8. Ilya
ILYA
The heavy, musky scent of our joining still hangs heavy mixed with the faint smell of the woodsmoke from the fireplace.
This may just be my favorite scent.
I stand at the foot of the massive bed, my arms crossed over my chest, watching her sleep.
The white sheet is tangled around her waist, leaving the smooth, pale curve of her back and the flare of her hips completely exposed to the dim light of the lamp.
My gaze tracks the faint, blue-purple smudges my fingers left on her skin last night when I held her down on the desk.
My jaw tightens. A low, aching heat begins to pull in my gut.
I want her again.
I want to crawl back into that bed, rip the sheet away, and sink myself so deep inside her that she forgets her own name.
My mind keeps dragging me back to the raw, unfiltered details of last night.
The way she felt when I first pushed my way inside her.
She was so goddamn tight, her body clamping down around me like a vise.
I remember the wet, slippery heat of her coating me, the high, breathless gasp she let out against my mouth, and the way her hips started to twitch and rise to meet my thrusts even while she was crying.
I can still hear the wet, heavy friction of our bodies sliding together. I can still feel the clench of her internal muscles wrapping around me, squeezing me tighter and tighter until I lost my mind and spilled my seed deep inside her womb.
Fucking hell.
Even now, my trousers are uncomfortably tight, my cock thick and throbbing against the heavy denim.
I let out a slow, rough breath, forcing myself to turn away from the bed. I walk to the heavy double doors, my boots making no sound on the plush carpet. The digital lock chirps as I step out into the hallway, the sound a sharp contrast to the quiet of the room.
Dmitri is waiting by the stairs, a tablet in his hand, his face shadowed with exhaustion.
"The perimeter is clear." He swipes a finger across the screen. "Petr’s men have retreated past the river. But the city is buzzing, Boss. The Russo family is already calling for a meeting of the council. They want to know why the North is executing Bratva soldiers in the streets."
"Ignore them." I lead the way down the marble staircase, my hand resting on the handrail. "They’ll have their answer tonight at the summit."
"And the girl?" Dmitri stops at the landing, looking at me with a steady, questioning gaze. "Are we keeping her locked in the north wing?"
"No." I halt, turning my head to look back up the stairs. "She’s a Kovalevskii now. Tonight, the entire city is going to see her on my arm. They need to know that any move against her is a direct declaration of war on me. Make sure she’s ready for tonight.”
"I’ll call the design team." Dmitri nods, already typing on his tablet. "They’ll be here within the hour."
I walk down to my office, my mind still trapped in the memory of her skin.
An hour later, the front gates chime. Yara leads three women into the foyer, all of them carrying heavy black garment bags and leather cases.
They look nervous, their eyes darting to the armed guards standing at the corners of the room.
The lead stylist, a tall woman with sharp glasses and a severe bun, bows her head slightly when she sees me.
"We brought the winter collection, Pakhan," she murmurs, gesturing to the bags. "As requested. Dark silk, velvet, and the custom jewelry."
"Take it up to the north suite," I direct, my voice flat. "Transform her. I want her looking like a queen."
I follow them up the stairs. When I open the bedroom door, the light is still dim. Via is stirring. She blinks against the sudden glare of the hallway light, her eyes focusing on me, then on the three women entering behind me with the racks of dark clothes.
She sits up quickly, pulling the silk sheet up to her collarbone, her eyes instantly turning sharp.
"What is this?" She looks at the black garment bags being unzipped, revealing dresses of deep burgundy, dark emerald, and silk. "W-What’s going on?"
I stand by the door, my arms crossed. "You’re dressing for the summit tonight."
"I’m not going anywhere with you!” She glares at the stylist who tries to step closer with a measuring tape. "T-Touch me, and I’ll use that tape to strangle you."
The stylist flinches, stepping back toward the door with a pale face.
I wave my hand, gesturing to the women. "Leave the clothes. Get out."
They don't need to be told twice. They set the bags down, leave the leather cases on the vanity, and scurry out of the room like mice, the door clicking shut behind them.
Via stays huddled in the center of the bed, her fingers clutching the sheet so hard her knuckles are white. Her eyes track me as I walk slowly toward the vanity. "I told you, Ilya. I’m not playing your little game. I’m not going to be your trophy."
"You're going to be whatever I say you are, little bird." I reach down and pick up a pair of dark, provocative heels from one of the boxes, stiletto heels made of black leather with thin straps designed to wrap around her ankles. "You're my wife. And tonight, you will play the part."
