8. Natalia

8

NATALIA

What the hell was I thinking?

I am literally holding a gun. A gun . Not only that, but it's pointed right at a human being.

Forget the part about this particular human being more than deserving of being held at gunpoint. It's still not something I can condone.

Ever since the night of my parents' carjacking, I've seen guns as nothing but ugly, black, metal instruments of death. The tiniest bit of pressure and bam, someone loses a father, a mother…

Yet here I am, threatening to use it.

"Threatening" being the operative word, because Lord knows there is nothing in this world that will compel me to actually pull the trigger.

Still, he doesn't know that.

"Back up now or I'll shoot."

Andrey's lips twitch, fighting a smile. "First rule of the Bratva: never make a threat you don't intend to keep."

Scratch that. He knows.

In my desperation, though, I double down. "I'm serious. I will shoot."

"Ever heard of Newton's First Law?" he asks conversationally. "‘Objects in motion stay in motion.' Shoot me now and it won't stop there. You could hit a neighbor across the hall. An innocent person in the building next door. One stray bullet can do more damage than you know."

He keeps his eyes fixed on me. Not the gun— me .

"Or maybe you do know…?" he ponders idly. His gaze flickers to the cabinet where I stowed away the photograph of my parents after tearing it out of his hands. "They must have died suddenly. When you were young enough to be forced to rely on… Aunt Annie, perhaps?"

My stomach roils. How the hell has he deduced so much about me so fast? Maybe it's all smoke and mirrors, part of the illusion of power and control. Maybe he's had a full background search done. Although why on earth he'd even care about my past is beyond me.

"You don't know me."

He turns and walks away from me. How the hell do you turn your back on a freaking gun? I follow him into the living room with my arms still raised. They're starting to shake.

"I know enough." He looks over my collection of romance novels stacked high next to the couch. "I know that your life is small."

I grimace. I'd be insulted if he wasn't so on the nose. Katya accused me of the exact same thing a few hours ago, and he's as spot on as she was.

"I know that you like your adventures confined to the pages of saccharine love stories or caged safely behind a television screen." He walks towards me again, completely unconcerned by the gun, even when the nuzzle is scarcely an inch from his chest.

Each word pierces me right in the chest. His mouth is doing more damage than this gun ever could.

"I know that you picked a best friend who's completely different from you so that you can live vicariously through her."

Please be done. Please be done. Please be done. But I know instinctively that he's saving the final blow for last.

"Probably because you're too scared to live for yourself."

And there it is. If I was ever gonna pull this trigger, it'd be now.

"How dare you?" I breathe.

He laughs— laughs— right in my face, the bastard. "Am I wrong?"

He's not. That's the problem.

"It's okay, lastochka . Just put down the gun and no one needs to get hurt."

Easy for him to say after he's done all the hurting.

"You're not going to shoot," he adds quietly. "We both know that."

I could prove him wrong right now. I could shoot him—just in the leg, nothing crazy, nothing fatal—and watch his smug confidence bleed out of him.

The clock ticks in the corner. Andrey raises his hand slowly to take the gun.

"Don't," I whisper as a tear slides down my cheek.

His eyes lock in on that one tear as though he's never seen something quite as offensive. "Drop the gun, lastochka ."

A sob slips from between my lips. I'm gripping the gun so tightly that it really is in danger of going off in my hand. Maybe that's what I want…

His hand is inches from mine. Just when I think he's going to grab the gun, his fingers brush against mine instead. In the end, that's all it takes. One moment of skin-to-skin contact and the fight leaves my body. I surrender the weapon.

He tucks it smoothly into its holster before his attention is back on me. "Are you okay?"

I blink stupidly, cheeks wet with tears. "I just held a gun to your head and you're asking me if I'm okay?"

"I don't waste my time with fear."

Bullshit, I want to spit in his face. Everyone is scared of something. I'm scared of guns and rainy midnights—and now, you.

But this man in front of me… He's not bluffing. He's not pretending. He's immune to all the little things that have kept me in the same small circles all my life.

If only I could imbibe just a little bit of his confidence, a little bit of his fearlessness… maybe then I could have an adventure of my own, instead of piggybacking on everyone else's.

"I'm not like you," I whisper, not really sure myself what's coming next. "But… I wish I was."

He grazes my cheek with his hand. "One of me is more than enough, Natalia Boone. What the world needs is more of you."

Like everything else Andrey says, I believe it immediately. On a bone-deep, cell-deep, soul-deep level. I feel like a tuning fork that's been waiting its whole life to meet the right vibration—and now, I'm just resonating with him .

I start thinking crazy things. Maybe, just for tonight, I can be the right kind of person.

Someone adventurous; someone fearless.

Someone like him.

He nudges my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. Blue . Those little flecks hiding amidst the gray, they're a deep, dark blue. I've never seen eyes like his before.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asks.

My lips tremble with the weight of all the answers I ought to give. You should. It'd be better for all of us if you did.

Instead, I say the one thing I never, ever should've said.

"No."

His lips find mine, soft as a whisper. I'm overwhelmed by the scent of whiskey for a moment, then warmth slides over my body like a second skin.

