Chapter 15

Fifteen

R uby

I've been married to Kirill for two weeks, and he's never not brushed my hair before bed. He's never not been around, hovering, waiting to follow me into my room. Since marrying him, I've never slid between the sheets, alone.

Tonight is different. It should be a reprieve, but it's not.

The bed feels empty. I miss the weight of him pressing my body into the mattress.

I miss the pleasure of the bristles as he runs the brush through my hair.

And I miss—I miss his kiss.

God, I'm a mess. A ruined, awful mess.

Two weeks is all it took for my body to crave him, to yearn for him so deeply, that I'm unable to find sleep alone.

I want to curse the man for this as I roll to my right side again, then back to my left five minutes later. Then, I wiggle into the center of the bed so I can sprawl out like a starfish. I hate it.

I'm no longer used to sleeping alone.

I've slept alone for twenty-three years. How can I have forgotten how to do this in the span of two weeks?

I'm so annoyed, a small, sharp cry slips from between my lips.

I miss home. I miss the comfort of my small, normal house. I miss the kitchen I could cook in at will. I miss my life.

Twisting for what must be the millionth time, I yank his pillow from its place at the head of the bed to wrap my body around it. It smells like him. Like cedar and flame. Sin.

My body relaxes, slightly, for the first time since I slipped between the sheets.

I'm on the edge of sleep, finally, when the door clicks open. Even though the room is dark, I don't allow my eyes to open.

I'd rather him think I'm asleep and leave me alone—even though the idea of struggling through an entire night without him feels a little like how I imagine torture might feel.

I listen as he moves around the room, Simba in tow. I've wanted to ask about the dog's curious name so many times, but asking is opening doors I'm not sure I want to open. He's my husband, but getting to know him feels incredibly dangerous.

Awareness prickles my skin as he stops moving next to the bed. He's standing on my side—the side furthest from the door. I can feel him looking down at me, and I just contain the shiver. I can't, however, stop the gooseflesh that pebbles my skin. Hopefully, considering the dark, he can't see it.

My eyes fly open when he lifts me easily from the bed, a little shriek falling between us.

"I knew you weren't asleep." He sounds awfully smug.

"Maybe I wasn't. But I was close." He grunts but doesn't reply. I roll my eyes. "Put me down."

"No."

"Kirill," I huff. "I don't have this in me tonight."

"Don't have what in you, tonight?"

"You!"

"Wife, you haven't had me in you any night."

My confusion only lasts a moment before I gasp. "You're despicable."

"I'm a lot of things. Tonight, I'm irritated. And I'm fucking dangerous when I'm irritated, so I suggest you don't push me." I don't reply as he stops at the always locked door. The fourth door.

Holding my breath, I watch as he shoves a key into the lock, twisting. Simba pushes through the door first, Kirill following with me in his arms, into a room that is much darker, the shadows much heavier, than in my room.

But I know instantly where I am, because I'm hit with a blast of cedar and flame much stronger than all the others.

This is his room. My husband's room.

My pitiful heart gives a lurch-like knock in my chest. "What are we doing?"

"Going to bed."

"I was in bed."

"I'm sick of sleeping in that bed. I like my bed."

"Then sleep in your bed. I'm perfectly happy in my bed." I don't know why I'm pushing him.

Okay, that's a lie. I kind of know why I'm pushing him.

Okay, another lie. I totally know why I'm pushing him.

I just don't like my reason. But the fact of the matter is that I'm angry with him. I'm angry because he didn't follow me to bed, like usual. Didn't brush my hair. Didn't kiss me. Didn't settle his big weight into my body, shoving me into a kind of sleep where I felt impossibly cherished, and impossibly, insanely, foolishly safe.

Kirill throws back a thick black blanket, from what I can see by the sliver of silver moonlight that spills between black drapes, to lay me down on black sheets.

When I shove myself up, I'm met with a big, hard hand in my belly. He pushes me back down onto his bed, his low growl a threatening warning that has my heart racing in my chest.

"Don't push me tonight, wife . I will punish you, and you won't like it." He gives me a little weight as he leans in close. "Or maybe you will."

