More like, I’m her custom-made hell.
As I wipe the droplets of sweat off her face, the name of the abyss I’ve fallen into punches me in the fucking gut.
Obsession.
That’s what it’s called, isn’t it? This is what it feels like to have the need to own someone when I’ve never thought about that concept before. This is also why I’m plagued by images of complete wrath if anyone dares to take this woman away from me.
And that includes her.
I meant it earlier—if she continues to not choose me, I’ll be the cruelest monster in her life. I’ll completely destroy her until one of us dies.
And that’s dangerous. Not only for her, but for me as well.
Because she’s starting to look like a fucking weakness. She’s someone who can be used against me to put me on my knees.
And I don’t do weaknesses.
I’ve always been the type to play, never to be played with. I’ve never gotten too close, never revealed my cards or allowed emotions into my decision-making process. So imagine my fucking annoyance when I realized that the very damn foundations of my being were being shaken by none other than an enemy.
And Sasha is an enemy. I might not treat her like I do my traditional enemies—which is usually to kill them or manipulate them, then kill them—but she’s not someone I’d trust.
She has relations with the Belsky Organization, and while I have no idea why they want me dead, I know they’re after me.
And until I can completely turn her to my side, meaning she’ll hide nothing from me, she’ll have to stay in the gray area.
Now, if my cock would understand that fucking her is reckless, that would be wonderful.
It doesn’t help that her naked body is splayed out in front of me, tempting me to take her and remind her exactly who she belongs to.
Down, boy. We’ll have our time.
I lift her enough to remove the damp cover—along with the sex toys, the knife, and my belt—from beneath her, and then I place her on the clean, dry sheet.
She whines in an adorable way that doesn’t help with the state of my starving cock, then turns on her side with a sigh.
My self-control has been tested today more times than in my whole fucking life. It takes everything in me to go to the bathroom and place a few towels in a bowl of hot water. When I return, she’s on her back again, every inch of her naked skin laid out for me.
I stare down at my cock that’s becoming a fucking nuisance. “Really, now? Since when are we into somnophilia?”
The only reply I get is an antagonizing erection.
I think of babies, the faces of people shot in the forehead with a shotgun, and Yulia.
The last one does it.
I sit on the side of the bed and start by wiping Sasha’s face, then her neck—lingering for a bit too long on my finger marks. Then I clean the blood off her chest and stomach. After that, I take extra care of cleaning her unsatisfied pussy. She moans when I wipe her folds, and that threatens to wake my cock after I finally put him to sleep, so I move on to her hands. She injured a few of her fingers with her nails during the struggle earlier. I stroke those and then move to the red stripes left by the belt.
After I finish, I do it again, touching every nook, every slope, and the scar the bullet left on the back of her shoulder. She has a few other scars, too—some are on her stomach, but the majority are on her hands and feet.
Such a soft body wasn’t made for the military or being a bodyguard, but then again, she looks like she enjoys it.
Not so much the military, since she always seemed to be on a mission there. Ever since we came to New York, however, she’s more carefree, and I catch her grinning whenever she finishes her perfect sheet—one of the few who manage to do it.
She shivers, and I realize that I might have been at this for way too long.
I retrieve a fresh blanket and cover her with it.
A few seconds pass as I watch her sleep.
You know what? Fuck it.
I remove my shirt and pants and lie on my side to have a better look at her. I don’t even sleep, so the fact that I stripped down for that is weird in and of itself. I’m even laying my head on the pillow and shit.
The view is fucking worth it.
I place my hand on her tit and start to tease her nipple just because I obviously have no fucking control. But then I feel her steady heartbeat and a distant episode comes back to me.
It was that time in the car when she sang to me and made me feel her heartbeat. My palm stretches over her breast, and I start to listen. I’m also about to close my eyes.
But before I do that, Sasha turns to her side and glues her chest to mine. Her heartbeat collides with my hyper one as she snuggles her face in my chest and throws her leg over mine.
Fuck.
Now, I won’t move even if I have to.
“Help me, Kirill!”
“Don’t worry, Kara. I’m here,” I say in a broken voice that I wouldn’t believe if I weren’t here.
I’m hanging by a cord that’s cutting through my wrists with every passing second, and the worst part is that Karina has to watch me being tortured for fun by our fucking father’s men.
“Kirill!” She screams hauntingly until her voice turns raw and hoarse. But the men who are holding her back don’t let her move an inch.
“I’ll be okay,” I croak and manage to smile, but that triggers the pain in my swollen lips and eyes, and I cough.
The man who was tasked with beating me up slaps me across the face, then punches me in the stomach. I spit out blood as my vision turns blurry.
Oh, fuck. I think I’m going to pass out.
The last thing I see is Karina’s shocked expression, her soft face going into shock before she shrieks, “Kiriiill!”
I startle awake at the soft touch of two hands at my cheek.
“Kirill!”
“Kirill!”
“Can you hear me?”
Through the slits of my opening eyes, I see Sasha perching over me, tears clinging to her lashes and her brows creasing in a line.
Two thoughts come to mind.
One, I fell into a deep sleep around her again. In fact, it was so deep that I had a nightmare about a distant memory.
Two, Sasha must’ve witnessed something that made her this distressed.
Fuck.
This is exactly why I don’t like sleeping.
“Kirill?” she asks in a low, haunted voice that’s so similar to Karina’s that day.
I slowly sit up, and she lets out a breath as she begrudgingly releases me. I want to grab her hands and put them back on my face.
Instead, I stand up and stride to the minibar in my room. I catch the clock in my peripheral vision. Six in the morning. I actually slept for a few hours.
What the fuck is even happening to me lately?
I pour myself a glass of cognac and gulp it in one go, then pour another. There’s a rustle from the bed before Sasha wraps the blanket around her and joins me. Her eyes are glittery, but they’re more green than brown, so that’s a good sign.
“You okay?” she asks carefully.
“Couldn’t be better.” I start to drink the second glass, but she gently grips my hand, making me pause.
“You thrashed in your sleep and wouldn’t wake up no matter how many times I called your name. Was it a nightmare?”
“What if it was?”