“I didn’t know who you were.”
“You still don’t.”
“I know enough.”
“Do you?”
“You think just because I wanted you once gives you some sort of ownership over me?”
“No.”
“Then stop acting like it.”
I study the fire and defiance shining in her face, which showed me her refusal to break. I could see why Kliment had chosen her, and I knew exactly why I couldn’t let him choose her.
“You’re mine now,” I said quietly, but the words were not uttered romantically. They are simply facts and make her breath stutter.
“Legally,” she snapped. “Not personally.”
“Legally is more than enough.”
She lunged forward suddenly, trying to knee me, but I shift, blocking it instinctively. She used the movement to twist her wrists free only for a split second, before I catch her again, this time pressing her hands flat against the wall on either side of her head. My body was close enough for her to feel the heat of it.
“Stop fighting me,” I murmured.
“Make me.”
Her chin lifted in challenge, and that’s the mistake, because I immediately lowered my mouth to hers. It’s not gentle or hesitant; it's controlled aggression. She gasped against my lips, resisting for just a heartbeat, before she finally kissed me back. Just as fiercely, her anger visible through her mouth. I could taste her hunger as her mouth moved against mine like she was trying to win something.
Her body arched instinctively, and for a split second, the war disappeared, and there was only heat. The friction between the two of us and the undeniable pull that had existed since the ballroom. My grip loosened slightly, and her hands slid down from the wall to my shoulders while she gripped me hard enough to leave a bruise. The kiss deepened and turned reckless and dangerous, and I could feel the moment she forgot the anger and leaned into it completely. But just then, she shoves me hard, and I stepped back at once, noticing her ragged breathing, swollen lips, and furious eyes, which were directed only at me.
“Don’t,” she said, but I didn’t move. “Don’t you dare use that.”
“I’m not using anything.”
“Yes, you are.” Her voice shook now, not from fear, but from fury at herself. “Attraction does not equal consent.”
The words cut cleanly while I held her gaze.
“I know.”
“Do you?” she demanded. “Because it felt as if you think chemistry excuses coercion.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Then stop.”
Silence settled between us again, thick and unresolved.
“You don’t get to blur the lines,” she said quietly. “You forced this marriage.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t get to force anything else.”
I nodded once. “I won’t.”
She studied my face carefully, searching for deception, but I knew she would not be able to find it. “You’re still a Romanov, and I’m still a Chernykh.”
