Chapter 17

Chapter

Seventeen

"Logic is what the devil likes most."

― Kelly Braffet

Alexsei

I twisted the poker coin between my fingers, the light catching the engraved number "100," its black and dark green surface gleaming like poison. That same shade of green— her eyes—burned into my memory.

That little witch, that stubborn, fiery thing I had to tame, always flashing those damn emerald eyes to me like they were a weapon.

I brought the glass to my lips, the vodka searing down my throat, hot and brutal, just how I needed it. Throwing my head back against the sofa, I let the burn settle deep in my chest, trying to drown out the rage under my skin. My mind was a warzone, a mess of twisted thoughts and raw need.

That fucking painfully gorgeous girl.

She had no idea what kind of fire she was playing with. And yet, here I was, caught right in the middle of it, wrestling with the urge to teach her a lesson she wouldn't forget—to let loose and dive into her until there was nothing left.

Every time I closed my eyes, there she was—those green eyes locked on mine, daring me, pushing me. My fingers in her mouth as she sucked on them, her lips wrapped tight, making it impossible to focus on anything but how much I wanted to ruin her.

My grip on the coin tightened, the cool metal biting into my palm, but all I could feel was the heat of her skin under my fingers, the way it would feel to wrap my hand around her neck and remind her who's in control.

I should've fucked her already.

This game should've ended a long time ago.

I've never had to wait this long to fuck a woman. Usually, they're mine before I've even finished my drink. But this one? She's different—got me twisted up in ways that piss me off and turn me on all at once.

I twisted the coin again—the one she'd shoved into my suit pocket a week ago, right before she had the nerve to insult me to my face. As I turned it over in my fingers, something dark and unsettling clicked inside me.

I realized I was holding the twisted key to my quest, the answer I'd been searching for.

I knew exactly what I had to do now.

I knocked on the door with three hard, deliberate raps that sliced through the silence of the night.

After what felt like an eternity, the door groaned open, and there she was—Caia, looking like she'd just rolled out of bed. Her eyes were red and makeup-free, blinking groggily in the dim hallway light. Her hair was in a messy bun that barely held it together, and she wore some ridiculous pajamas—white-and-red shorts covered in tiny Christmas trees clashing with a red, long-sleeved shirt. Cozy, fluffy slippers on her feet.

I hadn't seen her since two nights ago when she came so hard on my hand, I almost needed a mop to clean up the mess.

For a moment, we just stood there in silence.

Her eyes went wide with shock, a flash of fear and irritation crossing her face at the sight of me on her doorstep. She looked like she'd seen a ghost—or at least someone who was going to ruin her night.

If she only fucking knew.

Then she tried to slam the door shut, but I stuck my hand in the way, blocking it. The door banged against my hand, and I watched as frustration settled into a deep frown on her face while she glared at me.

"What do you want?" she breathed out, still half-asleep.

"I brought you a little something," I said, lifting my bag with a smirk.

Her face drained of color as she opened the door wider. "This better not be Mr. Playboy's hands, or I swear?—"

Mr. Playboy? More like Mr. Annoying-as-Hell Italian Ass, Francesco Ricci.

Right now, his body was buried deep in Moscow's Natural Park, and in a few days, he'd be a buffet for the local wildlife. Sure, I could tell myself it was about the 15K he skimmed from us, but let's not pretend. I killed him because he laid his hands on her. He touched something that wasn't his, and I couldn't let that slide.

If I don't get to touch her, then no other bastard ever will. She doesn't even realize it yet, but she's already mine. And anyone who forgets that? Will end up like Ricci.

I let out a dark laugh. "Relax, I brought dessert. We need to talk."

For tonight, I had a very specific plan—a simple one really: dessert, her stripped naked, and my mouth buried between her legs.

Her eyes flicked between my face and the white bag in my hand, confusion plain as day. She clutched the door, like it was going to protect her from me.

"What is wrong with you? You call me a pathetic, desperate bitch, then show up with dessert?"

The corner of my mouth curved. "I never said you were a bitch, sweetheart."

She crossed her arms, glaring. "Oh, right. My mistake—you called me a whore."

"Well, I'm hoping you'll be my whore one day, but for now, I think we should work on fixing our issues."

She gasped. ?You bast?—"

"It's a berry pavlova, your favorite." I took a step closer. "Come on, let me in. I don't want to wake the whole building, though I bet some of your patients wouldn't mind the company." I winked.

