The air in the kitchen is thick with the scent of sandalwood, sweat, and the electric hum of a storm finally breaking. Dimitri doesn't rush. He moves with the agonizing precision of a man who has waited a lifetime for this moment, his eyes never leaving mine as he strips away the last of the black lace.
"Look at me, Maya," he commands.
I do. My breath is coming in ragged hitches, my heart hammering against the cold marble of the table. He isn't just looking at my body; he's looking into me, stripping away my defenses faster than he stripped my clothes.
"Say my name," he murmurs, his hands sliding up to cup my face. His thumbs brush over my cheekbones, his touch surprisingly tender for a man who just broke a rival's wrist. "I want to hear it. I want to know you know exactly who is claiming you."
"Dimitri," I whisper. It sounds like a prayer and a surrender all at once.
"Again."
"Dimitri."
He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through my chest. He moves then, his body a solid weight of heat and muscle pressing me back against the marble. The contrast is a shock—the freezing stone beneath me and the furnace of his skin above.
He takes his time, his mouth finding every sensitive inch of my neck and shoulders, his hands possessive as they map out my curves. Every touch is a brand. Every kiss is a signature. He isn't just having sex with me; he is marking me as his territory.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he rasps against my ear. "Mine. From the moment you walked into that bar six months ago, you were mine. You just didn't know it yet."
I should argue. I should tell him I'm my own person. But as he finally merges our bodies, the world narrows down to just this—the friction, the heat, and the overwhelming power of the man who bought my life. I lose myself in the rhythm, my nails digging into the hard muscle of his back, my voice calling out his name until the kitchen shadows swallow the sound.
When the end comes, it's devastating. A white-hot explosion that leaves me gasping for air, my eyes blurred with tears I can't explain. Dimitri buries his face in the crook of my neck, his entire body shuddering against mine as he finally lets go of the control he prizes so much. For a few seconds, he isn't the Pakhan of the Volkov Bratva. He's just a man who is as wrecked as I am.
We lie there on the marble for a long time, the only sound the ticking of the clock and our synchronized breathing. Slowly, Dimitri pulls back. He doesn't pull away, though. He looks at me, his eyes softer than I've ever seen them, before he reaches down and sweeps me up into his arms.
"The table is too cold," he says simply.
He carries me through the dark house, up the grand staircase, and into the master suite. He lays me down on the charcoal silk sheets and pulls the duvet over us, tucking me into the curve of his body. He doesn't say "I love you"—that's not what this is. But as his hand rests possessively over my heart, I realize the "rules" have changed.
The contract was about six months. This? This feels like forever.
---
I wake up to the pale gray light of a Brooklyn morning filtering through the heavy velvet curtains. For a moment, I forget where I am. Then I feel the weight of the silk sheets and the lingering scent of sandalwood, and it all comes rushing back.
The contract. The gala. The table.
I shift, expecting to feel Dimitri beside me, but the bed is cold. I sit up, clutching the duvet to my chest, my heart sinking. Was it just a part of the deal for him? A way to cement his ownership?
I find my clothes from the night before—the emerald silk dress—folded neatly on a chair. Beside them is a small, black object.
A burner phone.
I pick it up, and the screen glows to life. There's one contact saved: D.
A note is propped up against the phone in sharp, masculine handwriting:
I had to leave for business. There is an escort downstairs if you need to go anywhere, but I suggest you stay within the gates. The gala caused waves. You are a Volkov now, Maya. That makes you a prize to some and a target to others.
If you are scared, call the number. I will come.
I touch the paper, my fingers tracing the ink. Yesterday, I would have called him a monster for keeping me locked in this house. Today, I look at the phone like it's a lifeline.
I walk to the window and pull back the curtain. Down in the driveway, two black SUVs are idling, men in suits standing beside them with eyes scanning the perimeter. Dimitri wasn't lying. The world knows who I am now.
I'm the woman the Pakhan paid three million dollars for.
I'm the woman who surrendered to him on a kitchen table.
As I look out at the grey city, I realize the danger isn't just the men with guns outside. The real danger is the fact that when I look at that phone, I don't want to call for help to escape.
I want to call him just to hear him say "Good girl" one more time.
I'm not just a wife by contract anymore. I'm in deep, and I have no idea if Dimitri Volkov is my savior or the person who is finally going to destroy me.