ANYA — Volkovskaya Laboratory, 1023 #2
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
He goes still. “Nice?”
“Last night you whipped me with a belt.” I stand too, refusing to let him tower over me. “Today you’re building me laboratories and bringing me dinner and acting like—” I wave my hand between us. “Like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like you care.”
The careful control slips for just a second and I see something underneath that looks almost like hunger.
“I do care.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Most things about me don’t make sense.” He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture so gentle it makes my chest ache. “I can hurt you and care about you at the same time, Anya. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“Probably.” His thumb traces along my jaw and my breath catches despite my best efforts to stay unaffected. “Does it bother you?”
“Everything about you bothers me.”
“And yet you’re not pulling away.”
Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to remember that this man is dangerous in ways I’m only starting to understand.
But his hand is warm on my face and his eyes are grey and steady and I can still feel the ghost of his fingers inside me from last night.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know that too.” His other hand comes up to cup my face, tilting it toward me. “But you also want me. And that’s harder to admit, isn’t it?”
“I don’t—”
“Your pulse is racing. Your pupils are dilated. You’ve been leaning toward me since I sat down, even when you were pretending to focus on your food.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“It means exactly what you think it means.” He’s closer now, his breath against my lips. “You want me to kiss you. You’ve wanted it since I walked in.”
“I want a lot of things that are bad for me.”
“So do I.”
And then he kisses me.
He kisses me like he’s been holding himself back all day, his mouth claiming mine with an intensity that makes my knees weak.
I grab his shirt to keep from falling and he makes a sound against my lips, something between a groan and a growl, and then his hands are in my hair and he’s walking me backward until my spine hits the edge of the lab bench.
I open my mouth wider and let him in.
He tastes like whiskey and cigar. His tongue slides against mine and I moan into his mouth. His hands drop to my waist and lift me onto the bench and then he’s between my thighs, pressed so close I can feel how hard he is against my core.
“Fuck,” I gasp when his mouth moves to my neck.
“Language.” But he’s smiling against my skin, I can feel it.
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
I grab his face and drag his mouth back to mine. The kiss turns messier, wetter, more desperate. His hands slide under my sweater and the feel of his palms on my bare skin makes me shiver.
His hands slide down to my ass and I wince when his fingers brush one of the welts.
He freezes immediately.
“Shit.” He pulls back. “I forgot—”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.” His jaw tightens and he takes a step back, running a hand through his hair. “I hurt you last night and now I’m grabbing you like I don’t remember exactly where the marks are.”
“Roman—”
“We need rules.” He’s pacing now, restless energy rolling off him in waves. “I should have done this before. Before I ever laid a hand on you.”
“Rules?”
“Colors.” He stops pacing and turns to face me. “Green means keep going. Everything’s fine, I want more, don’t stop. Yellow means slow down—I’m approaching a limit but I haven’t hit it yet. Red means stop. Everything stops. Immediately.”
“Traffic lights.” I stare at him. “You want me to use traffic lights.”
“During everything.” He moves closer, his expression deadly serious. “When I touch you. When things get intense. When your brain short-circuits and you can’t form sentences.” His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb tracing my cheekbone. “Because next time I might not stop.”
The words hang between us. Next time.
“And if I say red and you don’t stop?”
“Then you use the safeword.” He looks around. “Glas.”
I search his face for the lie. I don’t find one.
“Green,” I say quietly.
“What?”
“Right now. This.” I grab the front of his shirt and pull him back toward me. “Green.”
He kisses me again, slower this time, deeper. His hands are more careful when they grip my hips, avoiding the bruises, avoiding the welts. When his fingers brush close to one of the marks, he pauses.
“Color?”
“Green.”
He keeps going.
The kiss builds again, heat pooling low in my belly as his mouth moves down my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot below my ear. I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him closer, grinding against the hard length of him through our clothes.
“Anya.” My name comes out rough, strained. “We should stop.”
“Do you want to stop?”
“No.” His forehead drops against mine, his breathing ragged. “But I’m about thirty seconds from fucking you on this lab bench and I don’t think either of us is ready for that.”
“Maybe I’m ready.”
“You’re not.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes so dark they’re almost black. “When I fuck you, I want you rested and fed and fully present. Not exhausted and running on adrenaline.”
“That’s—”
“Non-negotiable.”
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.
“I have to go.”
“Now?”
“Now.” He steps back, putting distance between us that feels intentional. His hand comes up to trace my swollen bottom lip, gentle for one more second. “Luka will walk you back to the room when you’re ready.”
“What’s happening?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.” He’s already at the door, straightening his clothes, transforming back into the cold predator who walked into the Chechen dinner last night. “Finish your food. Get some sleep.”
“Roman—”
“There’s a man in my basement who’s been waiting three hours to tell me who’s been selling poison in my territory.” He pauses at the door but doesn’t look back. “By morning, he’ll have told me everything he knows. One way or another.”
The door closes behind him.
I sit on the lab bench for a long time after he’s gone, my lips still swollen from his kisses, my skin still burning where his hands touched me.
He’s a monster, I remind myself. Don’t forget that.
But I can still taste him on my tongue, feel his thumb tracing my cheekbone. Can still hear him asking color? like my answer actually mattered.
I finish my dinner anyway.
And I try not to think about the screaming that might be happening somewhere beneath my feet.