Her lips curled into a sneer. "I've had a shitty day, I'm exhausted, and the last thing I want is to spend time with you, Romaniev," she spat out coldly, making another attempt to slam the door.

But I was quicker. I shoved the door open, stepping inside before she could even process it. The door clicked shut behind me as I twisted the lock.

She let out an exasperated sigh, throwing a glance over her shoulder. "You're a real pain in the ass, you know that?"

Without another word, she turned and walked to her small kitchen.

I scanned the room, my gaze sweeping over the small sofa draped with a fluffy plaid and a flower-shaped cushion nestled in one corner. A few flickering candles gave off the fresh scent of sheets and cinnamon, making the place feel warmer than I expected. Black-and-white photos were scattered across the modest table, and something about them caught my attention.

Curious, I picked up one of the photos. It was me in profile, eyes closed, face tilted up, with wisps of smoke curling from my lips. Behind me, tall trees stretched into the background.

I turned the photo toward her, a playful smirk tugging at my lips. "Impressive work, Caia."

She scoffed, barely glancing at me. "You're only saying that because you're the one in the picture."

I studied it for another moment, admiring the artistry in it. " Nyet , really. You've got talent. I mean, I always knew I was fucking handsome, but this? This is a masterpiece."

She truly was skilled—the contrast of shades, the way my face was perfectly centered against the stark backdrop of the forest and lake, and how the smoke seemed to dance amidst the falling snowflakes.

She rolled her eyes, gathering the photos and shoving them back into their holder. "I passed my exam thanks to these. Apparently, my professor has a peculiar taste for your ugly face."

I smirked, letting that slide. "And what about the one with your babushka?"

She flipped through the holder, a flicker of genuine warmth touching her lips. She selected a photo and handed it to me, her expression softening just a little.

It showed two hands clasped together—one old and rough, veins bulging and a ring glinting on the ring finger, holding onto the other, younger hand with painted nails and no rings, gripping it tight.

The image hit hard—one minute you're young and the next, you're old, but you're supposed to hold on to the people you care about through it all.

I stared at the photo, seeing the raw, unfiltered love she had for her babushka.

"It's beautiful, Caia," I murmured, returning the picture.

Her fingers brushed faintly against mine before she quickly replaced the photo in its spot and tucked the holder back into her bag by the sofa.

She grabbed the bag from my hand. "Tea?" she asked as she headed to her compact kitchen. Her movements were tight and jerky, her body stiff as she avoided looking at me, and a faint flush crept up her cheeks.

I nodded and took a seat on her couch, watching her. She pulled out the two pastries from the bag, arranged them on a plate, and set it on the table with a couple of small spoons. Then she grabbed two mugs, dropped an Earl Grey tea bag into each, and poured in the hot water.

"What happened today, Caia?" I asked, leaning back on the couch but keeping my eyes locked on her.

She settled onto the couch at the opposite end, her body as stiff as a board. Her legs were crossed tightly, and her arms were wrapped around herself as if she were trying to create a barrier between us.

"What do you mean?"

"You said you had a rough day. Care to elaborate?"

She let out a derisive snort. "As if I'd share anything else with you. I've learned my lesson, Romaniev."

She was talking about our kiss and how my fingers had been shoved deep inside her, making her squirm and moan.

I wiped the grin off my face with the back of my hand, but it was a damn struggle to hide how much it fucking turned me on.

All I could think about was how she'd writhed and gasped under my touch, her body tensing and then surrendering completely. The way she tried to muffle her cries, the heat of her skin, and the desperate way she clung to me—it was like a fucking addiction.

"You might be surprised at how good a listener I can be."

Honestly, I couldn't care less about the rest of the world, but with her? I'd fucking listen to her bitch and moan for hours. The way her full lips move, that goddamn irresistible beauty mark peeking out from under her lower lip—it drives me fucking wild.

"Oh, really? Is this part of your charming lifestyle of murder, theft, and deceit, or have you added ‘therapist' to your list of skills?"

Yep, I fucking love that smart-ass mouth of hers.

"Come on, baby," I leaned in. "Tell me."

She let out a long, weary sigh. "It's just work... One of my patients passed away today. He was eighty-seven, completely alone—no family, no wife, no children. He'd been asking for them for weeks, and we kept lying, telling him they were coming, maybe tomorrow, just to give him a bit of hope," she murmured. "He'd believe us for a while, then forget. But yesterday, Livoi—one of my colleagues—told him the truth. His wife had died fourteen years ago."

