Page 71 of Devil’s Reign

“Fuck,” he groans against my throat. “You feel so good.” His mouth moves over my skin with hot kisses, sharp bites, his breath ragged in my ear. “So tight. So perfect for me.”

His praise makes my chest cave. I want to tell him I love him. The confession rises in my throat—but it lodges there, a scream I can’t let out. So I cling harder, my nails digging into his hands where they’re still laced with mine, trying to say it some other way.

He twists his hips again, grinding into me, and my body shudders violently. Pleasure burns through me so intensely that tears spring to my eyes.

“Vanya—oh God—” I choke out, my voice breaking.

“Take it, Milani,” he groans. “Take all of me.” His thrusts deepen, tipping me over the edge.

My body clenches around him, wet and messy and desperate, and the tears I’ve been fighting slip free, sliding hot along my temples.

He curses, his pace turning rough as he chases his own release. The sound of our bodies slapping together fills the room while I shake beneath him, undone, sobbing as a second orgasm rips me apart again. Then he growls my name one last time and spills inside me, his hot sperm like a silent claiming.

He keeps moving through his orgasm, slower now, grinding deep like he wants to make sure I get every drop of him. When he finally collapses against me, I’m still trembling, my chest heaving, his weight anchoring me in place. My fingers stay locked with his, and my tears keep sliding into my hair.

I sniff sharply, trying to pull myself together, just as he pushes himself up and looks at my face.

His brows furrow. “What’s this?” He reaches out and wipes my cheeks with his thumb, so gently it makes my heart ache.

“Nothing.” I try for a small smile, but it wobbles.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Of course not,” I assure him. “I’m fine. Just hormones."

His frown deepens like he doesn’t believe my excuse.

Then he rolls off the bed and makes his way to the bathroom, flicking the light on. A moment later comes the sound of water trickling. He’s running a bath. I push myself upright, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and stand.

My knees buckle, and I quickly grab the nightstand with both hands, my heart lurching, waiting for the floor to stop tilting. That’s how Vanya finds me.

He scowls. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Coming to you,” I say.

His lips twist as he walks over and stops in front of me. He scoops me up without ceremony, and I wrap my arms around his neck out of pure muscle memory at this point. It’s embarrassingly automatic.

“Keep doing that, and I won’t want to walk anywhere anymore,” I tease, but his frown doesn’t ease, and I sigh. What now? I’m trying not to think past this moment.

He carries me into the bathroom without a word, walking straight to the filled tub. I expect him to set me on my feet, but he simply steps in and sinks with me still in his arms.

I tighten my grip around his neck, squealing as water sloshes over the edge and spills onto the floor, but he’s got me secured against his chest and doesn’t so much as flinch.

He rearranges me until I’m sitting between his spread thighs, his cock and balls squished to my back. It’s a weird, intimate feeling that makes my heart swell.

My throat closes, and I can’t speak. But Vanya doesn’t seem interested in talking anyway. He washes my body first, his hands moving quickly, almost mechanically, like he’s forcing himself not to linger. Then he washes himself.

When he’s done, he drains the soapy water and refills the tub. After that, we simply sit there, soaking in the warmth, neither of us saying anything.

My thoughts drift to the weekend—to what I’ll have to do—and my guilt creeps in before I shove it away again.

Vanya will do what’s best for him and his brothers. I need to do what’s best for my family and me. As if sensing the storm in my head, his arms band around my waist.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he whispers into my ear.

I lower my hand to his and trace my fingers over the dark ink there, following the tribal lines to the small letters woven through them.

They spell out his last name—Petrov. When I look closer, I notice some of the tribal lines seem thicker than the rest, like they’re covering something beneath. Other letters. But the ink is so dark I can’t quite make out what the original words were.