2. The Weight of His Hands
The Weight of His Hands
Aleksander
Iwake before the sun, as I always do.
The room is dark, the fire long dead, the cold seeping through the windows like a slow invasion. I lie still for a moment, listening to the house settle around me, and I think about the weight of everything I've built.
The empire. The family. The cage.
I think about her.
Monika.
Her name is a prayer I don't deserve to speak. A confession I can't stop making. A wound I keep reopening because the pain is the only thing that reminds me I'm still alive.
I rise from the bed and dress in the dark. The motions are automatic—buttoning the shirt, fastening the cuffs, choosing the tie that matches my suit. These are the rituals that have defined my life for thirty years. These are the habits that make me who I am.
I look at myself in the mirror. The man staring back is forty-six years old. Silver at the temples. Lines around his eyes. A body that's been broken and rebuilt more times than he can count.
And underneath it all, the same hunger I've always had. The same hunger that built this empire. The same hunger that destroyed everything I ever loved.
I shouldn't want her. I'm too old. Too broken.
Too dangerous. Every time I touch her, I feel the years between us like a canyon I can't cross.
Every time she looks at me, I see the girl she used to be—the girl who pulled a bullet from my side without flinching, the girl who leaned in when everyone else ran away.
She should have run. She should have run, and I should have let her.
Instead, I made her mine.
I don't know how to let go. I don't know how to share. I've spent my whole life taking what I want and destroying anyone who tries to stop me.
But this is different. She's not a territory to be conquered. She's not a business to be acquired. She's the first woman since Elena who's made me feel something other than the cold, grinding machinery of survival.
I think about Elena. I think about her every day. The way she laughed. The way she moved. The way she looked at me like I was something worth loving, even when I didn't deserve it.
I killed her. Not with my hands, but with what I am. What I've always been.
The monster.
I find her in the library.
She doesn't hear me come in. She's sitting in one of the leather armchairs, a textbook spread across her knees, her lips moving as she reads.
Veterinary pharmacology. The same book she's been reading for months.
She still believes she's going to become a veterinarian.
She still believes she has a future outside this house.
I watch her for a long moment. The slope of her shoulders. The way her hair falls across her face. The small furrow between her brows as she works through a difficult passage.
She's beautiful. Not in the way Elena was beautiful—polished and perfect and untouchable. Monika is beautiful in a way that's accidental. A way that doesn't try. A way that makes me want to protect her from everything, including myself.
I should let her go. I should walk out of this room and never touch her again. She's young. She's kind. She's everything I'm not.
But I can't.
I walk toward her. She doesn't look up until I'm standing beside her chair.
"Aleksander." Her voice is soft, surprised. "I didn't hear you come in."
"I know." I reach out and touch her face. My fingers are rough against her skin, calloused from years of violence. She doesn't flinch. She never flinches. "What are you reading?"
"A textbook. Veterinary medicine." She closes the book, marking her place with a slip of paper. "I'm trying to stay current."
"Stay current."
"So I can go back to school. Eventually."
I feel something tighten in my chest. She's still planning to leave. She's still planning to escape.
"Monika..." I don't know what I'm going to say. I don't know how to say it.
She looks at me. Her eyes are brown, steady, the color of earth after rain. "You're not going to let me go," she says. "Are you?"
I could lie. I should lie. I should tell her I'll let her go if she wants to leave, that I'll give her everything she needs to start a new life.
I can't. I'm too old for lies. I'm too tired for pretense.
"No," I say. "I'm not."
I kiss her.
It's not a soft kiss. It's not gentle. It's the kiss of a man who has been holding himself back for too long, who is tired of pretending he's something he's not. She makes a sound against my mouth—surprise, or maybe fear—and I feel it go through me like a current.
I pull her to her feet. The book falls from her lap, hitting the floor with a soft thud. I don't care. I'm already pushing her back against the desk, already lifting her onto the mahogany surface, already pressing my body against hers.
"Tell me to stop," I say. "Tell me, and I will."
She doesn't tell me.
She reaches for me instead. Her hands find my shoulders, my neck, tangling in my hair. She pulls me closer, and I feel her breath hot against my ear.
"I don't want you to stop," she says. "I never wanted you to stop."
Something in me breaks. The control I've been holding so tightly, the restraint I've been clinging to—it shatters like glass.