She paused, her gaze shifting to meet mine, her emerald eyes locking onto my blue.

I'd have loved for it to be my useless father, but that bastard's still alive—I've checked his room before I came here.

"I had to rush to the university this morning to turn in an assignment and didn't get to work until after three. When I finally checked on him, he was... gone."

I reached out and grabbed her cold hand, pressing it against my lips.

She held my hand for a moment before pulling away, wrapping her fingers around her tea mug and blowing on it to cool it down.

She gripped my hand for a moment before letting go, cupping her tea with both hands and blowing on it gently. "It's just part of the job, really. Old people pass away, and we clean up their rooms. The next day, someone new comes in, like the previous person never existed."

She went silent, and for a brief second, the weight of her pain was all too clear in her eyes. But then, like she'd realized she'd revealed too much, she lifted her cup back to her lips, her face going completely blank again.

"Anyway," she said, her tone turning icy, "I guess this isn't the kind of thing your cold, dead heart would give a damn about."

Death was a fucking constant in my life and job—something that could show up on my doorstep any damn day. So, even my cold, dead heart knew all too well how it could rip apart families, wreck wives, and shatter friends.

"Sometimes, death's a relief, especially for those who've been suffering," I said, my voice low and rough. "I remember this news story we saw once—a woman who died in a car crash right after finding out her only son was killed by her ex."

By dying, I guess that poor woman avoided a whole lot of grief and misery .

"Yeah, that's true," she replied, her gaze distant as she sipped her tea.

Her damp hair fell loosely around her face as she let it tumble out of its messy bun. Without makeup, she looked incredibly youthful, her tiny freckles and soft emerald eyes standing out.

I reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Try your dessert."

She straightened up, deliberately avoiding my gaze, and reached for her spoon. But before she could get her hands on it, I snatched both spoons away. I wanted to feed her. I scooped up a generous bite of berries and pavlova and brought it to her lips. A flush crept up her cheeks as she hesitated for a moment before parting her lips. The spoon slipped between her lips, and she let out a soft sigh as her eyes fluttered closed.

"Good?"

She nodded, covering her mouth with a hand.

I scooped up another bite of the dessert and held it out to her. Her eyes met mine, flashing with a mix of doubt and simmering anger, but she still opened her mouth. The spoon slipped between her lips, and she closed them around it tightly.

Fuck.

Impatient, I tossed the spoon aside and tilted her chin up, closing the gap between us—but of course, she turned her head.

Then she looked up at me, her eyes colder than I'd ever seen them.

"I doubt you want to kiss a pathetic and desperate girl, Romaniev," she muttered, her voice laced with a bitter edge. "I expected you to have a little more dignity than that."

I smirked, leaning in even closer, not giving her an inch to escape. "I meant gorgeous and flawless."

Her eyes narrowed. "Well, I still find you overwhelmingly ugly."

I let out a low, dark chuckle, leaning in closer until my lips brushed against her neck. "Good," I muttered against her skin, the heat of her pulse thrumming beneath my lips. I took in her scent, slow and deep, before trailing soft, teasing kisses along the side of her neck. Her breath hitched, sharp and quick, as she instinctively tilted her head to the side, exposing more of herself to me.

"And I still think you're an overbearing, arrogant, insufferable asshole," she muttered, but the way her body leaned into mine told a different story entirely.

I grazed my teeth lightly along her throat, making her shudder as her fingers curled into my shirt. "Funny, because for someone who thinks I'm such an asshole," I murmured against her skin, "you're not doing a damn thing to stop me."

Before she could get another word out, I gripped her chin and crashed my mouth against hers. She resisted for a second, her lips tight like she was daring me to push harder—and I did. My tongue teased her bottom lip, and that was it. She gave in, parting her lips, sweet as hell, tasting like strawberries, but this wasn't sweet. This was hunger. Raw, messy, and pulling us both under. Her fingers wrapped around my wrist, gripping tight like she needed this as much as I did. Our tongues twisted, each stroke heavier, darker, pulling us deeper into something we couldn't pull away from, even if we wanted to.

"Romaniev," she gasped, nails biting into my wrist like she still had some fight left. "We can't?—"

I pressed a finger to her lips, smirking. Can't? Yeah, right.

I could feel her trembling against me, and almost see the little devil on her shoulder practically jump up and down, finally getting what it had been begging for.

Yep. Caia wanted this as much as I did, even if she couldn't admit it. I could see it in her eyes—how badly she wanted to hold her ground, but I knew I was about to wreck that. And hell, did I love watching her break.

