: Chapter 14

She knows what she’s doing.

For days, I’ve kept us secluded at my house, and she doesn’t seem to mind it. I don’t know why. Maybe she has a mild case of agoraphobia—she was fun at first when I took her shopping, but something changed. She got uneasy. Unsettled. And she wouldn’t tell me why.

She’s made no mention of wanting to leave, and instead, she’s making herself at home. She knows she can escape. But she doesn’t. Not that I’m complaining.

She’s beautiful. So fucking beautiful, my girl. And she knows exactly what she’s doing.

I made love to her the night after we went shopping. That was several days ago. Since then, I’ve been busy and let her roam through my house, adding her signature touch. At first, I didn’t understand what she was doing. It wasn’t like she changed anything major, but I started noticing—the throw blanket over the couch, the diffuser filling the air with something calming, the stack of kitchen towels where I used to only use paper.

Anissa knows how to cook.

“The fact that you have a kitchen like this and don’t use it is an absolute travesty,” she said, tying on an apron. It was ridiculous. Adorable. She didn’t look like the domestic type in the slightest, but then she rolled her sleeves up and got to work.

And she knows what she’s doing. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I never believed that shit, but every time she puts a meal in front of me that reminds me of my childhood—something warm, something familiar—I fucking feel it.

She’s doing it on purpose.

She leans too close when she’s not supposed to, just enough for me to catch her scent. I still put her to bed in her cage every night, but at this point, it’s just for show. If I really wanted to keep her here, I have other ways. And she knows that. She likes it.

She brushes her fingers over my wrist when she takes dishes from the table, a light touch—like an afterthought. But it’s not. It’s calculated. I know better.

She tilts her head just so when she speaks, her voice dipping soft, getting under my skin.

And it’s working.

I want her in my bed. Not just when I fuck her. I want her there when I roll over in the middle of the night. I want her soft skin, her scent, her heat. I want to shove her against the wall and make her stop this game she’s playing—but I don’t. Because deep down, I don’t want her to stop.

I watch her too closely now, memorizing every flicker of emotion, every micro expression. The way her lips part slightly before she lies. The way her eyelids droop when I threaten to spank her. The way she bites her lip when I do.

The way she smells—fuck, the way she smells—like something sweet beneath sharp steel. I could be separated from her for fifty years and still smell that and think of her.

But this is all an act. She isn’t real with me. She’s spent so much time shifting from disguise to disguise, I doubt she even knows who she is anymore. Authenticity terrifies her. At least, that’s my theory.

If I wasn’t so fucking dead set on getting revenge and proving my worth to the Bratva, I might find it amusing. But I don’t. It’s fucking infuriating.

She’s in my dreams.

I wake up angry. Unsettled. My cock hard as fuck. I bury myself inside her, and even then, it doesn’t satisfy me. I don’t just want to fuck her. I want to own her.

But it isn’t up to me.

I can say the words, claim her, but until she gives herself to me—truly submits—it’s just noise. It’s just a lie.

And then she does it again. Turns too slowly when I speak. Lets her fingers linger too long on my forearm. Holds my gaze just a second too long. Bites her lip. Breathes too deeply.

And finally, at breakfast, after she sets a fucking feast in front of me, I look up at her.

“What game are you playing?”

That smirk. That fucking smirk makes me want to grab her by the hair, yank her back, and punish her.

Slow and knowing, she leans in, her breath sweet and warm against my ear.

‘What are you talking about, big guy?’ Her voice is teasing, dangerous. ‘What if I told you I’m not playing at all?’

And then something in me snaps.

I grab her wrist and yank her onto my lap, her breath hitching just before I seal my mouth over hers. She meets me—teeth and tongue, hands in my hair, nails biting into my scalp like she wants me to feel it.

I do.

She gasps when I grip her hips and drag her against me, making sure she feels my erection pressing into her ass so she knows how badly I need her. My fingers dig into her thighs, my control hanging on by a thread.

‘Go ahead, little ghost,’ I growl against her lips. ‘Keep lying to me. Keep telling me you’re not playing games. Like you’re not fucking biding your time until you can run again.’

She grins, slow and wicked. ‘I thought you liked it when I ran,’ she whispers. ‘I thought you loved to chase me.’

‘You know I fucking do.’

