Chapter 9 – Barbara
For the first time in weeks, I felt almost free.
No Bratva eyes watching my every move. No cold shadow lurking in corners, waiting. No demands for money I didn’t have. Just me, alone in my bedroom, music blaring from the speaker loud enough to drown out the thoughts that usually consumed me.
The bass thumped through my body as I twirled across the marble floor, arms outstretched, head thrown back. The lyrics wrapped around me like a promise, something about earning affection, about deserving what you worked for. It felt prophetic in a way I couldn’t quite name.
I spun again, faster this time, letting the music carry me away from reality. From the bruises still fading on my shoulder. From the surveillance footage I knew Kirill had found. From the impossible situation that had no exit strategy.
So, I let myself believe I was someone else. Someone whose biggest problem was what to wear to brunch. Someone who danced because she was happy, not because she was trying to outrun her demons.
Someone free.
Then the music cut off.
I stopped mid-spin, my heart already beginning to race. The speaker sat on my dresser, screen dark. Had the battery died? Had I accidentally….
A large palm clamped over my mouth from behind.
My scream died in my throat, muffled against skin that smelled like cedar and something wild. An arm wrapped around my waist, lifting me slightly off the ground as I was yanked backward. Wild panic exploded through my veins, making everything go sharp and immediate.
Sebastian.
He’d come to finish what he started. Come to make good on his threats. The gun would be next, pressed against my ribs, and this time he wouldn’t just threaten. This time—
I thrashed, elbows flying, trying to break free. Trying to scream. Trying to do anything except die in my own bedroom like some stupid girl in a horror movie who should’ve known better.
The arm around my waist tightened, and I was spun around, my back slamming against the wall hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. The hand over my mouth stayed firm, preventing any sound from escaping.
Then I saw his eyes.
Blue. Furious.
Not Sebastian.
Kirill.
Relief hit me so hard my knees buckled. He caught me, held me up against the wall, his hand finally leaving my mouth now that he knew I wouldn’t scream.
“What the fuck—” I started, but he cut me off.
“Why?” The single word came out like a growl, rough and dangerous. “Why did you send your punk-ass boyfriend after me?”
My mind went blank. “What?”
“Don’t play stupid, Barbara.” He leaned in closer, his body pinning mine to the wall, his breath hot against my face. “Your boyfriend. Bass. He attacked me tonight. In a fucking parking lot. Told me to stay away from the mansion, to stop meddling with the cameras.”
Ice flooded my veins. Sebastian had gone after him. Had actually attacked Kirill. “I didn’t…I didn’t send anyone….”
“Bullshit.” His nostrils flared, jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping. “You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know what’s going on here? You’re fucking both of us, playing some kind of game, trying to distract me from doing my job—”
“No!” The word exploded out of me. “I swear, I didn’t know he would. I didn’t send him.”
“Then why?” Kirill’s hand slammed against the wall beside my head, making me flinch.
“Why is he so desperate to keep me away from those cameras? What are you two hiding? Are you trying to start a new war in Chicago? Is that what this is? Using Bratva resources to cover up your boyfriend’s criminal activity? ”
“He’s not….” I stopped myself before the truth could spill out. Couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t explain. “It’s not what you think.”
“Then tell me what it is.” His voice dropped, going dangerously soft. “Make me understand why you’re putting yourself at risk. Why you’re putting my life at risk. Are you out of your fucking mind?”
I shook my head frantically, tears burning behind my eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want any of this. I never meant for anyone to get hurt—”
“But they did.” He was so close now I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to. Could see the fury and confusion and something that looked almost like hurt in his eyes. “He came at me with a knife. Would’ve killed me if I were alone. Is that what you wanted? Me dead so I’d stop asking questions?”
“No!” The tears spilled over, hot tracks down my cheeks. “God, no. I never—I would never—”
“Then what?” He searched my face like he could find the truth written there. “What kind of hold does this bastard have on you? What could possibly be worth all of this?”
I couldn’t answer. Could only stand there with my back against the wall, trapped between Kirill’s body and my own secrets. The weight of everything—five years of blackmail, of terror, of living in a prison of my own making—pressed down on me until I couldn’t breathe.
“You want to know the truth?” My voice came out broken, defeated. “Fine. You’re right. I have a beautiful face.” I forced myself to meet his gaze, to let him see the mess underneath. “And an ugly soul.”
The words hit the space between us like a physical blow. I watched something flicker in his eyes, surprise, maybe. Or confirmation of what he’d already believed.
“Yeah.” The agreement hurt more than it should have. “You do.”
I nodded, my vision blurring with fresh tears. “I know. I’m damaged. Broken. I come with baggage that would sink ships. I’m exactly what you think I am, a cheater and a liar.”
“Barbara—”
“You should leave.” I tried to push against his chest, but he didn’t budge. “Just finish the security system and walk away. Forget you ever met me. Forget—” My voice cracked. “Forget everything.”
For a long moment, he just stared at me. And I waited for him to do exactly what I’d suggested. To pull away, to look at me with disgust, to walk out and never come back.
But he didn’t.
Instead, something shifted in his expression. The anger was still there, but underneath it, I saw something else. Something achingly familiar.
The same thing I felt every time I looked at him.
“I can’t,” he said roughly. “God help me, I’ve tried. But I can’t forget you.”
Then his lips slammed onto mine.
It wasn’t gentle. Wasn’t tender or sweet or any of the things kisses were supposed to be. This was fury made physical. Punishment and salvation all at once. His teeth caught my bottom lip hard enough to sting, and I gasped against his mouth.