I hold my breath, ill-prepared for this kind of back and forth. I sense he's in a mood, and although I'm in one too, I'm not sure I have it in me to go against him like this. I'm not sure I'm prepared to weather the consequences.

"I'm tired," I whisper.

He stays hovering above me for a long moment. I'm not sure whether he's trying to push me or restrain himself. I'm too afraid to ask. Too afraid to poke right now, while he's clearly on the edge like this.

Finally, he pushes up to stand at the side of the bed. I watch in the sliver of silver light as he reaches out a big hand for the blanket, pulling it up over me. He stands there for a long while, simply peering down at me as I lay stiffly in his bed, under blankets that smell entirely of him.

"We're in here from now on."

"In here?" I can hear the thudding of my heart between my ears.

Can he hear it too?

"In my room. When we sleep, we're in here. In my bed."

"I like my room."

A muscle jumps in his jaw, reflecting in the moonlight. "You're in here, Ruby."

I say nothing as I turn over, giving him my back. Apparently, he's touchy tonight.

I wonder, what happened to put him in such a bad mood? Considering I'm not getting anywhere with him right now, I see no point in attempting to tell him my feelings. They don't seem to matter to him, anyway.

The thought has hot tears of frustration welling in my eyes. I pray he won't see them as they begin to fall to the pillow under my head. I wasn't lying when I said I was tired. I'm bone tired. I'm beyond stressed. I'm emotionally ravaged.

Behind me, my husband looses a heavy sigh. Then he turns and moves deeper into the room. I listen to his movements, to the sound of material sliding over his body, to his footsteps as he moves into what I assume is the bathroom. It doesn't take long for that assumption to be confirmed with the sound of water running.

My ears stay trained to the sound of him in the bathroom the entire time he's in the shower. He's in there so long, I almost think I should go check on him. But I'm too afraid of what I might see, so I stay where I am. A coward.

The water shuts off and I turn back to the edge of the bed, a little shriek escaping as I come face-to-face with a regal Simba.

"You scared me," I whisper to the dog as he peers at me through observant eyes.

I snuggle into my pillow, determined to at least seem asleep for when my obviously tense husband returns to bed. Clearly, Simba's concern is a little placated, because as I snuggle into my pillow, he curls his body into a ball on the plush carpet that covers the floor on my side of the bed.

My heart squeezes for the big, scary pup who clearly holds affection for me. Hanging my hand over the side of the bed, I give Simba a pet. I don't stop until I hear the click of the bathroom door, and then my husband's footsteps as he moves closer to me.

Stealthily, I pull my hand back under the covers, doing my best to pretend I'm asleep as he pulls back the covers and slides in beside me. I think for a moment, he'll settle in on his side of the bed, but he doesn't. Like every other night, he slides closer until his front is pressed to my back. With his arm looped around my belly, he tugs me closer to him, rumbling a low, "I know you're awake."

I huff a sigh. "But I want to be asleep."

"I'm sorry I was so abrasive."

Did I hear that right? Is he apologizing? To me?

I say nothing. I'm too shocked.

"I had a bad day, and a bad night," he continues, speaking into the crook between neck and shoulder. The stubble on his jaw draws gooseflesh to the surface, and I shudder.

Even though I know I shouldn't reply, I can't seem to help myself. "Why?"

"Work is—complicated."

"Your mafia business? Or your bank business?"

He stiffens behind me. "It's Bratva. And how do you know anything about the bank?"

"Maxim."

"He has a big mouth. Loose lips…"

It's my turn to stiffen. I twist in his arms to peer up at him, my heart slamming in my chest. "You won't—will you—I mean you can't?—"

"Ruby." Kirill's hand squeezes the fabric of my tank top into a fist. It's the first time I haven't worn one of his shirts to bed. It's the first time he wasn't there to give it to me.

"Please don't hurt him."

"Why do you care what happens to Maxim?"

"I—I like him."

He drags his fist with my tank closer to himself, effectively pulling my body closer, too. My breath hitches. "If there's anything that puts him or any man in danger, it's having your affection."

I'm flabbergasted. What is he talking about?

"I don't understand."

"It appears, with you, I am a jealous man, little wife ."

