ROMAN — Private Study, 0147
Ihaven’t slept.
My cock twitches against my thigh, and I hate myself for it. I wasn’t planning this, not so soon. But fucking Dmitri got under my skin.
I get out of bed carefully, pulling on sweatpants before I do something stupid like wake her up and make everything worse. The floorboards creak under my feet as I cross to the door, and I hold my breath until I’m in the hallway, pulling it shut behind me with a soft click.
The study is dark and quiet. I pour myself a whiskey—three fingers, neat—and take it to the window, pressing my forehead against the cold glass while Moscow glitters below.
My mother’s violin is still on the desk where I left it. I pick it up, tuck it under my chin, and try to play. Bach. The Chaconne. The piece she used to hum while she brushed my hair before bed.
The first few notes come out clean. Then my fingers slip, and the bow drags wrong. The sound turns ugly, and I set the whole thing down before I throw it through the window.
I’m on my third whiskey and picking up the violin again when the door opens behind me.
I don’t turn around. I can smell her from here—lavender soap and warm skin.
“You should be sleeping,” I say.
“So should you.”
Her voice is rough. Tired. I turn around, and she’s standing in the doorway wearing my shirt, the white linen hanging off one shoulder, the hem hitting mid-thigh.
Her hair is a mess, and her eyes are red-rimmed, and I can see the edge of a bruise peeking out below the fabric where my fingers dug into her hip.
“There’s whiskey,” I say, nodding toward the decanter. “Help yourself.”
She crosses to the sideboard, pours herself two fingers, and takes a sip without flinching at the burn. Those grey eyes watch me over the rim of the glass.
“I heard you playing,” she says. “From the bedroom.”
“Trying to play. It wasn’t going well.”
“It sounded like you were strangling a cat.”
My jaw tightens. “Noted.”
She takes another sip, still watching me. “Is this the part where you tell me why you’ve been awake for hours? Or are we going to pretend everything’s fine?”
“Everything is fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar. You just happen to be annoyingly perceptive.” I set my glass down and turn to face her fully. “How’s the pain?”
She shrugs, and the movement makes the shirt slip further down her shoulder. “Manageable.”
“Let me see.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“The marks. I need to see them.” I’m already crossing toward her. Her chin lifts as I get closer, her shoulders square up like she’s bracing for impact. “Turn around.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“No. I’m the one who put them there.” I stop in front of her, close enough to smell the whiskey on her breath. “Turn around, Anya.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment. Then she sets her jaw and turns, presenting her back to me.
I reach for the hem of my shirt and lift it slowly.
The welts are worse than I expected. Four dark lines across the curve of her ass, the skin around them hot and swollen when I brush my fingers over them. She hisses through her teeth, and her body goes rigid under my touch.
“They need arnica,” I say. “And ice. Stay here.”
I go to the bathroom and gather what I need—the gel from the medicine cabinet, a hand towel wrapped around ice, and a basin of warm water. When I come back, she’s still standing in the same spot with her arms wrapped around herself, watching me.
“On the couch,” I say, nodding toward the leather sofa by the fireplace. “Face down.”
“Roman—”
“I’m not going to hurt you.” The words feel strange in my mouth.
She hesitates.
“Fine,” she says finally. “But if you try anything—”
“You’ll poison me. I know.”
She crosses to the couch and lies down on her stomach, pillowing her head on her folded arms. I settle onto the cushion beside her hip and push the shirt up to her lower back, exposing all four welts.
The ice comes first. She gasps when I press it against the worst of the marks, her whole body jerking at the cold.
“Breathe,” I say, holding it in place with one hand while the other rests on her lower back. “It’ll numb in a minute.”
“I know how ice works.” Her voice is muffled by her arms. “I’m a scientist.”
“How could I forget? You reminded a room full of Chechen assassins all about it.”
“I was making conversation.”
“I’m not going to repeat myself.” I shift the ice to cover the second welt, and she shudders. “You wanted them to know you weren’t scared.”
