Chapter 11

Eleven

K irill

Her breaths are unsteady as she lays in the bed beside me. With the lamplight off, there's nothing but the spilled light of a full moon to ignite her pale flesh, splattered with lovely freckles. Against the white of the pillows, her hair is a shocking spill of ruby red. I can't even see the black of my shirt, she has the blanket pulled up so high. The fabric is tucked under her chin. I suspect, if she weren't so afraid of being trapped in my presence, she'd have dipped her head under the blanket, too. Like a child trying not to be eaten by the monster under her bed.

If she can't see it, it can't see her.

The problem for her, is that her monster isn't a figment of her imagination. It's real. And it has every intention of devouring every inch of her. I have every intention of devouring every inch of her. In time.

"Breathe," I encourage, when the unevenness of her breaths becomes more desperate, more unmeasured.

"I can't," she rasps.

Fuck, now she's trembling.

The need to ease her rushes though me, so I slide my hand across the space until I've found hers. I close mine around it, marveling for a moment at how small her hand is in mine. I begin to move my thumb gently back and forth over her smooth skin.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to ease you."

She laughs, it's nervous. "Why bother?"

"Because you are my wife." My wife.

My mother is going to threaten the end of my life for marrying a woman she hasn't met. And, of course, for not giving her the chance to plan a wedding—again. After the way she'd sobbed when Kane married his wife in much the same way, I should have known better. She's surely going to mutter about a broken heart, and my father might just see her threat to end my life through.

"Not by choice," she pouts.

I smile. She doesn't see it. "I happen to recall your choice very clearly."

She huffs, and makes to pull her hand from mine. But she's not on the verge of panic any longer, so I consider it a mission complete.

I decide to keep her talking. It's more than just to keep the edge of panic away. I want to know this woman. I want to know my wife.

"Will you tell me about your life growing up?"

She stiffens. "I don't know anything about my father's business."

"I'm not asking about him." She tilts her head to look at me. Her eyes are glassy. Hell . "I'm asking about you."

"I don't know what to tell you."

"Everything. Anything." I tell her the truth, "I want to know it all."

"Why?"

"Because you are my wife."

She considers for a moment, then she sighs. "I can't reconcile the man you say my father was with the man I knew him to be."

I stay quiet, because there isn't much to say about who Ivan had been. I'm not a good man. I do bad things. Corrupt things. But I do have a soul, as shrouded in smoke and sin as it may be.

"I loved him so much," she admits shakily. "I'm still not convinced—not completely—that the Ivan Popov you know is the same Ivan Petrov who raised me. Who loved me. That Ivan—my Ivan—wouldn't have done the things you say he did."

Her Ivan doesn't exist. He'd been a con. A farce. I don't say that, either. I simply wait for her to continue.

She does, with a shaky inhale. "I was close to my mom. She was a pediatric oncology social worker. It was hard work, but rewarding work. She was the definition of good. She believed, with every part of her heart and soul, in the grace and good of God. She faced pain with strength, and resilience, and prayer, because it was all God's will. Everything—in her mind—was His will." She's crying now. It's silent, but I can feel the tremble of her body in the bed. I can see the glisten of crystal tears as they slide over her temple into her hair. "I always believed in that will, too. I believed, and it grounded me in pain. In loss. In fear. But now—I can't see—I can't see how all of this—the truth of my father, being kidnapped and, and you . I can't see how this is His will. I can't feel Him anymore. I'm sad, and angry, and so, so alone." She sobs now, and the sound of it cracks the impenetrable shell of my bulletproof heart. "I lost Mama and Daddy and my life . I have nothing."

"That's not true." I prop myself to hover over her as she sobs. Her pain physically hurts me, I realize, as I watch her break apart. I want to catch her pieces, and stitch them together with the yarn I tear from the fabric of my own soul. "You have me."

This is why my father reacts so viciously, so violently, when my mother cries.

Everything feels different now that she's mine. Completely, wholly, mine.

My wife.

She sobs harder. "I don't want you."

Fuck, that hurts. "You will."

I'll make certain of it.

"This isn't real. We aren't real. You made me marry you." Her eyes slam into mine. "Don't you understand? We can't be anything more than this forced thing that we are."

I smile softly, gravely. "I've seen the greatest loves, the most pure, most possessive, most protective loves, grow from a stolen beginning." Her eyes widen at my words, pink lips parting. I speak over her protest. "I will capture your heart as I captured your body," I vow. "You will fall in love with me."

"And what of you?"

"I've spent every day, sitting in the silence of your hate, for nearly two months." Her eyes widen, processing the time gone. "I've thought you were the most beautiful woman I've ever encountered, while you tried to kill me with your eyes alone. For you, I've practiced a patience I've never been capable of possessing in my life. You've tested the limits of my tolerance so much that others who have done what you have, would have perished. I've manipulated and schemed to see that you remain safe, and mine . Tell me, what do you take from all that, Ruby?"

Her lips tremble, her eyes so innocently wide, I want nothing more than to corrupt her. "I think you are insane. I think you are dangerous. And I think that you don't know what love is."