Before she could spit out another excuse, I scooped her up by the waist, and she let out a surprised yelp, her hands gripping my shoulders like she was clinging to the last shred of control. But I wasn't giving her a second to think, or breathe, or do anything other than melt under me.

I crushed my mouth to hers, hard and demanding, swallowing that breathless gasp. Her hands tightened in my hair, like she could stop me, but the second her teeth grazed my lips, I knew she was mine. Her moans—fuck, those were what I wanted. Raw, desperate, and only getting louder.

I dropped her on the bed, my shoes hitting the floor with a thud as I climbed over her, pinning her beneath me. Her legs wrapped around me, pulling me closer, and I couldn't help but smirk into the kiss.

I moved to her throat, sucking, biting, feeling her pulse race under my lips. Her hips started grinding against me. The way her breath hitched, the way she tried to stifle her moans—Fuck, it drove me wild.

Impatience gnawed at me, and without a second thought, I ripped her shirt clean off, tossing it aside. No bra, just bare, perfect skin. Fuck, she was perfect.

I didn't waste time, taking her nipple into my mouth, sucking hard, loving the way her body arched into me. Her breath caught, and she moaned my name, her voice getting higher, her grip on my hair tightening. Her tits were perfect, soft, made for my hands, and they tasted like cherries, sweet and sinful all at once.

I couldn't get enough, and judging by her breathless moans, neither could she .

She kept grinding against me, her movements getting more frantic, more desperate.

I grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head, smirking as her body shook beneath me, her eyes wide with need. I leaned down, my mouth finding her breast again, rougher this time.

"Romaniev–"

"What do you want, Caia?"

She bit her lip, her eyes full of lust, cheeks flushed. "I'm so close, I?—"

Fuck, she looked like a goddess, flushed and desperate, like she was made for me, and only me.

I grinned, dark and wicked. "Wanna cum? Want me to grind against that needy little pussy, huh?"

She nodded, her breaths coming in quick, shallow bursts, her hips rocking against my dick. But I wasn't about to let her have it that easy—not yet.

Holding her wrists with one hand, I freed the other and gave her bouncing tits a hard slap. "Repeat after me."

"What?" she asked, confusion lacing her voice.

"I, Caia Mankiev."

She shook her head, a flicker of realization crossing her face as she caught onto the game I was playing. Since she wasn't cooperating, I twisted her nipple hard, making her cry out in pain and pleasure.

Her lips parted, breathless, as she finally gasped, "I, Caia Mankiev."

"Want," I said, delivering another sharp slap to her tits.

She moaned, "Want."

"Alexsei Romaniev," I growled, wrapping my hand around her throat, feeling her pulse throb under my grip

"A-Alexsei Romaniev. "

"To fuck me."

She shook her head again, so I closed the gap and smashed my lips onto hers. I yanked hard on her lower lip before letting it snap back, my hand still wrapped tightly around her throat. My dick pressed against her pussy, her wetness creating a noticeable stain on my pants.

"You better fucking say it."

Her eyes narrowed, flashing with anger as she glared at me. But as I ramped up the pace, grinding harder against her, her defiant look quickly gave way to a desperate moan. "To f-fuck me," she choked out, the frustration in her voice almost making me laugh.

I grinned, grabbing her chin to make sure she couldn't look away. "Say it again for me."

Her brows furrowed deeply. "I hate you."

I pressed my lips against hers. "Say it."

Her brows furrowed deeply. With a sigh, she closed her eyes, biting her lip before finally murmuring in a husky, low voice, "I, Caia Mankiev, want Alexsei Romaniev to fuck m-me."

There it was.

She fucking said it—sure, I had to push her to get it out, but she still said it.

I cranked up the grind on her clit, her juices dripping down her thighs. Her scent was driving me crazy, and suddenly, the way she made me feel was pissing me off.

"Cum for me. Scream my fucking name."

I increased the pace, making her breasts bounce wildly and the bed creak. As I felt her getting close, I pressed my palm against her lower stomach, just inches from her pussy, taking in the sight of her so perfectly lost in her orgasm.

Fuck, that's my girl.

"Alexsei, I—" Her words broke into a high-pitched, throaty moan as she hit her peak, her chest lifting off the bed, legs trembling around my hips.

I cupped her face, and kissed her deeply, teasingly sucking on her tongue.

Fuck, I was completely hooked.