirt until I find the hem of her silk stockings. I slide my palm up her inner thigh, the skin there so soft it feels like flower petals.
She freezes, her breath hitching in her throat. "What are you doing?"
I find the edge of her silk panties, thin, white, and completely useless against me, and I slide two fingers inside her.
Instantly, Viallentinka erupts beneath me, her body turning into a violent storm of thrashing limbs and raw fury. She fights me with everything she has, hips twisting desperately to escape my hand, her fingernails digging violently into my shoulders.
"Get your filthy, godforsaken hands off me!" she spits, her voice cracking with rage and panic. "I swear to God, Ilya, I will tear your throat out while you sleep! You're a monster, a pathetic, miserable bastard!"
The venom pouring from her lips should infuriate me, but it does the exact opposite.
Her fierce, breathless tirade is deeply entertaining.
I actually have to suppress the urge to laugh out loud at how viciously she barks from beneath me, especially when her body completely undermines her words.
Even as she curses my bloodline and fights to push me away, her hips betray her, unconsciously arching upward, pressing herself deeper against my fingers with every twist.
The contradiction is intoxicating. A dark, slow smile spreads across my face as I look down at her flushed, furious expression. She looks utterly magnificent when she’s unravelling.
She catches the look. Her eyes widen with hatred at the amusement dancing in my eyes. Before I can predict her movement, her hand flies up.
Crack.
The sound of her palm meeting my cheek rings loudly in the quiet room.
My head snaps to the side.
The entire room goes dead silent. Viallentinka freezes instantly, her hand hovering in the air. Her eyes are wide with sudden, gripping terror as she realizes exactly what she has just done to a man like me.
Slowly, I turn my face back to her. The sting on my cheek doesn't anger me. No, it fuels the fire roaring in my veins. The adrenaline is a sweet rush. I lean down lower, my frame completely swallowing her up.
"I like it when you fight back," I murmur, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "It makes breaking you so much sweeter."
My eyes lock onto hers, and I begin to move my fingers.
She lets out a cry, her back arching off the bed. She’s wet. Soaking wet. The discovery hits me hard to the gut. She’s terrified of me, she hates me, but her body is welcoming me like I’m the only thing it’s ever wanted.
The fight drains out of her all at once. Her hands lose their strength, dropping to the sheets as she surrenders to the sensation, completely unable to resist the pull.
"Look at me, Viallentinka," I command.
She’s shaking now, her eyes glazed and unfocused, her head thrashing against the pillow. I move my fingers, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves and putting just enough pressure on it to make her gasp my name.
"Ilya... please..."
"Say it again," I growl, increasing the pace. I want her to lose that sass. I want her to lose every single thought in her head until there’s nothing left but me. "Say my name."
"Ilya!" She cries it out, her voice breaking. She’s close—I can feel the muscles of her thighs tightening around my hand, her body vibrating with the tension of an impending release.
I don't let her finish. I pull my fingers out abruptly, leaving her shivering and empty on the bed.
She lets out a small, pathetic whimper of protest, her eyes snapping open. She looks wrecked. Her hair is a golden halo against the dark velvet, her lips are swollen and red, and her chest is rising and falling in violent jerks.
I stand up, my own body screaming for release, my trousers uncomfortably tight. I have to get out of this room before I lose the last shred of my control and take her right here.
"That was your first lesson, little bird," I say, my voice sounding like it’s coming from the bottom of a well. I reach out and trace her bottom lip one last time, my thumb coming away damp. "Next time, the lesson won't be so pleasant. Do you understand?"
She doesn't answer. She just glares at the ceiling, her eyes wide and glassy, her breathing still jagged.
"Answer me."
"Yes," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "I understand."
"Good."
I turn and walk out, the door chirping as I exit.
I’m halfway down the corridor when I see them. Dmitri, Viktorin, Lev, and Stepan are standing near the junction to the war room, their voices hushed. They stop talking the second they see me, their eyes fixing on my face.
I know what I look like. I’m disheveled, my tie is loose, and I’m pretty sure I have the scent of vanilla and arousal clinging to me like a second skin.
"Boss," Dmitri says, his gaze lingering on my wrinkled sleeve. "Everything okay with the... guest?"
"She’s fine," I grunt, my voice rough. "She’s staying in the North Suite. Triple the guard on the door. No one goes in without my explicit permission. That includes the staff."
Viktorin, the oldest and most traditional of my captains, scowls. "Ilya, with all due respect, having a Denisov in the house is a security risk we don't need. Petr is going to be sending hit squads by morning. Why keep her here? Use her for the trade and be done with it."
"She’s not a trade, Viktorin," I say, stepping into his space. I’m a head taller than him, and right now, I’m in the mood to break something. "She’s mine. If Petr wants her, he can come and try to take her."
Viktorin’s eyes flash with annoyance, but he knows better than to push me when I’m like this. He just nods stiffly and looks away.
Lev, the youngest of the group, has a small, amused smirk playing on his lips. He’s always been the one with the most appetite for chaos. "So the Bratva Princess has a bit of fire in her, does she? I’ve heard she has quite the mouth on her."
"She's a captive, Lev," I growl, my hand twitching toward my holster. "You stay the fuck away from that wing."
Lev raises his hands in mock surrender, his smirk widening. "Just curious, Boss. I’ve never seen you this worked up over anything before. She must be something special."
"She’s nothing."
Stepan and the others look indifferent, but the tension in the hallway is thick enough to choke on.
"Get to the strategy room," I command, my voice a final, sharp crack. "I want a full report on the Denisov docks by midnight. If Petr moves, I want to know about it before he even puts his fucking shoes on."
They disperse, their footsteps echoing on the stone floor. I stand there for a moment, the silence of the hallway pressing in on me.
My skin feels too tight. My blood feels like it’s made of lead. I think about Via back in that room, windowless, dark, and smelling of me. I think about the way she looked when she finally stopped fighting and just... felt.
I’m going to break her.
Or I’m going to burn this entire city down just to keep her.
I turn and head toward the war room, my jaw set so tight it aches. She’s mine. And God help anyone who tries to take her away.