I chuckle deep and low. "Then I suppose you'll just have to teach me, won't you, wife?"

Her lips part, brows pinching in a frown. "I?—"

"I think we'll start my lesson now," I add. "With a kiss."

"Kirill," she breathes my name. It's the first time she's said it, and it hits me square in the chest. I close my eyes, savoring the breathy plea of my name on her lips. I want to taste it.

I've always been a man who takes what he wants, when he wants it. I've always known women to be more than willing to see to my desires. So, when I slide my body closer to hers on the bed, even though I know she's not like the usual women I entertain, I'm mildly surprised when she inches away from me.

Hooking her around the small of her waist, I tug her closer, until her side is plastered to my front. Through the fabric of my shirt, I can feel the hot heat of her body. The urge to feel her soft flesh against mine is a spear right through the gut, the desire is so intense. So acute.

My fingers flex into her soft flesh, and her lips part. I don't delay, dipping my head and stealing her lips as I intend to steal every part of her. Against her slipping will, and completely.

Her heart, her body, her soul. I'll take it all.

Under my lips, hers are impossibly soft. She smells like sweet flowers on a summer breeze, and tastes like honey. The hand she's planted in my chest tries to push me away, but I won't be moved. Gripping her waist tighter, I sink into her body, trapping her hand between us. I cover her mouth with mine, kissing her even though she's not kissing me back—but she's not twisted her head to the side, either.

Instead, she's kissing me like she might kiss her grandfather. A pucker of her sweet lips, distance, and resistance. As though she thinks she's completed her obligation.

When she makes a little noise of protest, I growl against her mouth. "Open for me."

She shakes her head, only slightly, but the denial is enough to wake the bear inside me. The predator. The brutal slayer.

I will slay her iron will.

I demand, "Kiss me, Ruby."

"I am."

Sweet, sweet defiance. I've always loved a challenge. "Kiss me. A real kiss, Ruby, or this will become much more than a kiss."

Her eyes widen as they search my face for signs of a bluff. I'm not bluffing.

Her eyes drop to my lips, and she swallows hard. "I don't—I am kissing you."

I study her. She's a twenty-three-year-old woman. How can she possibly think this is a kiss?

I think about the church boy—Miles—who I know flirted with her. I also know she flirted back. I think of the torment my thoughts had put me through, as I imagined her sweet body under the mercy of his inexperienced rutting.

But maybe I was wrong. Maybe my assumptions are wrong.

Could she be more innocent than I thought?

Heat spills into my veins. I try again, softer this time. "Open for me, Ruby. Kiss me. A real kiss."

She looks dumbstruck as her full lips part, her pink tongue sliding out to wet her lips in a spill of nerves she is too unpracticed to hide. She's so beautifully genuine. So exquisitely raw, so real.

The heat in my veins intensifies. My cock couldn't be harder.

I dip my head, and she catches her breath. When I cover her mouth again, moving mine over hers, she's stiff. Then, she starts to kiss me. Her motions are choppy, almost as though she's trying to mimick mine.

I taste it then, her innocence.

I don't know how it's possible, but in this moment I'm confident she's untouched. Hell, I'm confident she's unkissed .

My blood boils, a surge of desire rolling through me the like I've never felt before. If I were standing, it would have brought me to my knees. She might be the only thing that can.

As it is, I groan into her mouth. And then, feral, I shift my body over hers, until I'm settled between her legs, giving her my weight. She gasps, and I invade, sweeping my tongue between her lips to taste more of her, to explore. To devour.

Her hands find my shoulders, but she doesn't push me away. Her body trembles beneath mine as I dominate this kiss, driven to the brink of madness when I feel her soft tongue slide against my own in a single exploratory swipe.

She's learning. My lovely, little Ruby, is learning.

My ready-to-burst-cock, swells. A bead of precum spills from the tip in a drop of painful relief. I groan a tortured sound.

I haven't been ready to explode from a kiss since—well, since ever.

Gripping her waist in a grasp that is too rough, driven to the brink by a desire too intense, I crush my mouth to hers, inhaling her gasp of surprise as I grind my cock into the heat of her core. She lets out a sweetly sharp sound that exists somewhere between a shriek of surprise, and a moan of pleasure.

I'm nearly driven to do it again, the pressure of her body against my tip so fucking good.

Her hands in my shoulders push now, her head twisting to the side as she gasps in a deep breath of air. "I did it," she pants. "I kissed you."

Christ, but I want more. I need more.

Give her time.

"You did." My voice may as well be spilled gravel for how rough it is. "Very, very well, little wife."

Her body is trembling again as she gives me a curtly perfunctory nod, that makes me want to throw my head back and howl with laughter. This little woman.

"Well, then we're done."

Oh, we're not nearly done. In fact, we've only just begun.

I don't move my body from hers as I demand, "Did you like it?"

Her honey-colored eyes are fire as they land on mine. "Excuse me?"

"My tongue in your mouth, wife. Did you like it?"

Her hands flip from being pressed into my shoulders to cover her quickly reddening face. So sweet.

"I'm tired," she mutters from behind her hands. "Please get off."

"Not until you answer my question."

