Page 41 of Crown of Hate

It all happens suddenly, the build-up breaks, my mind shatters.

My body gives in.

“I-I’m going to cum!”

“Then do it,” he growls, thrusting harder, deeper, and faster. “Cum for me. Cum for your husband.”

Pleasure crashes over me in giant, searing waves. I feel like I’m being lifted off the table as my body trembles under hisskilled touch. The restraints around my ankles are all that hold me down as I push into Mikhail’s hard, warm body.

I jerk with each new thrust, screaming out his name, gripping the edges of the table even tighter.

Then, it’s his turn.

“Fuck,” he roars.

With a final, powerful thrust, he erupts inside me.

“Oh my god,” I cry as he fills me up completely. A heavy haze swirls around us both as I claw at the ecstasy, unable to tell up from down.

Slowly, the haze clears. We collapse together, panting and sweaty, our bodies still entwined. Mikhail’s forehead presses against mine, and I can feel his heart pounding against my chest.

We stay like that for a moment, until Mikhail leans in and kisses the top of my head. I’m shocked to see a small smile on his face. My tired heart flutters. How did that happen? He was so dour before, but now…

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, and I blush, realization finally dawning on me.

All I can do is stare up awkwardly at the ceiling as he unties my ankles. When he’s done, I try to slide my sore body off the table, but he slips his hands around my waist and lifts me up.

“What are you doing?” I ask, voice barely more than a whisper.

“What does it look like?”

“Put me down,” I protest, mortified. “You can’t carry me out there. Not like this. What if someone sees us?”

He cocks his brows. “You’re my wife, Alya. And this is our home, I couldn’t care less who sees us. But no one would dare look, anyway. They know who you belong to. Now, hold on.”

Unable to muster up the strength to resist, I reluctantly obey, wrapping my arms around his neck. He carries me to our bedroom, gently dropping me on the bed before running a bath.When it’s ready, he lifts me again, carries me to the tub, and softly lowers me into the strawberry-scented lather. My ankles throb against the heat.

A moment later, he sinks in across from me, grunting as he buries himself in the warm water. Our toes meet, and I fight the urge to pull away, even as my body screams for more contact.

Damn it, Alya. Get it together. He’s the enemy, remember?

“What’s on your mind?” he asks, peering right into my soul with his stormy blue eyes.

I shrug, unable to admit what’s really on my mind—that just having his toe brush against mine has my core throbbing with need. That I’m torn between wanting to straddle him and wanting to strangle him. That I’m caught between a paralyzing fear and a tantalizing desperation to find out what darkness he’s preparing me for.

That I can’t believe I just lost my virginity to the man who killed my father.

My heart tightens, my eyes race. I don’t want to think about it. It’s too much. So, instead, I search for a distraction.

My gaze lands on the viper tattoo on his right bicep. An escape. “What’s the story behind that?” I ask.

He looks confused.

“The tattoo, I mean. Is it some kind of mafia initiation thing?” Papa had a few of them, and they always had something to do with the Bratva. Does Mikhail’s body tell the same bloody story?

He ponders my question, taking the bait. “I got it after I returned from Russia. It’s supposed to remind me of all the men who betrayed me.”

“Men like Boris?”

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