He reaches out, his large, calloused hand wrapping around the back of my neck. His thumb rests right against the pulse point in my throat, pinning me in place.
I gulp.
"You want to know what this is, Irina?" he says, his voice dropping to a rough, quiet tone that’s far scarier than a shout. "It’s very simple. You’re mine. You belong to the Morozov name now, and in this city, that makes you the most precious thing I own. I don't care about your 'rights' or your 'past'. I care about the fact that there are men out there who would cut your throat just to see me suffer."
He pulls me a fraction closer, his face inches from mine. I can smell the cold morning air and the faint, intoxicating scent of him. My heart is slamming against my ribs in a way that makes my stomach flip.
"No one else is going to touch you," he growls, his eyes dark and fixed on mine. "No one else is ever going to take you from me again. If that means I have to watch you run, stand over you while you fucking sleep, then that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Do you understand?"
I want to spit in his face. I want to tell him he’s a psycho and that I hate him. But the words are stuck in my throat because the way he’s looking at me—like he’d burn this whole city down just to keep me in his sight—is doing something terrifying to my blood. My anger is still there, hot and sharp, but it’s twisting into a desperate, jagged kind of heat.
I’m furious that he’s holding me like this, but I’m suddenly, painfully aware of the way my chest is heaving against his. The thin, sweat-damp fabric of my running tank does nothing to hide the hard peaks of my nipples, scraping against the solid wall of his chest with every frantic breath I take.
"Y-You're a monster," I whisper, my voice trembling more than I want it to. I try to convince myself that it’s because I’m just so angry. Not because my nipples are hard, my core is clenched and all I can think of is kissing his lips.
"I don’t deny that," he murmurs. He lets his gaze drop to my lips for one long, agonizing beat before his thumb brushes overmy pulse one last time. He lets go of my neck, and the sudden absence of his touch feels like a cold draft.
The silence that follows is deafening. I stand there, my skin burning where his hand was, watching him. I realize then that maybe… just maybe this isn't just about his ego or the fact that I ran away.
He is right. I’m familiar with this world and the dangers are not a joke.
"Thirty minutes," I finally manage to say, "I'm finishing my run. Stay ten feet back."
Mikhail watches me for a second, his expression unreadable. Then he gives a single, sharp nod.
"Ten feet," he agrees. "But I'm not taking my eyes off you."
I turn and start to run again, my sneakers hitting the gravel with a frantic rhythm. I can feel him behind me, a dark, constant presence.
Every time my foot strikes the ground, a jolt goes through me. I realize it’s not from the impact. It’s from the knowledge that his eyes are once again on the swing of my hips, the tight pull of my leggings over my ass, the sweat tracing the line of my spine. My skin is too tight, too hot. My breaths come in ragged pants that have nothing to do with the pace and everything to do with the man ten feet behind me.
I feel a treacherous ache, a deep, hollow pulse between my legs. It’s an ache of pure want, sharp and undeniable, slickening me in a way that makes my thighs rub together with every stride. I hate it. I crave it. The anger is still there, a white-hot coal in my gut, but it’s fueling this. The more I think about his hand on my neck, his thumb on my pulse, the heavier the ache becomes.
I pick up speed, trying to outrun the sensation. It’s useless. Every time I imagine him watching me, the wetness between my legs increases, the fabric of my leggings rubbing against me in a maddening rhythm.
I came here to escape the madness but it seems I’ve run straight into what I was avoiding.
A low whimper escapes me, lost to the wind. I’m wet. Soaking. The thin seam of my leggings is a maddening pressure against my clit. I imagine his hands, not restraining, but claiming. Pushing the fabric aside. Testing that wetness with his fingers. A violent shiver wracks my body, and for a second, my knees almost buckle.
I glance over my shoulder, just for a second.
He’s there, matching my pace effortlessly, his eyes like dark embers in the dawn light. They’re not on the path. They’re locked on me. On the desperate flush he must see on my neck. On the way I’m running now—not to escape him, but because my body doesn’t know what else to do with this energy.
He knows. I can see it in the tilt of his head. He knows exactly what his gaze is doing to me.
As the sun finally breaks through the gray, casting long, sharp shadows across the path, I realize the terrifying truth.
I am doomed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MIKHAIL
Fuck it all.
The cold air didn’t do a damn thing.
I’m standing in the hallway outside Artyom’s office, trying to catch my fucking breath, tame my mind––anything––but it’s not working. I can still feel the sweat drying on my skin. It’s itchy and uncomfortable, but it’s nothing compared to the feel of Irina’s slender neck in my hand. My blood is still thrumming heavily, the ache in my trousers is still an aggressive, angry thing, and for a second I wonder what would have happened if I had not stepped away from her, if I’d not reminded myself how terrible an idea this is.