I push up her skirt. I tear at the fabric of her underwear. I'm not gentle—I'm not anything but hungry—and I know I should be careful, I know I should be tender, but I can't. I can't.
She gasps when I enter her. Her back arches against the desk, her head falling back, her mouth open. I watch her face, watching the way she comes apart beneath me, and I feel something I haven't felt in years.
Alive.
"You're mine," I say. The words come out before I can stop them. "You're mine, Monika. You've been mine since the night you pulled that bullet from my side. You've been mine since the moment you looked at me and didn't flinch."
"I'm yours," she says. Her voice is breathless, broken. "I'm yours, Aleksander."
I lose control.
I fuck her hard against the desk, my hands gripping her hips, my breath ragged against her neck.
The wood groans beneath us, the books rattling on the shelves, and I don't care about any of it.
I only care about her. The way she feels.
The way she sounds. The way she says my name like it's something sacred.
"You're perfect," I say. "You're so perfect. My good girl."
She comes apart beneath me. Her body tightens around mine, and she cries out—my name, Aleksander, Aleksander—and I feel it everywhere. In my chest. In my gut. In the broken, shattered place where my heart used to be.
I follow a moment later, burying my face in her neck. I'm shaking. I'm actually shaking.
And I don't care.
But I'm not done with her.
I pull out, and she whimpers at the loss, her legs still trembling around my hips. I grab her by the throat—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind her who's in control. Her eyes flash, a mixture of defiance and desire that makes my blood run hot.
"Don't you dare," she breathes. "Don't you dare stop."
I smirk. "Who said anything about stopping?"
I yank her off the desk, spinning her around and bending her over the mahogany surface. Her hands splay out, knocking a stack of papers to the floor. I don't care. I grab a fistful of her dark hair, pulling her head back until her spine arches beautifully.
"Fight me," I growl against her ear. "I want you to fight me."
She does.
She twists, trying to shove me back, her elbow connecting with my ribs. It's not hard enough to do damage, but it's real, and it's perfect. I laugh, low and dangerous, and pin her wrist behind her back.
"That's it," I say. "That's my girl."
I bring my hand down on her ass—hard. The crack echoes through the study, and she gasps, her body jolting forward. I do it again, watching the pale skin flush pink beneath my palm. She squirms, trying to escape, but I hold her in place, my grip on her hair tightening.
"Count," I command.
"Fuck you," she spits.
I slap her ass again, harder this time. "Count."
"One," she grits out.
Another slap. "Two."
The third one makes her cry out, her fingers curling against the wood. "Three."
"Good girl." I release her hair, trailing my fingers down her spine. She's shaking beneath me, and I can feel the heat radiating off her skin. "You like that, don't you? You like it when I take what I want."
She turns her head to look at me over her shoulder, her eyes dark and wild. "I like it when you try."
The challenge in her voice undoes me.
I flip her back over, lifting her onto the desk again, spreading her thighs wide. She tries to close them, and I pin them open with my hips, my hand finding her throat again. I squeeze enough to make her breath catch, watching the pulse flutter beneath my palm.
"You're so beautiful when you fight," I murmur. "But you're going to lose. You know that, don't you?"
Her eyes blaze. "Make me."
I slide two fingers inside her without warning, and she gasps, her hips bucking against my hand. She's so wet, so ready, and I feel the evidence of her desire coating my fingers. I pump them in and out, slow and deliberate, watching her face twist with pleasure.
"Look at you," I say. "Soaked for me. And you still want to pretend you're not mine."
"I'm not pretending," she says, her voice breaking. "I'm fighting."
I curl my fingers, finding that spot inside her that makes her back arch off the desk. "Fight me harder, then."
She does.
Her hand shoots up, grabbing my wrist, trying to push me away. But I don't stop. I add a third finger, stretching her, filling her, and she cries out, her nails digging into my arm. I don't care about the pain. I want more of it.
"Say it," I demand. "Say you're mine."
"Never," she gasps, but the word comes out shaky, uncertain.
I pull my fingers out, and she whimpers at the loss. I slap her pussy—once, twice, three times—watching her body jerk with each impact, her breath hitching.
"Say it," I repeat.
She's panting, her chest heaving, her thighs trembling. I see the fight in her eyes, but I also see the surrender blooming beneath it.
"I'm... yours," she finally breathes.
"Louder."
"I'm yours!"