“I wasn’t scared.”
“You were terrified. I could feel your thigh shaking under my hand the entire dinner.” I move the ice again, tracing the third mark. “But you dealt with it by running your mouth instead of keeping your head down as I told you.”
“Keeping my head down isn’t really my style.”
“I noticed.”
The ice has done its job. I set it aside and reach for the arnica gel, squeezing a generous amount onto my fingers. The first touch makes her tense up again, muscles going rigid under my palm.
“Relax,” I murmur. “This part won’t hurt.”
I work the gel into the first welt with slow, careful strokes, feeling the heat of her skin, the way her body gradually softens under my hands. The tension drains out of her shoulders, and her breathing evens out.
“You counted,” I say quietly, moving to the second welt.
“You told me to count.”
“Most people lose track.” I press my thumb against the edge of the mark and watch goosebumps rise across her skin. “They get overwhelmed by the pain. They forget the number. They break.”
“I don’t break easily.”
“No.” My hand slides lower, working the gel into the third welt, dangerously close to the crease where her thigh meets her ass. “You don’t.”
She’s quiet for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice is softer. “Dmitri gave me a note. At dinner.”
My hands go still.
“I know,” I say. “Luka saw him pass it.”
“Do you know what it says?”
“I can guess. Transportation out of Moscow. New identity. Protection from me and my family in exchange for your cooperation.”
She turns her head, one grey eye visible over the curve of her shoulder. “And you’re not worried?”
“About what?”
“That I’ll take it.”
I resume working on the welts, keeping my touch steady. “You’re still here.”
“I am.”
“In my study. At five in the morning. Wearing my shirt.” My fingers trace the curve of her hip, skirting the edge of the fourth welt. “If you were going to run, you wouldn’t be letting me put my hands on you right now.”
“Maybe I’m gathering intelligence.”
“Maybe you like it.”
The words come out low and rough, and her whole body reacts. Her breath catches. Her thighs press together. Her fingers curl into the leather cushion.
“Roman—”
“You were dripping last night.” I push the shirt higher, all the way up to her shoulder blades, and run my palm down the length of her spine.
“It didn’t mean—”
“It meant you want me.” I lean down, pressing my mouth to the curve of her spine. “It meant some part of you got off on being held down and reminded who you belong to.”
She doesn’t say anything. Her breath is coming faster now, shallow and quick, and when I look down, I can see the wet shine between her thighs where her legs are pressed together.
“Spread your legs,” I say.
She doesn’t move.
“Anya.” My hand settles on the back of her thigh, thumb brushing the crease where it meets her ass. “Spread your legs.”
“This isn’t—” She swallows hard. “We shouldn’t—”
“I know.” I drag my lips across her spine, feeling her shiver. “Spread them anyway.”
Her legs part, just a few inches, enough for me to see how wet she is, enough for the scent of her arousal to hit my nose.
“Look at that.” I slide my hand between her thighs and drag two fingers through her folds. She gasps, and her hips jerk against the couch. “Dripping for the man you hate. You’re a little traitor, aren’t you?”
“I’m not—”
“Your cunt says otherwise.” I push one finger inside her, and she moans into the cushion. “Your cunt says you want more.”
“That’s not—” She breaks off when I add a second finger and curl them. “Oh god.”
“That’s exactly what it is.” I fuck her slowly with my fingers, watching her hands fist the couch, watching her hips rock back to meet each thrust. “You hate me. You want to poison me in my sleep. And you’re still clenching around my fingers like you can’t get enough.”
Her walls squeeze tight, and she whimpers. I pull my fingers out, and she makes a sound of protest, her hips chasing the contact.
“Please—”
“Please, what?”
“Please don’t stop.”
“Tell me what you are first.”
She shakes her head, face pressed into the cushion.
I bring my hand down on her ass, right over one of the welts. She cries out, her whole body jerking, and when I slide my fingers back through her folds, she’s even wetter than before.