My lips part. "I don't have feelings for him like that! He's—he's a friend."

His tone is dry. "You're not making this better."

Twisting to face him fully, considering he's still tugging on my tank top, and it won't be long until he moves me to face him anyway, I implore him, "I can't have someone hurt because of me, Kirill. I just can't."

His dark coffee eyes trace my face. "You are so innocent."

My face begins to heat. It's not the only thing that heats, either. All of me feels a little flushed, a touch too hot, and a lot exposed.

Searching his eyes, I find myself asking, "Do you help people immigrate from Russia?"

He blinks, brows arching in surprise. "What do you mean, immigrate?"

"Everyone who works in your house speaks Russian."

He holds my gaze. I don't miss the way his fist uncurls around the fabric at my belly to slide to the small of my back. His hand is under the material of my shirt now, pressing rough skin against soft. I try to tell myself it's okay that I'm here like this with him. In my tank top and panties—in his bed—his front pressed against mine. He is my husband, after all.

So, why does this feel like a sin?

Hand splayed flat against the skin of my back, he says evenly, "They speak Russian because we are in Russia."

It becomes suddenly clear why his hand is firm and flat on my back. He's holding me prisoner against my shock. Keeping me contained even in my horror.

I've suspected this might be the case, but logic has always talked me around the idea. I'm lying down, but I feel wobbly. My vision distorts, my world tipping on its very axis. My hand lifts to land against his bare chest, to cover the ink of the bear, the hard muscle of his peck. I swallow hard. It's audible.

"We're…"

"Yes," he answers my unasked question.

"H-how?"

There is a beat of silence, and then brutal honesty. "You were drugged, and then you were transported on a private plane, to me."

I gape. "Private plane?"

He nods. "Yes."

I can't comprehend the magnitude of his power. I can't comprehend the idea of any one person possessing the kind of power that allows someone to kidnap, transport, and keep a human being. And get away with it. It's—it's terrible. Deeply unsettling. Terrifying .

"Kirill." I'm trembling against him now. "You must know this is all so wrong?"

His eyes search mine. And then he cuts his knee between my legs, moving it high enough to pull a gasp from the trench of me. I try to pull away, to roll onto my back— to escape him . But he takes advantage of the opening my move gives him, sliding his big body over mine.

His hands come to frame my face, his fingers diving into the waves of my hair. I hold my breath in starved lungs as his gaze whispers over my flesh, drawing pebbles of awareness to the surface of every inch of me.

Under the thin fabric of my light pink tank top, my nipples harden as though reaching for him. My body knows the secrets my mind rejects, begging in silence the words I refuse to say.

"You are so fucking beautiful," he rasps.

"Kirill." I'm not even sure what I'm pleading for anymore. Am I begging for him to see that this—whatever it is we are—whatever it is we're becoming—is wrong? Or am I begging for him to take control? To possess me? To finally make good on his threat to claim me, all of me?

There's a dark part of me, a whisper of forbidden desire that aches for him to take all the parts of me I yearn for him to take—to steal from me my choice—to lift the burden of begging for that which my body hungers for. I don't want to carry the guilt of wanting my husband. I don't want to suffocate under the weight of begging for a man who took so much from me.

I'm a coward—because I can't hate him for taking me if I'm the one who asks for it.

And I'm not ready to not hate my husband.

I'm not sure I'll ever be ready to not hate him.

Confliction sparks in my core, quickening my heart as he dips his head. He smells so earthy and masculine, I can't help the sigh that slips from my lips. His lips hitch, the cocky twist making my belly flutter.

"It's time for my kiss, wife."

"You haven't even brushed my hair," I protest.

His fingers twist in the strands, pulling my head back to expose my neck in the second before he drops his lips to the delicate flesh, sucking hard enough to strike lightning inside me.

Against the assaulted skin, he rumbles, "You like it when I brush your hair?"

"Yes," I breathe, too stripped of caution to dance around the truth.

I feel his grin rather than see it. "Noted."

