I stare at him, the ache in my chest intensifying. Do I tell him the truth? Do I even dare to admit it to myself? Ever since my parents’ deaths, I’ve felt so little, going through life on autopilot, subsisting on Hanna’s love and the adrenaline buzz from my jobs. I thought it was impossible for me to love, to feel anything beyond a mild attraction, but I was wrong.
So very, very wrong.
Stepping up, Yan cups my cheek. “Tell me, Mina. Just give me this one truth.”
He regards me as if he needs this truth with every fiber of his being, as if the answer is his alpha and omega. I consider lying to protect my heart and pride, but what’s the point? I’m not going anywhere. The war is long lost. And Yan might not have given me his trust, but he’s given me vengeance—and as much of himself as he has to give. The man who’s incapable of affection outside of sex has opened up to me, letting me see into his icy heart. For that, and for making me feel again, he deserves the truth.
For the short time left, we both deserve the truth.
“Yes. I do have feelings for you.” My admittance escapes on a rush of air, defeat weighing me down even before the words are out. “Yan… I’m in love with you.”
His expression is a mixture of shock and satisfaction that grows into tender possession. Folding his arms around me, he pulls me against his chest. It’s not an exuberant caress that celebrates love. It’s a gesture that offers comfort, a Band-Aid on a cut. He holds me close and consoles me for having lost not only my freedom, but also my heart.
“Minochka,” he murmurs, “I’ll make it good. I promise.”
The fact that he doesn’t reciprocate my love declaration isn’t lost on me. He wants my body. He cares about it like someone cares for a pet, making sure it’s fed and healthy to serve its owner’s purposes. He may even care about my mind, in his own twisted way, but he’ll never love me. The thought hurts, but the clock is ticking and there’s not enough time for resentment or pain.
Melting against him, I take what I can get. I accept the physical affection, the mistrust, and the inevitable blame I’ll carry to my grave. I take responsibility for my feelings and lower my defenses, giving him access to both my body and my soul.
Anton was wrong. It’s not my body I used as a weapon; it’s the walls I’d built around my heart. But now, I have no more weapons left.
I’ve given Yan the ultimate power over me.
Sensing my surrender, he scoops me into his arms and carries me to the bed. He’s lowered me onto this mattress countless times, but never with so much tenderness, such reverence. He holds my gaze as he unbuttons his shirt to expose the chiseled muscles of his chest, then undoes the cuffs and peels the sleeves off his arms. He goes about undressing slowly, creating a memory I’ll never forget.
His movements are strong and decisive when he unbuckles his belt and pulls down his zipper. He studies me as he removes his shoes and socks before pushing the pants with his briefs over his hips. I watch everything, taking in every detail, committing it to memory. I imprint the picture of his lithe and powerful body in my mind, reveling in how hard he is for me, how much he wants me.
Climbing onto the bed, he straddles my legs and slips his hands under the hem of my T-shirt. His palms lock around my waist, and he strokes up, bringing the fabric with him and baring my skin. When my upper body is exposed, he lowers his head and kisses a path from my navel to the dip between my breasts. He touches and licks. He explores me as if it’s our first time. And in a sense, it is. I’ve never fully surrendered when we fucked, always holding back a part of me. Not anymore.
Nuzzling my neck, he nips his way to my jaw. I part my lips when he finally reaches that destination, and his tongue slips into my mouth, tangling with mine. The kiss is unlike any we’ve shared. It’s urgent, yet tender. He traces the contour of my lips with his tongue while lifting my arms to pull off my T-shirt. He undoes the front clasp of my bra and sweeps away the cups, freeing my breasts.
“You’re perfect,” he whispers, lowering his head for another taste.
His mouth is hot on my nipple, his kiss wet and gentle. I arch my back, wanting more, but he keeps the caress soft. His fingers play with my other nipple until every pinch and roll echoes in my clit.
He’s as slow in taking off my clothes as he was in undressing himself. I’m panting by the time he’s removed my jeans and underwear. When he buries his head between my legs, it’s as much as I can take. At the third lap of his tongue, I come. The release is brutal. It tears through me with emotions in its wake that shake me to my core—a need to belong, an infinite well of painful love, a futile will to live. When he positions his hips and enters me, the fragmented feelings come together. They fuse with the warm glow in my body, and for the first time in my life, I’m complete.
“Minochka.” He frames my face between broad hands and starts pumping. His rhythm is leisurely. “This is everything.”
I grab his shoulders and hold his gaze, needing him like nothing before. “Perfect.”
“Yes.” A drop of sweat rolls over his temple. “Like you.”
I’m far from perfect. My life is stained with blood. My body is dying. But we have this moment, and I cling to it with everything I’ve got.
He thrusts slowly, savoring me. I’m tight around
