ROMAN — Volkovskaya Bedroom, 0647
Iwake up hard with a warm, soft weight pressed against my side, small hand over the scar on my chest, one slim leg thrown over my thigh.
My wife.
Anya Volkova, genius chemist, stubborn pain in my ass… currently wrapped around me like I’m her favorite pillow.
She must have moved in her sleep. When we turned the lights off, she was curled as far away from me as the mattress allowed, like the edge of the bed was going to save her from the man who bought her.
Now her face is tucked into my shoulder, breath warm on my skin, hair all over me, silk nightgown bunched up high enough that I can feel her bare hip against my side.
And my cock is jammed against the soft inside of her thigh, hard enough to be painful.
“Blyad’,” I mutter under my breath.
I should move her. Slide out from under her, put some space between us, pretend this never happened. Be the polite husband who promised to wait.
I lie there and let myself feel it for a minute.
She’s so fucking small like this. Soft. Loose. No sharp tongue, no scientist brain, no eyes full of hate. Just a warm, exhausted girl who has lost too much too fast, clinging to the biggest heat source in the room without even knowing she’s doing it.
Her fingers are spread right over the old bullet wound. The Chechen job that almost killed me. Out of all the places on my body she could have landed, she picked that one in her sleep.
Interesting.
I drag my hand slowly up her back, careful not to wake her too fast. The silk is thin and warm under my palm. I trace every vertebra, every little bump of bone, and her breathing changes just a little—still deep, but there’s a hitch in there now.
My fingers slide into her hair. It’s softer than it looks. Slippery between my knuckles, still carrying the faint scent of her shampoo—lavender.
I tighten my grip just enough to feel her scalp move.
She murmurs, shifts closer, and rubs herself right against my cock.
My vision goes white for a second.
“Stay,” I breathe, more to myself than to her.
My other hand comes up to her throat. I lay it there, thumb on her pulse. That’s the spot I want when she’s awake. When she’s begging.
Her heart beats slowly. Resting. Completely relaxed on a man she claims to hate.
That pisses me off and turns me on at the same time.
I feel the exact moment her brain reconnects.
Her whole body goes tight. Heart rate jumps under my thumb. Her fingers twitch on my chest. Her eyes snap open, wide and grey and panicked, and she realizes where she is—in my arms, on my chest, my cock pressed against her.
“Good morning, solnyshko.” I don’t bother to hide how amused I am. “Sleep well?”
She jerks, tries to push away.
I tighten my hand around her throat and lock my leg over hers so she can’t go anywhere, reminding her who’s stronger here.
“Tishina.” Quiet. “You came to me in the night. You climbed into my space. So you can stop acting like I dragged you over here.”
Her cheeks flush, a slow burn climbing her neck. “I didn’t— I was asleep—”
I shift my hips just enough for her to feel exactly how hard I am. Her eyes flare as my cock presses against her belly.
“We’re going to stay like this for sixty seconds,” I tell her. “You’re going to lie there and feel what you do to me.”
“Roman—”
“Sixty.” My thumb strokes her neck once. “Starting now.”
I count in my head.
At ten seconds, she’s breathing too fast. Her chest moves against my ribs with every short inhale, nipples tight against the silk.
By half, her leg trembles where it’s trapped between mine. The little adjustments her body makes to get comfortable are killing us both.
At forty, she swallows hard and looks away. Mistake. I slide my hand from her throat to her jaw and force her head back to face me.
“Eyes on me, zhena.”
Near the end, her thighs squeeze together and I’m close to saying fuck the promise and rolling her under me.
“You can run now.”
She tears herself away so fast she almost falls off the bed, catches the headboard at the last second. Her hair is a mess, her nightgown twisted high on her thighs, her face flushed and furious.
I stay where I am, propped on one elbow, sheet doing a shit job of hiding my erection.
“For the record,” I tell her, “you crawled over here at about three. Wrapped yourself around me.” I let my gaze drag down her body and back up. “I decided to let you stay.”
Her throat works around a swallow. “You’re disgusting.”
“Probably.” I smile. “Go shower. You’ve got twenty minutes before breakfast.”
She bolts for the bathroom, slamming the door.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling. My cock is still throbbing, my hand almost shakes when I scrub it over my face.
I didn’t mean to want her this much, this fast. I was supposed to be in control here.
Right now, she just feels like a fucking problem.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I grab it.
Vadim.
YOUR WIFE MADE A STATEMENT LAST NIGHT. REFUSING THE ICON. BOLD.
I type back. You wanted a spine, dyadya. You got one.
His answer is instant. CHECHENS ARE CURIOUS. ABOUT THE NEW WIFE. ABOUT THE CHEMIST. DINNER TONIGHT, 20:00. brING HER.
