Page 54 of Crown of Hate

His body moves with a rhythm that matches the pounding of my heart. Each thrust is more powerful, more desperate. The bathroom disappears. All that exists is the chaotic pleasure building from below. The back and forth of my clit, controlled by countless beads of water. The pressure of Mikhail’s cock, reaching deep inside of me. The thick, suffocating air, barely making its way past the iron grip he has on my throat.

“You are mine, Alya,” Mikhail growls, his voice low and filled with promise. “Say it back to me.”

It’s like I’m being controlled by a web of strings wrapped around his fingers, because the words just spill from my lips.

“I’m yours, Mikhail.”

And then, somehow, by some miracle, the levee breaks, my mind shatters, I erupt. And, at the exact same time, so does Mikhail.

For a moment, I blank out. Nothing exists but a feeling of pure carnal satisfaction.

When I finally come to, I’ve been turned back around. I wear I feel a soft kiss planted on my forehead. My eyes open. That stormy blue gaze has cleared slightly.

I collapse against him, burying my face in the crook of his neck. For a few precious moments, we remain like that, simply existing, limbs entangled, basking in each other’s warmth and listening to each other’s heartbeat.

When Mikhail finally pulls away, he looks me up and down and smiles. “Let’s get you cleaned up, malyshka.”

It’s eleven p.m. by the time we finish showering. To my surprise, Mikhail takes on the unexpected task of drying my hair. For a man so brutally powerful, his touch is shockingly gentle as he coaxes the tangles free. He even braids it into a neat little pigtail—a skill that has me eyeing him with a mix of curiosity and undeniable jealousy.

When he’s done, I whirl around to face him. “How do you know how to braid?”

His lips curl into a smug smirk. “I’ve had a lot of practice with the women in my life, Alya. Comes with the territory, you know?”

Oh, I know alright. I know exactly the type of “women” a man like Mikhail keeps company with. The thought of him running his fingers through the hair of all those faceless, nameless floozies has my blood boiling. This skill, this little intimate gesture—it’s not supposed to be theirs. It’s supposed to bemine. I hate that it’s not just special to me.

I glare at him, teeth gritted so hard my jaw aches. “Of course, you’ve had experience with all your whores.” The insult rolls off my tongue with venom. “Pig. I’m going to bed.”

Fuming, I spring to my feet, intent on storming off to the sanctuary of our bedroom. But Mikhail is faster, his iron grip snatching my wrist just as I’m about to take my first step. He yanks me back and swirls me into him. “You really believed that?”

I roll my eyes. “That you’ve been with a ton of women? Why wouldn’t I believe it?”

“Not that, malyshka.” He tips up my chin with a finger, forcing me to look at him. “I used to braid Kira’s hair. She’s the only woman who I’ve ever touched this way before you.”

The confession knocks the wind out of me. Stupid, stupid Alya. Now I feel like an utter fool for letting my jealousy get the better of me. “Were you teasing me?”

Mikhail’s low chuckle only twists the knife deeper. “You look prettier when you’re all riled up, you know that?”

“I wasn’t jealous,” I insist stubbornly, even as the heat in my cheeks betrays the lie. “More like I was just… disgusted.”

“Don’t even try to lie to me, malyshka.” Before I can protest further, he silences me with a soft, lingering kiss. “Now, did you have any dinner yet?”

The sudden shift in topic has my head spinning. “Uh, just a cookie and some grape juice,” I admit sheepishly. The truth is, I’m starving after the intense sex we had. “Did you have something to eat?”

He shakes his head. “Come on then, let’s go downstairs and see what we can find to heat up and eat.”

He holds out his hand for me, and I take it without hesitation, allowing him to lead the way downstairs.

In the kitchen, I head straight for the fridge. He was way off—there’s plenty to eat. Seems like Grace is always cooking and stocking up, so that there’s never a shortage of food.

I scan the items for the easiest thing to heat up. “How about some frozen pizza and low-fat Greek yoghurt?”

“Low-fat Greek yoghurt? What the hell is that?”

“Yoghurt, but thicker and healthier. I asked Grace to buy some for me.” I grab a pizza box and head for the microwave.

Mikhail holds the door open as I slide the box inside. When he closes it, I set the timer and lean against the kitchen island while we wait.

“How are things with the Russian Bratva?” The question slips out before I can stop it. I know he might not want to share stuff about the mafia with me, but I can’t bring myself to back down, even as his eyes darken.

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