He rested his hand on my shoulder like we were old friends. “It’s time you moved into the estate.”
I hesitated. “I’ve got my apartment. It’s more than enough—”
He smiled, but there was nothing friendly behind it. “You’ve earned your place here. I want you close.”
“Pakhan—”
He raised a finger like he was blessing me. “I wasn’t asking.”
Honestly, it was hilarious. If he had even the faintest idea that his daughter had been riding me every night under his own roof—moaning my name while he slept like some oblivious patriarch—maybe he’d have skipped the whole dramatic speech. But no. He stood there assigning me a room like he was doing me a fucking favor. As if I hadn’t already claimed the one thing in this house he still thought he controlled.
But what really pissed me off was the ownership in his voice—telling me where I’d live, where I’d sleep, like I was something he could put on a shelf. This house wasn’t mine. It was just temporary shelter before I turned it into a smoking grave.
I nodded. “Fine.”
They gave me the same room Felix used to stay in. Poetic, in a fucked-up kind of way.
It put me closer to Kira—close enough that temptation stopped being hypothetical and started becoming routine. We didn’t even try to resist. We perfected the art of slipping into each other’s beds without a sound, locking doors before anyone could follow.
We fucked like maniacs—in my bed, in hers, in the shower. We were never gentle. Never quiet. And I couldn’t get enough.
One night, I was fucking her from behind, hips slamming into her hard enough to leave bruises. She twisted around, wild-eyed and breathless.
“Come inside me,” she begged. “I want to feel it. Please.”
I stilled. “Kira, I’d love nothing more than to fill you to the brim. But we already talked about this. I’m not risking knocking you up.”
“I’m on the pill now,” she whispered, voice wrecked. “Please, Maksym—just come inside me. I want it badly.”
Those words snapped the last thread of control I had.
“That mouth better be honest, Malaya, because I am very bad at self-control when properly motivated.”
I grabbed her hips harder and slammed into her, rough and relentless. She cried out, her voice a broken prayer, begging me not to stop.
I emptied inside her with a groan torn from the pit of my chest, hips jerking, vision going white as I spilled every drop deep inside her. It felt endless. Like I was giving her everything—my cum, my breath, my fucking soul.
When I pulled out, she whimpered at the loss. I watched it drip out of her, trailing down the soft skin of her thighs. She was still trembling, dazed from the high, her body arched. I grabbed her ass and spread her wider just to watch it leak more. The sight alone made my cock twitch. I was already getting hard again, needing to shove it back inside, to keep filling her until she couldn’t take it anymore—until she was wrecked under me, still begging for more.
Whatever this was, whatever spell she had over me—I didn’t want it broken. I wanted to live in it. Drown in it. Die in it.
At dinners, she was worse.
If she sat across from me, her foot would slide between my legs, rubbing slow, teasing circles up my calf until I was biting the inside of my cheek just to stay sane. If she sat beside me, her fingers would rest on my thigh, light and casual, before drifting higher—until her pinky brushed the hard outline of my cock through my slacks. Once, while Pakhan droned on about supply chains or executions, she slipped her hand into my pants under the table and started stroking me with the kind of innocent face that could win a jury. I almost came in my seat.
She just smiled and sipped her wine like she hadn’t just ruined me.
It was obsession. Worship. Something feral and addictive. Love.
I started forgetting why I’d come here. Forgetting the war I’d started. Forgetting that Pakhan was already dead—I just hadn’t killed him yet.
I thought I was the one teaching her—to be rough, to take, to survive. But she was the one teaching me how to stay. How to touch without breaking. How to hold without fear. How to wake up next to someone and not reach for a weapon.
Meanwhile, being Pakhan’s newly named right hand dragged me deeper into his operations.
Bigger jobs. Cleaner suits. Dirtier work.
And access.