He took advantage, deepening the kiss until I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could only feel. Could only respond with the same desperate need that had been building between us since that first night in the club.
His hands were possessive, yanking my hair back, gripping my waist, sliding up my ribs to claim me—and mine matched his intensity. I clawed at his shirt, my nails digging into his shoulders through the fabric, desperate to get closer even though we were already pressed chest-to-chest.
“This is wrong,” I gasped against his mouth, biting his lower lip hard enough to taste copper. My fingers found the buttons of his shirt, ripping two of them off in my haste. “You hate me.”
“I do.” His voice was a wrecked growl, vibrating against my skin. He grabbed the hem of my shirt and tore it over my head in one smooth, aggressive motion. His eyes went dark, pupils swallowing the irises, as they traced over my bare breasts. “This changes nothing.”
“Good.” I reached for his belt, my hands shaking but determined, fumbling with the heavy buckle. “Because I still hate you too.”
But hate had never felt like this. Hate was supposed to be cold, a wall between us. This was a raging fire, a need so sharp it felt like a weapon.
Clothes hit the floor; his shirt, my pants, his belt making a heavy metallic clatter. He shoved his boxers down, and his erection sprang free—heavy, and leaking pre-cum. The sight of him, fully aroused and furious, made my knees weak.
He didn’t wait. He pushed me backward onto the bed, following me down instantly. The mattress dipped under his weight as he crawled over me, settling between my legs. He didn’t prep me; he just gripped my hips, his thumbs digging into the bruising flesh, and spread me wide.
“You’re infuriating,” he snarled against my throat, his hips snapping forward so the broad head of his cock rubbed against my slick, swollen entrance. “Frustrating. Impossible.”
“Back at you,” I managed, my breath hitching as he teased the opening, coating himself in my wetness. I arched up, desperate for the fill. “Arrogant. Judgmental. Insufferable.”
“So stop me.” His teeth grazed my collarbone, sending electric shocks down my spine. He lined himself up, the tip stretching me. “Tell me to leave.”
I should have. But instead, I wrapped my legs around his waist, locking my ankles to trap him there.
“I hate you,” I whispered, pleading.
He laughed against my skin—dark, bitter, and honest. “I hate you too.”
Then he thrust. He drove into me in one long, punishing stroke, burying himself to the hilt. I screamed, my head thrown back, as he stretched me beyond capacity. He was huge, filling every inch of me, hitting that deep, sensitive barrier inside.
“So tight,” he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as my inner walls clamped down around him. “Fuck, Barbara.”
There were no more words. Just ragged breaths and the wet, slapping sound of skin on skin.
He withdrew almost completely, leaving just the tip inside, before slamming back in.
The friction was blinding. He didn’t make love; he used me.
He ground his hips against mine, his pubic bone bruising my clitoris with every thrust, creating a dual friction that made my vision blur.
Every touch was a challenge. Every kiss a battle. We fought for dominance, for control. He pinned my wrists above my head with one hand, leaving me exposed and vulnerable, while he pounded into me with a rhythm that was frantic and bordering on violent.
“Look at you,” he demanded, opening his eyes to watch me unravel. “Taking all of me.”
“Kirill—” His name came out as a gasp, a prayer, a curse all at once. The pleasure was building too fast, a tight coil of heat low in my belly that was about to snap.
“I know.” His voice was strained, his body taut as a wire. He let go of my hands to grab my waist again, anchoring me for deeper impact. “I know.”
The world narrowed to just this—the feeling of his thick shaft stretching me open, the burn of the friction, the smell of sweat and sex. He hit a spot deep inside, rubbing against it relentlessly, and I fell apart.
“I’m coming!” I cried out.
“Come for me,” he growled. “Bleed me dry.”
My climax hit me like a physical blow. My hips bucked off the mattress, my body convulsing around his cock, squeezing him in milking spasms. I screamed his name, lost in the white-hot wash of sensation.
Feeling my release triggered his own. He tensed above me, his jaw clenched, veins standing out in his neck. He shouted something in Russian as his grip on my hips tightened painfully.
He drove into me three more times before bottoming out deep inside. I felt him throb, pulsing wildly as he poured hot jets of semen into me, filling me, marking me. He held himself there, grinding against my cervix, groaning as he emptied himself completely.
The intensity of it pushed me over the edge I’d been teetering on, and I floated in the aftershocks, his name on my lips like a lifeline, feeling the warmth of him spill out of me as we both collapsed, wrecked and ruined, into the sheets.
Everything went white. Pleasure crashed over me in waves that left me gasping, shaking, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly lost all its anchors.
Then, slowly, reality crept back in.
His weight settling over me. His face buried in my neck, breath hot and ragged against my skin. The thundering of two hearts trying to remember how to beat normally.
The crushing realization of what we’d just done.
Again.
“We can’t keep doing this,” I whispered into the darkness.
“I know.” But he didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Just held me tighter, like he could somehow keep the world at bay through sheer force of will.
My eyes felt heavy. Too heavy. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. The kind of bone-deep tiredness that came from carrying too many secrets for too long.
“Kirill?”
“Yeah?”
I wanted to tell him everything. Wanted to explain about Sebastian, about the video, about the prison I’d been living in for five years. Wanted to beg him to help me, to save me, to be the hero I desperately needed.
But the words wouldn’t come. They stayed locked behind my teeth, trapped by shame and the absolute certainty that the moment he knew the truth, he’d look at me with the same disgust I saw in my own reflection.
So instead, I just held on tighter.
And let the darkness pull me under.