I stare at the screen for a second, then reply: We’ll be there.
The shower cuts off.
Steam curls out when the door opens and Anya steps back into the bedroom in a white towel, bare legs, wet hair sticking to her shoulders. She stops dead when she sees me still in bed, shirtless, sheets low on my hips.
Her eyes flick over me and away so fast she probably thinks I didn’t notice.
I did.
“I need the bathroom,” I say, swinging my legs out of bed. The sheet drops. Her gaze drops with it before she jerks it back up, cheeks going scarlet.
“Use it then,” she mutters, clutching the towel tighter. “I’m done.”
I walk straight past her, close enough that my chest brushes her damp shoulder. Her skin goosebumps under the light touch.
“Relax, solnyshko.” I lean down so my mouth is near her ear. “If I was going to break our deal, I’d pick somewhere more comfortable than cold tile.”
She shivers.
In the bathroom, I shave while she dithers by the sink, pretending she has nowhere else to go. Straight razor in my hand, foam on my jaw. In the mirror I can see her watching every stroke like she’s imagining a blade at my throat.
“Enjoying the view?” I ask, dragging the razor down my neck.
She jumps. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.” I rinse the blade. “You watch everything. It’s what scientists do.”
Her eyes drop to my throat again. The attention feels like a touch.
Good.
When I’m done, I wipe my face with a towel and turn to her.
“You can drop the towel,” I say mildly. “Or go get dressed. Either way, breakfast is in fifteen minutes. Wear something that says ‘untouchable’.” I pause. “And remember it’s a lie.”
She glares at me and stomps into the closet.
* * *
I’m still smiling when I walk into the dining room.
Galina went overboard, like always when she’s nervous. The table is covered. Syrniki, smoked fish, caviar, black bread, omelets, and fruit. Enough food to feed the whole crew. It’s just the two of us.
Anya sits at the far end in dark trousers, cream sweater, black jacket, hair braided wet down her back. No makeup. She still looks like trouble.
I sit opposite her, close enough we can talk without shouting, far enough that she can pretend she’s not aware of every move I make.
“Your brother’s plane landed in Brussels two hours ago,” I say as I pour tea. “He’s at the school. Volkov security is on-site.”
Her fork stops halfway to her mouth. “Is he… is it nice? The school?”
“Expensive,” I say. “Which usually means nice.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“Nyet.”
Her head snaps up. “Why not?”
“Because anyone listening to my calls doesn’t need to know the name of the school your brother is at,” I answer calmly. “Because the Chechens have good hackers. Because your father talks when he’s drunk. Because distance keeps Mishka alive.”
She looks sour. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
“You got what matters,” I say. “He’s out. He’s safe. He’ll be pissed at you, but he’ll live long enough to get over it.”
Her eyes shine, but no tears fall.
“My father?” she asks quietly. “You said the debt—”
“Paid,” I cut in. “Eight million wired at seven this morning. Vadim confirmed. Your father is free.”
She huffs a humorless laugh. “Free to drink himself to death.”
“Not my problem,” I say. “I bought you, not his sobriety.”
“You’re a bastard.”
“Da.” I sip my tea. “But I’m the bastard who kept your brother breathing and your father out of a shallow grave. Don’t forget that when you decide to test the fences.”
She doesn’t thank me. Good. I’d respect her less if she did.
“The Chechens are coming to dinner,” I tell her. “My cousin, Dmitri Volkov, a couple of lieutenants, Vadim. They’ll be polite. They’ll stare at you. Dmitri will flirt.”
“I won’t flirt back,” she snaps.
“You might,” I say. “You’re smart enough to use whatever weapons you have. But listen carefully, solnyshko—the moment he starts talking about saving you from me, you shut that shit down.”
“Why?” she challenges. “Afraid your cousin will steal your bride?”
“I’m afraid you’ll believe him,” I answer. “Dmitri doesn’t save things. If you go with him, I’ll kill you both.”
She looks at me like she’s trying to decide if I mean it.
I do.
* * *
By afternoon the temporary lab is up.
My mother’s old sitting room now smells like chemicals and fresh paint, ventilation bolted over wallpaper she picked out twenty-five years ago. Benches are in. Equipment is half installed. It’s enough for Anya to start making lists and telling my men what they did wrong.
Luka calls as I’m going through the evening security plan.
“Boss,” he drawls over the radio. “Your wife just tried to amputate her own hand.”
I’m on my feet before I process the words. “What happened?”
“Relax. Tiny cut. Broken beaker. She’s bleeding all over the benches and swearing at my guys in three languages. Thought you might want to see this.”
I’m already walking.
When I hit the lab door, I smell blood and ethanol. My shoulders go tight.