"I’d rather die."
She reaches down, snatches a heavy, solid wood shoe from the floor, and hurls it straight at my face.
The heavy heel flies past my ear, slamming into the plaster wall behind me with a loud thud and leaving a deep dent in the drywall.
I look at the dent, then slowly turn my gaze back to her.
Her breath catches, her eyes widening slightly as she realizes her little display didn't even make me blink. She tries to scramble backward toward the headboard, but the sheet catches on her legs, trapping her.
I close the distance in three long strides and climb onto the edge of the mattress and grab her by the ankle.
She lets out a sharp, angry gasp, kicking out with her free leg, but I catch that one too.
I drag her down the bed until she’s lying flat on her back, her golden hair splayed across the sheets, my massive body looming directly over hers.
I pin her wrists to the mattress on either side of her head, my chest pressing against hers, my bandage rubbing against her bare skin. Sweet, warm vanilla fills my lungs, turning my blood to liquid fire.
"You have a lot of fight in you for a girl who was begging me to stop four hours ago," I rasp, my mouth inches from hers.
"I wasn't begging," she snaps, her chin lifting, though I can see the rapid flutter of her pulse in her neck. "I was trying to keep you from crushing my ribs, you giant brute. And if you think a piece of paper makes me your property, you’re stupider than I thought."
"You are my property, Viallentinka." I lean down, my lips grazing the sensitive skin of her jaw, making her let out a ragged hitch of a breath. "Your father signed you over the second he let Mikhail skim my ports. And last night, you sealed the deal yourself."
"My father didn't know!" She tries to twist her wrists out of my grip, her body bucking against mine, but it’s a useless effort. I’m too heavy, too solid. "He would never have let Mikhail touch your money if he knew what it would cost."
"It doesn't matter what he knew." I shift my weight, my thigh sliding between hers, forcing her legs apart.
The heat of her inner thighs is intoxicating, and I can feel the sudden, damp warmth of her body reacting to my proximity.
"What matters is tonight. The Russo family is going to be there. They want to see if the North is weak. They want to see if I’ve been softened by a pretty little Bratva princess. "
"Then show them your teeth, snap or do whatever animalistic things you do, Ilya." She glares up at me. “Why do you need me?"
"Because a king is only as strong as his queen.
" I release her wrists, my hand sliding down to cup her face, my thumb dragging across her bottom lip until it’s raw and pink.
"I want them to see the marks on your neck.
I want them to see the way you look at me.
I want every man in that room to know that if they even look at you, I will pull their hearts out through their throats. "
She swallows hard, her throat bobbing under my palm. "And what if I tell them the truth? What if I stand up in front of your little council and tell them you dragged me here in a blood-stained dress?"
I smile, a cold, dark curve of my lips. "They won't care, Via. In our world, strength is the only law. They’ll just see a man who took what he wanted. And they’ll respect me for it."
She turns her head away, her shoulder tensing under my weight. "I fucking hate you."
"I know." I lean down, my teeth grazing the soft lobe of her ear, making her shudder. "But tonight, you’re going to wear that black silk dress. You’re going to walk into that room on my arm, and you’re going to look like you worship the ground I walk on."
"And if I don't?"
I grip her chin, forcing her face back to mine.
"If you don't, I will find much more creative ways to ensure your obedience.
We have twelve hours before the summit, Via.
I can spend them breaking that stubborn little mouth and body of yours until you can barely stand, let alone speak. Would you prefer that?"
Her breath catches, her eyes widening as she looks into my face. She can see the truth in my eyes. She knows I’m not bluffing. She knows I’d do it in a heartbeat, that I’m practically begging for an excuse to slide back inside her and take her until she’s sobbing my name.
"You're a monster," she whispers, her voice barely a thread.
"I’m your husband," I say, my voice a low, gravelly vibration against her lips. "Get dressed, Viallentinka."
I stand up, my body aching with the effort of pulling away from her. I walk to the door, my boots heavy on the floor, and look back one last time.
She’s sitting up, the sheet clutched to her chest, staring at the black silk dress hanging on the rack. She looks small in the center of the massive bed, but the fire in her eyes is still burning.
Good.
I step out into the hallway, the lock chirping as it engages. My blood is still hot, my hands shaking slightly as I walk toward the stairs.
She’s going to be the death of me, but tonight, the city is going to see exactly who she belongs to.