Page 73 of Twisted Cage

My yearning to live in this moment overshadows my deep-seated need to make him pay for hurting me in the worst possible way. His betrayal cost me two people when he stained my mother’s memory and turned my hero into a heartless villain.

A delicious hum travels up my throat. The more he believes he’s possessing me, the more I’m actually possessing him. Ruling his every emotion. Prompting his every reckless action.

Konstantin’s fingers flex, his hot, furious gaze going to my mouth. He bites his bottom lip, one long, thick finger sliding past the scrap of fabric covering the heart of me, plunging impossibly deep.

Biting back the hiss trying to break free, I slump under the onslaught, or maybe my greedy body is trying to impale on him further, chasing pleasure I know only he can give me.

“Tell me, Pcholka. Who did this to you? Who is my greedy little pussy soaking for? Rhodes or me?”

He thinks he’s so clever. That he has me. But it’s going to take more than a finger inside me, more than his demanding palm grinding against my clit to make me submit.

Victory appears in a myriad of ways. Trophies and awards amassed on a shelf. Framed photos of achievements displayed in a shrine to a life smashing goals.

But tonight… in this moment, victory is a man on the edge of reason—fiery, impulsive, reckless, and absolutely out of his mind with jealousy and possessiveness.

It’s a man who will burn every rule, every bit of propriety to the ground to take what’s his.

Tipping the champagne glass to my lips, I take a long, slow sip, never tearing my eyes from his. Dragging his finger out of me partially, he adds another. Searching for a sign he’s gained the upper hand in my expression, his fingers tighten around my neck right before I swallow. A strange fascination crosses over his face as he turns his focus to my throat while the bubbling liquid slides down.

“Rhodes.” Logan’s last name becomes the only blade within reach in this place of pomp and circumstance.

Konstantin rears back a thunderous glare in his eyes.

Victory is knowing with one word, I can take absolute control.

“That’s right, Kostya. My pussy is soaking wet for Rhodes.” His hand slackens just a fraction and I wrench free from his grip and dart past him. I seek solace leaning against the edge of the balcony, illuminated by the warm glow of hundreds of tiny lights.

My heart thunders in my chest as I stare at his back. Fingers shaking, I grip my champagne flute like a lifeline until I fear I’ll snap the crystal with the force.

His wide shoulders rise and fall with deliberate breaths. He lifts his head, his silver-streaked hair brushing the top of his jacket.

Seconds tick by as I wait for his next move, my breathing growing more erratic until I’m lightheaded in my anticipation of what he’ll do.

Smooth and purposeful, he carefully turns to face me, his features now blank. Like he’s found a new tactic, and he’s keeping it all to himself until he’s ready to strike. “Did you really think you’d get away with it? That I wouldn’t find out what you’re up to?”

“I wasn’t getting away with anything. Getting away with it means I’m not allowed to do it. I do what I want.”

He takes a step toward me, and another, each one prominent, stalking his prey. “So you think you can marry someone else?”

I raise an eyebrow and smirk, wanting nothing more than to prod him into saying it. Just once confessing what he really wants. “Someone else? As opposed to who exactly?”

He touches me as though I’m his. Calls me his. But when it really comes down to it, when it comes to laying it all on the line, including our very lives, can he confess out loud what he ultimately wants?

And can I live with why he really wants it?

Toe to toe, he stares me down. The confession is there in the swell of his chest as he drags in a rough lungful of air. The truth in his greedy eyes as they roam over me. The admission in the pinched, flat line of his mouth, with his jaw clenched, trapping the words behind his teeth.

“Turn around.”

My mind goes blank at his change of direction. My body responds to his gruff words filled with raw emotion by doing exactly what he says.

“What do you see?”

Resting my forearms on the wrought-iron railing, I take in the party below. The potent scent of gardenias fills my nose from the flower garlands looped through the iron scrolls of the balcony walls.

Dozens of couples glide along the dance floor, their cheeks rosy from the free-flowing alcohol. Surrounding them, people mingle and move, their heads thrown back in laughter. Women lean into one another, hiding conspiratory whispers behind perfectly manicured hands, while their men clap each other on the shoulder and shake hands before moving along to the next conversation, the next connection.

They’re a kaleidoscope of colorfully repeating patterns.

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