She huffs. Her patience with me is thinning, and for some reason, I want to see what happens when she snaps.

Pulling her hands from her face, I wait, patiently. My cock still throbbing painfully.

She's going to be the end of me.

"No," she lies, and it looks like it's a struggle. Her face pinches, stress filling her lovely eyes. "Of course, I didn't like it."

I arch a brow. "Is that so?"

Again, with that curt nod. Again, I want to roar with laughter.

"Indeed."

Fuck, she's adorable.

"I think you're lying," I say. She sniffs. It's adorably petulant. "I think I should see for myself."

She blinks. Then she frowns. "See for yourself?"

I drop my face to hers, stroking her temple, and into her rose-scented hair with the blade of my nose. She smells as lovely as she tastes. I pull back, a rumble in my chest.

My voice pitches low. "Are you wet for me, wife?"

She blinks again. Three quick blinks. And then her lovely face pales of her blush.

She breathes. "What?"

"Between your legs. Is your pussy wet for me?"

She makes to cover her face again, but I capture her wrists between one hand at her chest. Her eyes widen and she wiggles beneath me. "Get off, Kirill."

"Answer me."

She clamps her lips closed, releasing a hot puff of breath from her nose. I almost imagine her blowing smoke.

My little wife is pissed.

I grin.

When she remains stubbornly silent, I murmur darkly, "Fair enough. I'd prefer to see for myself, anyway."

Her eyes flash with fear. "What?"

I release her waist, moving my hand slowly south. Panic flares, and she begins to struggle against me. Her sudden strength surprises me when she tears her wrists from my grip, landing a sloppy punch to my jaw. I rear back between her legs enough to catch her flailing wrists, my laughter spilling an unhinged sound that has her whimpering as I pin her hands above her head with one of my own.

Looking down into her angry eyes, I can't resist tasting her lips again. The pull of this woman is unlike anything I've experienced. She shatters my ironclad control.

My kiss isn't soft and exploratory when I cover her mouth with mine. This time, it's rough, and commanding, and instantly deep. When she bites my lip, I laugh into her mouth before returning the favor, but kinder. She whimpers in response, her body shuddering beneath mine before I soothe her lip with the tip of my tongue. And then I take her mouth again, this time, when I sink deep, stroking her tongue, her teeth, nipping her lip, she moans a moan of weak protest and reluctant need. She's a quick learner, because she's kissing me back now. Nearly meeting my fervor.

With her swollen breasts heaving against my chest, the pebbled points of her nipples teasing me, I push my free hand down between our bodies to her hot sex. Pulling the fabric of my shirt up from where it covers her, I feel her suddenly trying to break the kiss—to shatter this moment. I don't let her, deepening the kiss as my hand quickly works to dip beneath the elastic of her panties. And then I'm shoving my hand between her thighs, feeling her slick heat.

I murmur in pleased triumph against her lips, "So wet, wife."

Emotion spills from every part of her, scenting the room in arousal, and wonder, and fear and—"I hate you." The words rattle from the depths of her. "I hate you so much, Kirill. With every part of me."

I give her sweet pussy a lazy stroke that has her entire body twitching beneath mine, her body betraying her mind as she moans. Her heels dig in the bed, pushing to escape my touch. I grin, even as her words pluck at a conscience I've long since done my very best to shove down deep, where the painful prick-like blade of its lashing can't wound me.

I've crossed a line, I'm aware. And yet, I'm also aware there is no turning back. Apologies will only give her a false sense of how this marriage between us will go. My conscience will do nothing to serve the remaining fragments of the sin-shrouded soul I harbor deep inside. I'd made the vow long ago to never again be weak, a lesson I'd learned and paid for in blood. I learned to let the predator in me thrive, coaxing his unnatural existence within me and nurturing it until I became like them. Like the Volkov men who came before me, and those who came after.

But she makes me want to remember. She makes me want to be soft, if only for her.

Slowly, with her honey eyes trained on mine, I pull my hand from her panties. Heat flares in her cheeks and chest, a lovely shade of pink to complement the red of her hair, as she watches me lift my hand to my lips, pushing the finger slick with her arousal into my mouth.

Her mouth drops. Shock widens her eyes as she sucks in a sharp breath.

I groan. She lets her eyes flutter closed, whispering, "Please, God."

Praying. She's praying. I can't help the smirk that forms around my finger. She tastes like heaven.

I want more.

Soon.

"It's Kirill, wife. Or husband."

Her eyes snap open and she glares hard at me. She looks less fragile when she glares.

Slowly, I release her bound hands. Her chest heaves with every harsh breath she breathes as she waits for me to slide off her body, and then she turns onto her side, giving me her back. She's shunning me, I realize with another grin, as yet another rise of challenge rears inside me.

"Now, that just won't do," I say darkly, as I scoot closer to her on the bed.

Her body tenses as I curve my own around hers, hooking my leg through hers, my arm around her belly to plaster her tight against my front. She heaves a sigh, but speaks no words of protest. And it's like that, feeling entirely content for the first time since I was a boy, that I fall into a peaceful, dreamless, rose-scented sleep.