Chapter Fourteen – Rostya

A storm has found the hills tonight, angry and relentless, battering the Sharov estate as if it means to tear the stones from their mortar.

Rain hammers against the old leaded windows, wind shrieks down the chimneys, and the lightning that splits the sky turns every gilded frame and velvet curtain into a shadow’s playground. Each thunderclap rattles glass and bone, setting my teeth on edge.

I don’t sleep when the weather turns like this. Too many years listening for the soft tread of enemies masked by rain, for the creak of doors masked by wind.

Storms make men sloppy, make alarms less reliable, make cover for things that shouldn’t move in the night.

I prowl the corridors, silent and watchful, double-checking that every guard is in his place, that no one has fallen asleep lulled by the lullaby of thunder.

Lightning flashes again, white and blinding, and for a heartbeat, the world is stark and clear. Then darkness slams back down, thicker than before.

Without warning, the power dies. Every chandelier, every sconce, every line of hidden wiring goes silent, plunging the estate into a darkness so deep it eats the air itself. For a moment, all I hear is the rain pounding the glass, the wind clawing at the stone, the hush of my own breath.

In the distance, candles and flashlights flare uncertainly, little islands of gold adrift in a sea of black. Here, in this stretch of hallway, I stand in pitch. No light, no voice, just the weight of my own vigilance.

I go still, senses sharp, old habits rising fast. For a moment I see nothing—then, at the far end of the corridor, a shape moves, faint and tentative. For a split second, the predator in me tenses for violence.

Then I see the smallness of the figure, the uncertain way she presses a hand to the wall, feeling her way. The ghost-pale glint of silk at her wrist. Karmia.

Of course. Wandering the house like a specter, even in the dark, even in a storm. Part of me wants to bark at her, demand what she thinks she’s doing. Another part is caught by a strange curiosity. What drives her out of bed, out of safety, into the unknown halls at this hour?

I watch her a moment longer, hidden by shadow, the urge to step out and claim her battling with the urge to simply observe. Even in darkness, even lost, she finds a way to haunt me.

She moves slowly through the dark, fingers trailing the wall, her hair wild, the hem of her nightdress catching against her ankles. She’s all but blind in the blackout, shadow folded into shadow, lost but stubbornly refusing to call for help. I can hear her breathing—a hitch with every gust of wind, a shallow gasp when thunder rattles the glass.

Lightning flashes, throwing her silhouette sharp against the wall. Then blackness drops again, thicker than before. I step out of the shadows, closing the distance silently.

She startles hard when my hand closes around her wrist. Her breath stutters, sharp and uneven. I feel her tense to pull away, but my grip is firm—protective, not bruising, my thumb pressed just above the frantic flutter of her pulse.

“Let go,” she whispers, the words hot and frightened in the hush. “You scared me.”

I draw her closer, not to threaten, but so she doesn’t stumble into something sharp or treacherous in the dark. “You shouldn’t be out of your room,” I say quietly, voice pitched low so it doesn’t carry beyond the storm. “Especially not during a blackout.”

She twists in my hold, trying to wrench free, but I only tighten slightly. “And you’re what, playing the night watchman? I can handle a little darkness,” she hisses back, defiant as ever even with her pulse thrumming wildly beneath my fingers.

I let out a breath, half a laugh, half a sigh. “I’m not worried about the dark. I’m worried about what the dark can hide.”

For a heartbeat, we’re just two shapes pressed together in the hallway; her wrist captive in my hand, her chest heaving with anxiety and anger. I can feel the heat of her skin, the quick, uneven rhythm of her heart, the delicate bones beneath my grip.

Lightning splits the sky again. It’s a violent, searing burst of white. The whole corridor is lit up for a second. I see her eyes, wide and bright, lips parted, her face turned up to mine. I see my own hand, unmistakable, wrapped around her wrist. Inches separate us, the crackle between us impossibly sharp.

The world plunges back into black, but the afterimage burns behind my eyes.

She swallows hard. “Are you going to drag me back?” There’s challenge in her voice, but fear too—fear not just of the storm or the dark, but of the nearness between us.

I step closer, closing the space until there is no room for escape. The scent of her skin, clean and faintly floral, fights against the cold air and the electric charge of ozone.

“Do you want to go back?” I murmur. My words are soft, dangerous, more a confession than a threat.

For a moment, neither of us moves. The storm outside rages on, thunder rolling, wind shrieking down the stone halls. The storm inside me is just as wild, just as relentless. Her presence is a current I can’t pull away from, her nearness a live wire I can’t stop touching.

She’s trembling now, but she doesn’t look away. “I just… I couldn’t sleep.” Her voice is softer, stripped bare. “The storm. And—” She falters, as if what she really wants to say is: you.

