Her lips part, a slow smirk curving at the edges.
My god, she’s gorgeous.
My little ghost. Just a shimmer of a person in front of me—untouchable, elusive, a fucking witch.
"That’s the thing, Matvei," she whispers. Mocking. Inviting. "I don’t think you want to hold back, do you?"
My grip tightens in warning.
But her gaze holds mine.
My mouth crashes against hers.
This is war.
Brutal. Claiming.
She’s never been the kind of woman to yield—so she bites back.
Her nails rake down my arm, leaving angry, red welts in their wake.
I flip her back over on the bed, my body caging hers. She knees me and gets seconds of leverage before I push her down again, my hand wrapping around her throat.
The mattress tips beneath us.
She looks alive.
Her eyes alight, her grin wicked.
"You like this," I murmur. "Maybe I should punish you."
Her eyes burn into mine, my control hanging by a thread.
"Be careful what you fucking tempt me with, you little witch."
She’s casting a spell on me.
My hands on her are rough, unyielding. She wants to wear these bruises like a brand—like my brand.
And I want to mark her.
Every movement is like a battle—nails dragging, teeth clashing, grips tightening, bodies colliding in a war of pleasure and pain. Violence. Need.
I grab my cock. "Play with your fucking nipples," I order.
She pauses, eyes wide, breath hitched.
Her hips arch while I fist my cock, pumping, eyes locked on her belly, her fucking gorgeous body that will bear my children and tether her to me irrevocably. I might be obsessed.
I’m not sorry.
"Get on your fucking knees. Head down. Ass up."
She scrambles to obey.
I reward her with a hard, punishing slap to her ass. My handprint blooms, so pretty on her skin, and I can’t help but lean down and kiss it. She rocks on all fours.
I thrust into her in one brutal move.
