Page 65 of The Pakhan's Dangerous Secret
She strikes first, a quick jab aimed at my face. I block it easily, but she's already moving, her leg sweeping toward my knee. I jump back, avoiding the kick, and counter with a punch to her ribs.
She blocks it and spins, her elbow coming toward my head. I duck and grab her waist, using her momentum to throw her off balance. She goes down but rolls immediately, coming back to her feet with that same grin on her face.
"Not bad," she says.
"You're better than I thought." I move in again, testing her defenses. She's fast, her blocks precise, her counters well-timed. But I'm bigger, stronger, and I've been doing this a lot longer.
We trade blows, neither of us holding back. She lands a solid kick to my thigh that'll leave a bruise, and I catch her with a punch to her shoulder that makes her grunt. The fight isexhilarating, the adrenaline pumping through my veins, mixing with something else. Something hotter.
I finally get her pinned, my body covering hers on the mat, my hands holding her wrists above her head. We're both breathing hard, sweat slicking our skin, and I can feel every inch of her beneath me.
"I win," I say, my voice rough.
"This time," she pants, but there's heat in her green eyes. Heat that has nothing to do with the fight.
I lower my head and capture her mouth with mine. She responds immediately, her body arching against me, her legs wrapping around my waist. The kiss is hungry, desperate, and I can taste the salt of her sweat mixed with her unique flavor.
My hand slides down her body, finding the waistband of her leggings. I pull them down along with her panties, and she lifts her hips to help. Her sports bra follows, and then she's naked beneath me, flushed and beautiful.
I strip off my own pants, my cock already hard and aching. I position myself at her entrance and thrust inside in one smooth motion. She moans, her nails digging into my shoulders.
"Move," she demands, wiggling her hips. With a chuckle at her impatience, I do.
I set a hard, fast rhythm, my hips slamming against hers. The mat beneath us provides just enough cushion, and the sound of our bodies coming together fills the gym. She meets me thrust for thrust, her legs tight around my waist, pulling me deeper.
"Fuck, you feel incredible," I growl against her neck.
She doesn't respond with words, just moans and gasps that drive me crazy. I reach between us, finding her clit and circling it with my thumb. Her body tenses, her inner walls clenching around me, and then she's coming, her back arching off the mat as she screams my name.
The sensation pushes me over the edge, and I follow her into oblivion, burying myself deep as I come inside her.
We lie there for a long moment, both of us trying to catch our breath. My body covers hers, and I can feel her heart racing against my chest. I should move, should let her up, but I can't seem to make myself do it.
Because lying here with her, feeling her soft and warm beneath me, I realize something that terrifies me more than any enemy ever could.
She's not just my wife. She's not just a means to an end or a way to find Yegor Pushkin and the stolen heirlooms.
She's becoming everything.
And that scares the shit out of me.
31
MARIYA
The church bells ring as we pull up to the massive stone building, and I can't help but stare at the ornate architecture. It's beautiful in a severe, imposing way, all dark wood and stained glass that catches the morning light.
"You're serious about this?" I ask, glancing at Andrey in the driver's seat.
He cuts the engine and turns to look at me, his dark eyes unreadable. "We go to church every Sunday."
"You kill people," I say bluntly. "You run a criminal empire. And you go to church?"
Matvey leans forward from the back seat, his voice carrying that familiar hint of amusement. "God forgives, Mariya. That's the whole point."
I want to argue and point out the hypocrisy of men who execute traitors in their courtyards kneeling before an altar. But Andrey is already out of the car, moving around to open my door with that controlled grace he always has.
The church is packed when we enter. I recognize the expensive suits, careful postures, and the way people position themselves in family groups. These aren't ordinary parishioners. These are Bratva families, all gathered under one roof.