I let my grip soften, thumb brushing lightly against the inside of her wrist. “You’re not safe out here,” I say, but the words hold more meaning than they should. Not safe from the world. Not safe from me.

She breathes in, shaky and hesitant, but she doesn’t pull away.

The wind slams the windows again, rattling the glass in its frame. I know I should release her, send her back to her room, lock her away from everything that prowls these halls—including me.

I can’t let go. Not when every storm, every blackout, every charged second in the dark makes the need to keep her close burn hotter.

For a moment, in the eye of the storm, we just stand there. Caught between threat and promise, between danger and something that tastes dangerously like desire.

I don’t bother to ask if she’ll follow. I just guide her through the darkness, my hand at the small of her back, steering her through shadowed halls to the only place that makes sense right now. My chambers. The click of the door behind us muffles the storm’s roar, but thunder still vibrates the windows, rattling something deep in my chest.

A single candle burns on the table. It’s enough to push back the dark, but only just. The flame throws gold across her skin, painting her face in shifting warmth and mystery. Every line is heightened; her wide eyes, the uncertain parting of her lips, the tremor that’s not quite fear.

We stand facing each other, the silence swollen with things neither of us will say. She watches me with a gaze that doesn’t waver. It’s not defiance, not exactly, but something else—something that draws me closer even as it dares me to break the space between us.

I take a step. She doesn’t retreat.

The air is thick, electric, each heartbeat crashing louder than thunder. I can smell rain and candle wax and her, sharp and real and impossible to ignore. My pulse drums in my ears. I want to speak, to explain, but the words tangle in my mouth. Instead, I reach out with my hands framing her face, rough but not unkind, thumbs tracing the line of her jaw.

Her breath catches. For a second, she’s stone, rigid with hesitation. I can feel the resistance in her, the fight not to give in, not to let me win whatever war still burns between us.

I can’t hold back. My mouth finds hers, urgent and wild, all the storm’s violence pressed into the kiss. I devour her, every movement hungry, dragging her close with hands that have learned too well how to take and never learned how to ask. The taste of her—fear and longing, fire and surrender—rips the restraint from my bones.

She gasps into me, fists pressed against my chest, caught between push and pull. For a heartbeat, I think she’ll shove me away. But her resistance buckles; her hands soften, sliding up to my shoulders, twisting into the fabric of my shirt. Her body sways into mine, caught in the same undertow.

The world outside crashes and howls, lightning painting the walls, but the storm here is inside our skin. My hands move—her jaw, her throat, down her sides, anchoring her to the moment. Every inch I claim feels like a victory, a surrender earned and stolen at once.

Her mouth answers mine, softening then turning fierce, and her fingers curl tighter in my shirt, her body pressing close. The kiss is wild, consuming, neither of us careful, neither of us willing to stop. The storm outside has nothing on what’s breaking loose between us—violent, endless, alive.

The kiss deepens, turning reckless, then hungrier still. My hands roam her body—her back, her hips, the curve of her spine arching into me. Her lips part for me, welcoming, trembling, her breath soft against my cheek. Each brush of skin, every desperate pull draws us tighter, the need for her burning past any logic or defense I could summon.

I want her. I want to devour her, to mark her, to remind her with every touch that she belongs to me. The violence of the storm is nothing compared to what surges in my veins. But beneath the hunger, beneath the need, something rawer pulses—a danger I refuse to name, something too close to tenderness, too close to regret.

The rain on the windows fades to a distant rhythm, the world outside dissolving. There is nothing but this room, this heat, the wild flicker of the candle throwing our shadows up the walls, entangled and shifting. Her hands cling to me now, fingers digging into my shoulders, nails biting through the fabric. Her body melts, molds itself to mine, and with every press of her mouth, she stokes the fire higher.

And then, in the dizzy hush between kisses, she breathes against my jaw. It’s barely a whisper, shaky, raw. “You were the first. I’d never… before you, I never—”

The words cut through me, sharp as a blade. I go still, my breath stalled in my chest. I search her eyes, wide and dark and utterly open. The truth of it knocks the wind from me. I see the ache, the trust, the fear she must have felt the night she gave in, the way I took her—hard, unrelenting, all the while blind to what it cost her.

For a split second, my control wavers. A storm of emotion rages under my skin—rage at myself for not knowing, for not seeing, for having stolen that first from her without care. It’s tangled with pride, with the possessive heat that tightens in my gut.

She is mine. No one before me. No one will ever have her after. She belongs to me more completely than anyone ever could.

Still, there’s a flicker of guilt that pierces the armor. I want to brush it away, to tell her I’d have been gentle if I’d known, but the words won’t come. I bury it instead, pressing my lips to her throat, my hands greedy and worshipful at once. If I can’t give her tenderness, I can give her this: my hunger, my claim, my body a shield against the world.

