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After I’m inside, I release a breath, but I still track the cozy-looking area in case there’s an uninvited guest. Once I’m sure I’m the only one here, I lean against the back of the sofa and call Kirill. It goes straight to voicemail.
Fuck.
I pace the length of the cottage. He’s okay. It’s Kirill, after all. Those guys couldn’t get him.
Unless he was ambushed.
Maybe the two who followed me were a red herring and the actual army is out for Kirill’s life.
Shit.
Shit.
The longer I call him and he doesn’t pick up, the harder my heart beats.
I completely forget why I want him out of the picture or that if he’s gone, I’ll finally be free of him.
But that’s the thing. I don’t think I ever will be.
The bitter truth slaps me in the face: I prefer being in this fucked-up coexistence with him than being happy without him.
I’m so damn sick.
But apparently I don’t give a damn, because I sprint out of the house and run the length of the garden.
He should’ve been here by now.
He should’ve—
My feet come to a halt when I catch sight of him walking onto the property, a gun in his hand and blood covering his neck and chest.
“Kirill!” I run toward him. “What’s wrong? Have you been shot—”
The words die in my throat when he meets me halfway and slams his lips to mine.
16
SASHA
I’m stunned.
No, I’m paralyzed.
A part of me is completely aware that I’m supposed to fight this. I’m supposed to kick him in the nuts and run as far away as I can because I know of his nature. A few months ago, he manipulated the situation to have me and his ambition. I’m not confident that he won’t do it again. That, one day, he’ll strike a deal in which he has to sacrifice me.
But the other part is so tired of my flight mode. It’s impossible to remember why I should be resisting, leaving, and disappearing.
My lips tremble beneath his hard, demanding ones.
Being kissed by Kirill has always been an experience, but this kiss? It’s as if I’m facing a hurricane and my only choice is to let myself be whisked away.
He captures my chin, his fingers pressing on the skin with nonnegotiable power. Everything about him brims with control and command.
His touch.
His chest that’s pressing against mine.
His hand that’s glued to my back.
My lips are pried open—or maybe I willingly let them part.
Emotions cloud my head until I can’t tell which is which anymore.
That slight hesitation is what Kirill needs to invade my mouth. His teeth nibble on my tongue, the pressure rising in increments, holding me hostage in its intensity. Just when I think he’ll cut the skin, he sucks on the assaulted part.
I bite him back just as hard, maybe even harder. I have to inflict pain for all the confusion, the betrayal, the disappointment.
I want to hurt him.
No, I need to hurt him for everything he made me go through just because I stupidly loved him.
This time, a metallic taste explodes in my mouth. He has to taste it, too, but he doesn’t stop or pause in his mission to conquer me.
I hold his jaw with my shaky fingers and throw my hand that’s holding the gun on his shoulder.
Kirill isn’t deterred by how I drew his blood. In fact, he lowers his hand to my throat and squeezes as he kisses me deeper, nearly sucking my soul out of my mouth.
And you know what? I’m doing the same.
I went months without touching him, and now that I’m finally doing that, I can’t stop.
I won’t stop.
This is all because of whatever foolish emotions are running through me and the damning thoughts I had earlier. I believed he was dead or hurt or had been taken, and only by touching him again am I finally convinced that he’s alive.
I could put an end to this now.
I should.
That’s what I tell myself as I meet him stroke for stroke. Our heartbeats thunder against one another’s, and I revel in that.
I memorize it in the deepest part of my soul so that I can revisit it when he isn’t by my side. Kirill’s heartbeat has always been mild, unperturbed, and completely controlled. Like the man himself.
This is the first time he’s ever let his emotions explode.
I feel the bursts through his bites, the controlling way he squeezes my throat, and how his lips invade mine in a war of dominance.
A yelp rips out of me when he releases my neck, slips both hands beneath my thighs, and lifts me up. I have no choice but to wrap my legs around his sculpted waist and let my arms rest on top of his shoulders.
He walks toward the cabin without cutting off the kiss. In fact, it’s deeper, more animalistic in nature, as if he’s trying to engrave himself into me.