I stretch onto my tiptoes and suddenly, I'm the one deepening the kiss. I'm the one grabbing the lapels of his jacket. I'm the one pressing my body against his and mewling for more.

It feels like the world dissolves. It wilts away around us and all I can see and hear and think is him.

My clothes wilt away, too, as Andrey's mouth trails kisses down the curve of my throat. It isn't until a blast of chilly A/C ripples over my bare skin that I remember just how we got in this position.

Suddenly self-conscious, I peel away from him and hug myself. "I… I should take a shower first."

Andrey is half-cloaked in shadow. "No." He grazes my breasts the same way he grazed my cheek. There's a tenderness in his touch that surprises me. "Once I'm done with you, all you're going to smell like is me."

It sounds like a threat, but my skin sizzles with adrenaline. My hand twitches towards him, desperate to make some contact, take charge in some way.

But any confidence I have melts in the face of his.

He steps free of his clothes. It'd be overwhelming enough if he was just chiseled, or just bronze and tattooed, or just that perfect balance of hairy chest and gleaming skin that any perfume commercial actor would kill to emulate.

But when I see what kind of equipment he's working with, my brain literally short-circuits.

"You can't be serious," I mumble.

Andrey follows my gaze down and smirks. "Don't be afraid . I won't hurt you."

He pushes me back onto the sofa and then he's on top, his weight sinking into me, hot and heavy. I'm excruciatingly aware of one thing and one thing only: how absolutely, thoroughly, shamelessly wet I am.

Andrey realizes it, too, when he drags a single finger between my legs and brings it up to examine. "So fucking sweet," he murmurs as he suckles his own finger.

My brain is fully melted and leaking through my ears now, apparently, because all I can muster up is a monosyllabic, "Wet."

He laughs again. "You haven't even gotten close to as wet as you will be," he promises.

Five minutes ago, I would've bet you every penny I've ever earned that Andrey was a selfish lover. A get-mine, fuck-yours kind of lay.

I would've lost that bet.

Because when he slides between my legs, roughly parts my thighs, and devours my pussy like it's the last morsel he'll ever get past his lips, he proves me very, very wrong.

I thrash and moan while he licks up and down my slit and circles my clit in broad, delicious strokes. We'd both be on the floor if it weren't for his huge hands spanning my waist and keeping me trapped in place.

Then he slides two fingers into me and I'm coming.

It somehow lasts an eternity and a millisecond at the same time. Whatever it is, I'm still tingling with aftershocks when he rises up to snare me in an open-mouthed kiss. I can taste myself on him; nothing has ever been hotter.

"I could eat nothing but you for the rest of my life," he snarls.

Without waiting for my response, he lines up his dick and slides into me.

He was right about another thing: as wet as I was before he went down on me, I'm ten times wetter now. My desire slicks the inside of my thighs and there is no resistance as I part for him.

He looked huge before. He feels even bigger now.

Three thrusts in and I'm ready to explode again already. My fingers dig into his shoulders as each thrust knocks another moan free. For the entirety of my pitiful sex life, I've clamped down on my noises, too afraid of sounding foolish to let them out.

But Andrey isn't giving me a choice.

If I don't moan, I'll implode like a dying star. So, as he fucks me into the couch, harder and faster and more brutally with every passing second, I can't do anything but cry out to the ceiling.

Sorry, neighbors—I'm about to come harder than I've ever come before. You'll have to forgive the ruckus.

There's not one muscle I can move without Andrey's permission. He's got me fully splayed open and fully at his mercy. And as I come and come and come— andcomeandcomeandcomeandcome— I realize one horrifying truth.

I like being made his.

I'm still panting when he unleashes himself deep into my core, then immediately pulls himself away.

His body is gone and cold air invades. I wrap my arms around myself until I'm cocooned in a tiny ball, all the warmth zapped out of me as Andrey hunts for his clothes on the floor. I reach for the nearest blanket to cover myself.

I'm fully alone in my post-sex clarity because Andrey is already dressed somehow, utterly flawless once again.

A single glance in my direction makes it very clear…

Something has changed.

The silver of his irises has turned to steel. There isn't an ounce of softness left in the lines of his face as he stares down at me, cold and merciless.

"Is this it then?" I wish I didn't sound quite so bitter, but I'm not nearly as capable of curating my reactions as he is. "You got what you wanted from me and now, you're done?"

His eyes flash. "You did say I'd never have to see you again after tonight."

"You don't." I hate how my voice wobbles with hurt rather than anger. "This was a huge mistake. After you walk out that door, I can forget you ever existed."

Those glacial eyes betray nothing as he reaches into his wallet and pulls out a couple of hundred dollar bills.

He throws the money onto my coffee table and walks to the door.

I don't even have words for how this feels. Fucked, paid, and abandoned like some cheap hooker. If only he was done there.

But he stops in the doorway, the flickering glow of the hallway light illuminating half of his face, and says one more thing to ensure the damage is complete.

"I've already forgotten you exist."

Only then does he finally go.