I crush her closer, pouring every wild emotion into the press of skin to skin, the slide of my mouth along her jaw, her collarbone. If I can’t undo what’s done, I can at least make her forget the world beyond this room, make her remember only me, only us, burning bright as the storm itself.

We lose ourselves in the heat, the storm outside paling to nothing, the candle’s golden flicker the only witness. She surrenders now, her hesitation burned away as I strip her of her clothes. Her legs twine around me, her nails biting into my skin—not in resistance, but in demand, in want. I take her, yes, but she meets me with equal fire, giving as much as she claims.

My cock hardens, pressing against the inside of her thighs as Karmia writhes against me. Her walls clench as she takes me, and I groan against her neck.

I set a ruthless pace, pounding into her with enough force to make the bed creak. Every time she arches into me, every broken sound that spills from her lips, something changes. This isn’t conquest, not anymore.

It’s a collision, an obsession turned tangible, something raw and consuming. The press of her body brands me. Her skin is fever-hot, every shudder, every gasp searing into my memory.

She trusts me, I realize. Not because I deserve it, not because I’ve earned it, but because something in her refuses to be cowed. That trust mingles with defiance, makes her more than any prize I’ve ever claimed. I feel her surrender, but it doesn’t weaken her. It stokes her fire, draws me in deeper, past the place where words mean anything.

For a man who has lived by violence, who has measured life in blood and fear, this—her, here, now—makes me feel alive in a way nothing else ever has. No rival’s defeat, no council’s submission, no gun in my hand has ever matched the pulse of her heart against mine.

She gasps my name, mouth desperate against my throat, and I burn for her—hungry, frantic, lost. I want to mark her, to hear her say it again, to see her come undone for me, because of me. I want to drown in the sound of her voice, in the way she shakes, in the heat and softness that she’s never given to anyone else.

“You feel so good,” I murmur against her, and she arches again.

Karmia’s head tilts back, eyes scrunched closed as she sucks in a sharp breath.

The sight of her alone brings me close to the edge, cock throbbing as I quicken the pace.

I never thought anything could consume me like this. No Bratva feud, no enemy’s blood, no storm raging outside. She is all I taste, all I breathe, all I know. Every moment is fevered and slow, a thousand heartbeats packed into the time between thunderclaps. The walls could crumble, the world could end, and I would still be here, chasing the next gasp, the next tremor, the next ragged moan from her lips.

I feel the orgasm overtake Karmia, walls clenching, head tipped back, back arched so hard she lifts from the bed. Her whole body shudders, and it’s enough to tip me over too.

We come together, a low groan leaving my lips as Karmia clings to me.

The lightning fades, the storm recedes, and the world beyond this room becomes irrelevant. The only storm left is the one between us—wild, inescapable, and burning with a heat that leaves me marked forever.

Eventually I slip out of her, feeling a loss when my softened cock touches cool air. Karmia yawns and turns wordlessly onto her side.

By the time the thunder outside has faded to a dull, distant rumble, the power still hasn’t returned. Shadows crowd the corners, the single candle all but burned to its end, its flame guttering. The only real light in the room comes from the gold sheen on her bare skin and the way it glows in the darkness.

We lie in the hush after the storm, our breathing ragged and uneven, the wildness between us slowly cooling but never settling. I don’t touch her—can’t trust myself to, not now. I lie on my side, propped on one elbow, watching her. The distance is no more than a handspan, but it feels like an ocean, one I could cross with just a word or a movement.

She doesn’t look at me. She’s turned slightly away, her hair tumbled across the pillow, chest rising too fast, her lips parted as she chases calm. In the tremble of her mouth, I see it all: shame, defiance, longing. Even now, after everything, she’s restless, fighting whatever war is burning through her chest.

I see, with a kind of bitter satisfaction, that the fire I lit in her matches the one she’s kindled in me.

My own thoughts are chaos. I try to sort through them—possession, guilt, hunger—but there is no order, no discipline, only the violent knowledge that she is mine in a way I can never undo. I tell myself not to dwell on it. Not to consider what it means that I was her first, that I took what should have been gentle and made it wild and consuming. Not to admit how deeply she has already changed me, how nothing in my world is untouched by her anymore.

I stare at the ceiling, then back at her, my jaw tight, my hands fisted in the sheets. I tell myself I won’t think about it, won’t name it. I will just take what I want and protect what is mine.

I know—I know—that the line we danced around for weeks is gone, scorched to ashes. She has crossed into me and I into her, and nothing will put that fire out.

She is my storm now. I will never let her go. Even if I never say it, even if I die before I admit it, the truth is already written in every bruise, every kiss, every breathless night between us.

I shut my eyes, swallowing the words, feeling the weight of her beside me: dangerous, essential, inescapable.

In the silence after the storm, I promise myself: whatever comes, I will never let her be lost to the dark.