Page 81 of The King's Pawn
He pulls back just enough for thumb to trace my lower lip, his eyes dark as he watches every flicker of my expression.
“Let go,” he murmurs against my mouth. “I’ve got you.”
And I do.
The climax rolls through me deeper than before, a slow shattering wave that has me trembling in his arms, my walls pulsing around him in long, sweet contractions. I cling to him, burying my face in his neck as I come apart, his name muffled against his shoulder.
He follows moments later, his thrusts faltering as my body draws him over the edge. A low, guttural sound tears from his throat as he spills inside me—hot, endless pulses that I feel everywhere.
We stay locked together, our hearts thundering in tandem. His fingers stroke through the ends of my hair gently, soothing as the aftershocks begin to fade. I feel the warmth of him still inside me, the weight of his body over mine, and for a suspended moment there is no past and no pain.
It’s just this.
17
SASHA
The call from the Pact arrives the following evening.
I haven’t slept more than an hour since surrendering myself to Alina for a second time. My body eventually gave in to the exhaustion sometime this morning before dawn, but my mind still refuses to disengage. Every time I close my eyes, I’m right back there with her in that small, forgotten office with her hands fisting in my shirt, looking at me right before she pulled me down to her as if she’d already made peace with the fall.
I see her mouth curve when she kisses me again, her breath hitching and her body trembling as she clings to me like I’m the only thing anchoring her to the world. The way she trusted me in that moment, knowing exactly who I am and choosing me anyway.
That is what keeps me awake.
I should regret it. I should be tearing myself apart for losing control again when I had promised myself—promised her—that I would keep my distance. That I would be the wall to weatherthe tide, not the weakness. That I would not allow temptation to talk me into one more taste of something I cannot afford to want.
But… I don’t.
I don’t regret any of it.
Perhaps that’s what makes all of this so sick and twisted.
I despise the part of me that let her get this close in the first place. I despise how easily she bypasses defenses I’ve spent a lifetime building, how she exposes seams I didn’t even know were there and pulls at them. I despise the weakness she draws out of me with nothing more than honesty and grief and those bright, furious eyes that look at me like they see every horrible disfigurement and still refuse to look away.
Most of all, I despise how deeply I want her.
Not just her body. That would be easier to dismiss, easier to rationalize. It’s everything else. Her fire. Her defiance. The way she refuses to bend even when the world tries to break her. The way she looks at me like I’m both the blade and the hand holding it.
Even now, knowing exactly how dangerous this is, a part of me still wants her, still aches and replays the sound of her breathing against my neck when she whispered my name like it had been a confession we would both be damned for.
By the time I arrive at the Malyshko estate for our meeting, I am already raw.
Whatever skin I normally wear in rooms like this has been stripped away between dawn and the drive over here, leaving everything beneath it too exposed, too aware. My body moveson habit alone, posture precise, expression carefully neutral, but inside there is a constant grinding tension that refuses to settle.
The moment I step inside, the estate feels different.
The hallways are lined with guards at tighter intervals than usual, their boots perfectly aligned, hands resting just a little closer to their weapons. They lower their heads as I pass, a gesture of respect so ingrained it happens without thought, but I catch the flickers of awareness in their eyes as I pass by.
Unease.
I move through the corridors at an unhurried pace, but my senses are sharp, cataloging every detail. The lack of conversation. The way even the staff keeps to the walls with their eyes down. The subtle hum beneath the silence that signals anticipation or dread.
When I reach the war room, the door is opened for me.
Nikolai Malyshko sits in his usual spot. That alone is not unusual. Whatisunusual is his expression.
The impassive calm he typically wears is gone. In its place sits a deep frown etched between his brows, his jaw set hard enough that I can see the tension in the muscles even from across the room. His fingers are laced together on the table in front of him, knuckles pale, posture rigid.