“Tell me,” I say. “Or I stop.”
“I’m—” Her voice cracks. “I’m a traitor.”
“That’s right.” I push two fingers back inside her, and she moans. “You’re a traitor. You get wet for the man who hurts you. You spread your legs for the man who owns you.” I curl my fingers and press hard, searching for the spot that’ll make her fall apart. “And you like it.”
“Roman—” My name comes out broken. “I’m going to—”
“Not yet.” I slow my fingers, keeping her right on the edge. “You come when I tell you to come.”
She whimpers, her thighs shaking, her whole body strung tight. I can feel her walls fluttering around my fingers, feel how close she is, and I keep her there for a long moment, hovering on the edge of release.
“Please,” she whispers. “Please, I need—”
“What do you need?”
“I need to come. Please. I’ll do anything.”
I lean down and press my mouth to her ear. “Remember that the next time you want to disobey me. Remember that you begged me to let you come with my fingers inside you and my marks on your skin.”
“I’ll remember.” Her voice is barely audible. “I promise. Please.”
I curl my fingers hard and press my thumb against her clit, rubbing mercilessly.
She shatters.
Her back arches off the couch, and she cries out, her walls clamping down around my fingers, her whole body shaking through the orgasm. I work her through it, gentling my touch as the aftershocks fade, until she’s trembling and boneless beneath me.
I withdraw my fingers slowly, and she whimpers at the loss.
“Stay there,” I say.
I go to the bathroom and wash my hands, then wet a clean cloth with warm water. When I come back, she hasn’t moved, still lying face down with her cheek pressed against the leather, her breathing slowly returning to normal.
I clean her carefully, gently, wiping away the slick from her thighs and the gel residue from her back. She shivers when the cloth passes over the sensitive welts, but she doesn’t pull away.
When I’m done, I tug my shirt back down over her hips and sit on the edge of the couch, one hand resting on her lower back.
“You didn’t—” She turns her head to look at me, eyes still hazy. “You’re still—”
I glance down at the obvious tent in my sweatpants. “I know.”
“Don’t you want—”
“Do you want me to?” I run my palm up her spine, feeling the warmth of her skin through the linen.
“No, I still hate you.”
“That’s what we thought.”
“We?”
“Me and my cock.” I let one of my smiles dazzle her.
She stares at me for a long moment, like she’s trying to solve an equation that doesn’t add up.
“I don’t understand you,” she says finally. “Last night you beat me with a belt. Tonight you’re—” She gestures vaguely. “This.”
“Both things can be true.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does in my world.” I brush a strand of hair off her face, tucking it behind her ear. “I punish you when you disobey me. I take care of you after.”
“That’s not normal.”
“Nothing about this is normal.” I stand up and offer her my hand. “Come back to bed.”
She takes it. I pull her to her feet, and she sways a little, still unsteady, and I catch her around the waist to hold her upright. She leans into me without thinking, her forehead pressing against my chest.
“Dmitri’s offer,” she murmurs against my shirt. “The note.”
“What about it?”
“I didn’t read it.” She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. “I didn’t need to. I already knew what it said.”
“And?”
“And I’m not taking it.”
My chest does something complicated. “Why?”
She looks at me for a long moment, and there’s nothing soft in her expression.
“Because he’s a stranger,” she says. “And you’re the devil I know.”
She pulls away from me and walks toward the door, my shirt swaying around her thighs.
“Anya.”
She stops but doesn’t turn around.
“That’s not a compliment,” I say.
“I know.” She glances back over her shoulder, and there’s a ghost of something dark in her eyes. “But it’s the truth. And right now, that’s all I’ve got.”
She walks out.
I stand there in my study, watching the door close behind her, my cock still hard and my chest doing things I don’t want to examine.
The devil she knows.
I pour myself another whiskey and drink it standing at the window, watching the Moscow sky lighten from black to grey.