I wait for her to run. I want her to. I want to give her a head start, chase her down, pin her against the wall.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she moves—rocking against me, rolling her hips in a slow, devastating grind. My grip tightens, and she fucking moans, and that’s it. That’s the last snap of restraint I have.

I stand, lifting her with me, carrying her to my bed. Our bed.

I throw her down onto the mattress, tearing off her clothes and then mine. She looks up at me, eyes dark and hungry, lips swollen from kissing.

She dares me.

She tests me.

I crush my mouth to hers, dragging my teeth over her bottom lip before moving down, biting at the sensitive skin of her throat. She gasps, thighs squeezing around my waist.

I press my knee between her legs, forcing them open.

Claiming her.

My hands leave bruises. Marks she’ll feel tomorrow. And she likes it.

She fucking loves to hurt.

And I fucking love to hurt her.

My hands find her wrists, pinning her down, keeping her exactly where I want her. And still, she twists under me, but it’s just another one of her games. She wants me to overtake her.

She wants me to make her submit.

So I do.

I fucking do.

I take my time breaking her apart—holding her hands down, licking her nipples, dragging my teeth over her skin. Savoring every gasp, every whimper, every desperate push against me.

She slaps at me when I let her go for even one second, and I let her come undone before I grab her hair, yank her head back, and bite her neck.

She groans, shaking, panting, her hands clawing at me.

I welcome it.

Just when she looks like she got her way, I roll onto my back and pull her on top of me.

‘Ride me.’

I slap her ass hard—until she squeals, until my handprint blooms on her naked skin.

She looks at me like she’s won.

And maybe she has.

I don’t just want her.

I need her.

‘You keep fucking pushing me,’ I growl, my voice barely holding together. ‘Do you really wanna see what happens when I stop holding back?’

Her lips part, a slow smirk curving at the edges.

My god, she’s gorgeous.

My little ghost. Just a shimmer of a person in front of me—untouchable, elusive, a fucking witch.

‘That’s the thing, Matvei,’ she whispers. Mocking. Inviting. ‘I don’t think you want to hold back, do you?’

My grip tightens in warning.

But her gaze holds mine.

My mouth crashes against hers.

This is war.

Brutal. Claiming.

She’s never been the kind of woman to yield—so she bites back.

Her nails rake down my arm, leaving angry, red welts in their wake.

I flip her back over on the bed, my body caging hers. She knees me and gets seconds of leverage before I push her down again, my hand wrapping around her throat.

The mattress tips beneath us.

She looks alive.

Her eyes alight, her grin wicked.

‘You like this,’ I murmur. ‘Maybe I should punish you.’

Her eyes burn into mine, my control hanging by a thread.

‘Be careful what you fucking tempt me with, you little witch.’

She’s casting a spell on me.

My hands on her are rough, unyielding. She wants to wear these bruises like a brand—like my brand.

And I want to mark her.

Every movement is like a battle—nails dragging, teeth clashing, grips tightening, bodies colliding in a war of pleasure and pain. Violence. Need.

I grab my cock. ‘Play with your fucking nipples,’ I order.

She pauses, eyes wide, breath hitched.

Her hips arch while I fist my cock, pumping, eyes locked on her belly, her fucking gorgeous body that will bear my children and tether her to me irrevocably. I might be obsessed.

I’m not sorry.

‘Get on your fucking knees. Head down. Ass up.’

She scrambles to obey.

I reward her with a hard, punishing slap to her ass. My handprint blooms, so pretty on her skin, and I can’t help but lean down and kiss it. She rocks on all fours.

I thrust into her in one brutal move.

Claiming.

She arches her back, her fingers digging into the bed.

‘Matvei.’ She groans as I slam into her, her body welcoming me.

I thrust into her, again and again, until she moans and arches into me.

My body is heavy above her, and my breathing is ragged.

I continue thrusting, hips slamming against her ass.

I spank her hard, the satisfying crack of my palm against her ass. Once. Twice.

It doesn’t bring the relief I crave.

I spank her again, just to hear her scream.

I fist her hair and yank her head back as I move, my grip tightening.

She moans, right on the cusp of relief, and I feel the first spasm of pleasure rip through her.

I come.

I fucking come.

Spilling into her.

Groaning against her skin.

Kissing the bite marks I left on her neck and shoulders as she screams her own pleasure.