He almost killed him. For me. Not for the alliance, not for the contract. For the disrespect.
When we reach the estate, Mikhail rounds the car, hauls me out, and steers me toward the house. The guards at the door take one look at his face and melt into the shadows. We reach the suite, and he kicks the door shut behind us.
"Take it off," he growls, pacing the room like a caged tiger.
"Mikhail, I?—"
"Take off the dress, Irina! You have his blood on you. It’s disgusting."
I move toward the bathroom, but he’s there first, blocking the way.
"I can do it myself," I say, my voice trembling.
"I said I would handle you," he rumbles, his eyes fixed on mine. "Go to the tub."
I walk into the massive, marble-clad bathroom, my heart hammering against my ribs. I feel sick, I feel terrified, and underneath it all, I feel a thrumming, shameful arousal that makes my skin burn. Mikhail follows me, his movements precise and clinical. He turns on the water, the steam quickly filling the room, blurring the edges of my reality.
He steps behind me. I can feel the heat of him, the scent of the gala and the violence still clinging to him. His fingers find the zipper at the small of my back. He doesn't rush. He moves it down inch by inch, the sound of the teeth parting loud in the humid air.
The silk falls away, pooling at my feet like a spent emotion. I stand there in my lace undergarments, my skin pebbled from the cold and the steam. Mikhail doesn't touch me yet. He just looks. His gaze travels over my shoulders, down my spine, and settles on the splatters of blood on my collarbone.
"He touched you," Mikhail whispers, his voice thick with a possessive rage.
"He didn't," I say, turning to face him. "You stopped him before he could."
Mikhail reaches for a white washcloth, soaking it in the warm water. He steps into my space, pinning me against the edge of the marble vanity. He’s still in his tuxedo.
He lifts the cloth. His touch is surprisingly gentle, a jarring contrast to the brutality I saw an hour ago. He starts at mycollarbone, wiping away the tiny red dots. The warmth of the water and the deliberate, slow motion of his hand make my breath hitch.
"I told you," he murmurs, his eyes fixed on the task. "The ring changed everything. You are mine to protect. Mine to clean."
He moves the cloth lower, over the swell of my breast. My pulse is racing, a frantic drum in my ears. I want to push him away, to scream at him for the violence, but my body doesn’t let me. His thumb brushes the edge of my bra, and a jolt of pure, electric heat zips through me.
I’m wet... for the man who just held a broken glass in another man's face. What is wrong with me?
Mikhail notices. He sees the way my lips part, the way my back arches unconsciously. He drops the washcloth into the sink, his hands replacing the cotton. His palms are large and warm, his thumbs tracing the line of my collarbone before sliding down to my waist.
"You like this," he observes, his voice a low, predatory purr. "You like that I claimed you in front of them."
"I hate that you’re a monster," I whisper, though my hands are already finding their way to his shoulders, my fingers digging into his muscles.
"I’m your monster," he corrects.
He leans down, his mouth finding the sensitive spot beneath my ear. He bites, not enough to break the skin, but enough to leave a mark. I let out a soft, broken whimper, my knees buckling. He catches me, lifting me onto the vanity, his body pressing between my thighs.
The sexual tension is so thick it’s a physical weight, a suffocating heat that drowns out the memory of the gala. I want him. I want him to stop talking and to show me exactly how much I belong to him. I want to bite him back, to leave my own marks on the predator who brought me home.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes roving over my body with a hunger that makes my lungs seize. He moves his hand lower, his fingers tracing the edge of my lace panties, moving toward my stomach.
And then he stops.
The heat in the room evaporates in an instant. I feel his fingers go still, resting on the skin of my lower abdomen. I look down, and my heart stops.
He’s looking at it. The small, jagged line of silver scar tissue just above my hip bone.
No. Not now. Not him.
"What is this, Irina?" he asks. His voice has changed. The hunger is still there, but it’s joined by curiosity. He traces the scarwith his thumb, his touch light, searching. "This isn't from an accident. This looks like a surgical incision.