He kisses a fiery path up my neck, to my jaw. His tongue is hot as he tastes my skin, nipping my chin before his mouth covers mine in a kiss that is instantly brutal. It's not a kiss that's meant to tease desire and awaken arousal. This is a kiss intended to steal souls. It's a little hard, crushing. There's tongue and teeth and a pressure in my core that expands painfully inside me.

He's completely covering me now, his big body over mine. With one hand in my hair, his elbow bracketing my frame to hold just some of his weight, his other hand begins to roam. He starts at my hip where too much skin is exposed by the bunched material of my tank top. The tips of rough fingers— fingers that have no place on a banker's hands —trail lightly across oversensitive skin.

A new kind of heat blooms inside my core, spreading like wildfire through my body. Against his lips, I gasp in breath that tastes of him. Cedar and flame sear my lungs and I whimper, but he only deepens the kiss. It's like he's trying to climb inside my body through this kiss. To settle his soul in the very depths of me for safekeeping.

He shoves his hand higher up my shirt, his fingertips grazing untouched skin, pulling unwilling shivers of arousal from the trench of me.

My breasts feel heavy and full. They ache to be touched even as my mind screams against the idea. My nipples are sensitive and stretched for him. My body and mind have never been at war quite like this.

His big hand finds the swell and cups me, his thumb passing over the pebbled tip of one breast—the sensation like a blade cutting me to the quick. I gasp, sharp and loud. Liquid fire pools in my panties in a wash of desire and shame. He covers my breast in response with a gentle squeeze.

A deep groan rises from his chest, where the wasteland of his depraved heart resides. He murmurs, "You're so fucking soft." The bite of his stubble nips untouched skin as he moves down my neck, over my clavicle, to the space between my breasts where the lacy line of my tank top connects in a subtle V.

He makes a feral sound. Something on the verge of a growl, before he gives my nipple another swipe with the pad of his thumb. Just as a plea touches the tip of my tongue, he releases me to pull his hand from my shirt. Clarity washes over me in a drench of shame.

I can't do this. Not with him. My monster. My devil. My husband .

I can't…

He releases my hair and shoves back to kneel between my legs. He looks like a devil shrouded in shadow, painted in ink. His dark hair is mussed and still damp from his shower. His eyes are untamed, and there's a hard determination to the arousal I see there.

Fear and want war within me. Sin and shame override desire, but just barely.

"Kirill," I start to protest. And then his big hands come to the fabric of the lacy V at my chest, grip, and pull. The tear of thin fabric is quick and thorough, baring me to him in the span of a violent second.

My hands fly up to hide my breasts from his dark gaze, but before I can, he's caught my wrists in his grip. I'm shaking now, my too-big breasts quivering as his dark eyes drink me in. A moan is caught in my throat. My body is snared in a sticky web of emotion my mind can't escape.

It's too much.

He is too much.

"Please," I whimper. I don't know what I'm pleading for.

I've never felt raw quite like this. I've never felt exposed quite like this. I've never felt as though my faith and yearning hang in the balance quite. Like. This. But maybe I was never destined for light, after all. Because the burn of this fire is addictive. I sense I'll be fighting the pull of it for the rest of my life.

I want to sob.

"You're so beautiful." His rough voice cracks. "So. Fucking. Beautiful."

And then he dives in for a taste.

The second he covers my breast, the wet heat of his mouth pulling my nipple deep and sucking hard, my body goes to battle with itself. I'm pushing for more even as I try to escape the way his expert tongue rolls the bud.

When he skims teeth over the sensitive flesh, I cry out, "Stop. Please, stop."

"No." He moves to my other breast, flicking the tip with his tongue. I jerk, fighting against the restraints of his hands locked around my wrists.

It's too much. The pressure building in the deep of me is too much. There is pain rising within the need, and I'm not good at pain.

"More." There's a sinister edge to the rasp of his desire. Something dark and deadly on the verge of something darker and deadlier. "I need to taste you."

Isn't he already?

He releases my hands, and they instantly move to his broad shoulders. When I shove, I think I'm getting somewhere as he begins to move in the direction of my shove. Down. Away from my breasts.

Thank G ? —

His big hands find the band of my simple panties, fingers curling into the fabric and then he's rearing up to kneel again.

