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“Hmm…” He strokes his thumb along the bottom of his chin.
My heart races with every second he stalls. Anger is unnerving in him, but so is this: calculated thought.
“An answer,” he finally says. “Was it really you?” When he glances at my bandaged hand, I know what he means. Was I the one controlling the knife? “Or will you play the victim? Claim you had no choice—”
“Idid it,” I hiss, drawing my bandaged hand to my chest. “Does that make you happy? The fact that I mutilated myself?”
His eyes narrow. I’ve caught him off guard. “Not mutilated,” he insists softly. “I’m after your honesty, Little Rose. The one thing I fucking know for a fact he didn’t teach you.”
“And now he’s dead.” Spit flies from my lips, laced with vitriol. “So you can stop comparing yourself to him. Robert—”
“No.” Anger resonates in his voice like a slap. “Have you forgotten so soon? Take a good look.”
He sheds his gray shirt, tossing it into a ball on the floor. His arms flex in its absence, displaying every muscle rippling with tension. “I told you that you are only allowed to utter one man’s name. Shall I teach you how to say it?”
The coldness in his gaze is such a stark contrast to the beautiful collage of scars and tattoos unfolding across his ribcage. My breath catches as my nerves spark, aware of his nearness.
“Mischa Mikhailovich Stepanov.” He takes another deliberate step as I watch. Then another. When he’s close enough, he cradles my chin against his fingertips, grazing my skin with the tips of his nails. “Now…I want to hear how it sounds when you scream it.”
He shoves me back and works on the waistband of his pants with slow, deliberate motions. Anticipation ricochets through my veins, rendering me paralyzed as my heart picks up speed.
“I-I…I’m not your captive anymore,” I gasp out. Though am I speaking to him? Or myself? “I—”
“I don’t really give a damn what you are,” Mischa says. He sinks to his knees over the end of the mattress, grasping my thighs in each hand. Then he waits as if he’s expecting me to run. When I don’t, he parts them slowly, watching my face with every inch of space revealed. “All I want is what I’m owed.”
“Get off of me—”
Stealing my breath, his fingers slip beneath my dress and find me quivering—even as I try to bat his hand away. I’m slick. Ready. It’s impossible to hide the truth from his touch. With him inside me, there is no escape.
“I knew it.” His eyes flash as he swipes his thumb along my entrance and my body quakes in response. It’s like each nerve short-circuits, rewired by every brutal caress. “Thisis how a woman speaks to the man she needs. You can’t lie to me like this. You can’t pretend…so don’t. You’ve never ached like this for him.”
I gasp out, squeezing my eyes shut against his heated expression: clenched jaw, heavy-lidded eyes. My inner muscles spasm, grasping greedily at his fingers. He’s right. We speak our own language, and he’s drowning me in nonsense.
“So, what will it be, Little One?” he wonders as he rocks his erection against my entrance, teasing me with the unbearable fullness. “Hard or slow?”
I writhe against the bed. Avoiding him…drawn to him. A pathetic whimper bubbles in my throat.
“Both?” Mischa murmurs into my ear. “As you wish. But first…” His fingers sink into my hair again, tugging. “I demand my payment in full.”
He gives me no warning before he stretches me open with one thrust, pushing the air from my lungs and every thought from my head. My hips arch, driving him deeper even as I turn my face into the sheets, desperate to shut him out.
But he won’t be erased so easily. His teeth nip at my earlobe, insistent and unforgiving. “Look at me.Fuck—look at me.”
I open my eyes and cry out at the monster I find staring back. His eyes are aglow with unholy fire, his lips drawn back to bare his teeth. He grunts as he fucks me. Takes me. Breaks me.
There are no rules. Just chaos and the violent tempest that drives him in and out. Harder. Deeper.Too much.
“Give it to me, Little One,” he demands, clawing at my hips for enough leverage to change the angle of his thrusts. It’s like his aim is to bore through me. Into my soul. Into my head. “Give it to me.”
My lips flutter and then fly apart as broken noise tears from my throat. “M-Mischa.”
My cheeks heat with shame. I’ve lost this game. Or have I?
The sound of his name makes him rear up on his knees, his head thrown back, a groan building in his throat. Like a growl. Like thunder. Hungrily, his fingers bite into my flesh, claiming, grasping. “Say it again.”
It’s not the triumphant command of a conquer. It’s…a plea?
“Shit… Say it again.” Corded muscles strain against his flesh, distorting his outline. He’s more beast than man, howling for release. “Fuck, say it—”