My heart kicks in my chest as I try and fail to clamp my legs closed around the bulk of his frame between them.

"Stop." I can hear my fear now as I fumble to grab for the panties, he's tugging down my legs. "Stop, Kirill. I said no."

The fabric tears. The sound of the rip between us is loud. Shocking. Shattering .

My heart weeps.

My mind screams.

My body yearns.

War.

He bunches the fabric of my ruined panties in one big fist, bringing it to his nose to inhale deep. I'm shocked and revolted, and yet a new swell of heat rises inside me when he looses a savage growl.

My mind fractures, protests shattering as big hands grip my hips, and he shoves my legs apart with his shoulders as he drops his mouth to my belly. The touch of his lips is searing, the brand of it forever inking his invisible kiss to my flesh. My nails bite into the hard muscle of his shoulders, leaving little half-moons as I try to wriggle free from the prison of his hold.

I manage to slide a few inches up the bed, my intent to escape him. I don't realize my error until I feel the brush of his sharp stubble pricking my inner thigh as he places another branding kiss there.

"Please," I beg, breathless. My heart is beating so hard, so ruthlessly inside my chest, I wonder if he can hear it echoing from my plea. "Please. Please ."

"I like when you beg, little wife."

Thoughts stutter. "What?"

He brushes his stubble over the sensitive skin of one thigh, and then the other. And then he's pushing down between my legs. I yelp, thighs squeezing around him as my fingers shove into thick, dark hair, attempting to shove him away and failing as he latches onto my most private place with his mouth. The wet heat of him connecting with the wet heat of me is a feeling unlike any other. Bolts of lightning strike my core as he flattens his tongue against the swell of nerves only to flick it with his tip a moment later. Then he sucks hard, tongue swirling. I wrestle with painful need and pleasure and a sense of wrong so great, I feel condemned.

Tears blur my vision, and I slam my eyes closed against the fall of them as Kirill feasts on me. Knots of arousal twist in my core as he slides his tongue down the seam of me to shove it inside me where no one has ever gone before.

My fingers twist in his hair and my core clenches around him as shameful noises escape me. I'm whimpering and pleading and moaning. I'm a mess of emotions too great to decipher while my monster, my devil, my husband , shoves his tongue into the deep of my most intimate, most guarded part of me.

My body begins to quiver, a bow stretched too tight. Knots of need tear at the fabric of me as he returns to sucking my clit with a tender kind of violence that shreds my resolve, a moment before a wash of something more violent, more consuming than I've ever felt, overtakes me. It's like nothing I've ever experienced before. It engulfs the entirety of my body, twisting me into a whirl of pleasure. I am a wreckage of desire, the splinters of me lost to the ocean of this man.

He doesn't stop his lovely assault. My shattered soul glistens like shards of glass in the moonlight as my legs fall to the side. The fight in me is gone. My body is spent. Even my hands fall from the thick of his hair to land limply at my sides. My chest heaves as he begins to kiss a soft trail from my core, over my belly, through the valley between my breasts.

Emotion nicks my heart, and my body jerks with the brutal mauling. I feel so tender, so conflicted in the aftermath of him . Too overcome, I lose the battle against the welling tears as they slide from the corners of my eyes to fall into my hair.

I hear the notch of his breath as he hovers above me, taking in the display of my weakness. My fragility. I want to hide myself from him. To roll onto my side and lick at the gaping wounds that bleed fragments of my soul into the dark of the night.

He calls gently, but firmly, "Ruby, look at me."

I ignore him, my lids still shuttered against everything I'll see in his face. The triumph. The ego. The awareness that he's made my body crumble in pleasure against the will of my mind.

I hate him for this.

My heart hurts so much…

"Ruby," his voice is less gentle now. "Look at me."

Again, I refuse him. But a weak, terribly exposing sob rips into the space between us from the splintered depths of my ravaged soul.

He sighs, fitting his hard body into the naked stretch of mine. I feel his hands move to the sides of my face, thumbs streaking across my temples to wipe away tears. He presses his lips to my forehead, and I suck in a sharp gasp that tastes entirely of him.

His voice turns softer than I've ever heard it before. "Look at me, please, wife."

This time, I do.