Page 33 of Ruthless Daddies

“God, Ivan,” I whisper, my fingers tangling in his hair, clutching him closer. His movements are rough, possessive, his mouth devouring me in a way that makes my head spin.

He sucks harder, leaving a mark that I know will linger, and the thought sends a strange thrill through me. His teeth scrapelightly against my skin, his lips trailing down the curve of my breast, and I can’t stop the way my hips press up against him, seeking more of the delicious friction between us.

His hips grind into mine again, the hard press of him against me drawing another sharp gasp. I move with him, my body desperate for the release that’s building between us, every movement pushing me closer to the edge.

But then, just as suddenly as it started, he stops.

I feel the loss of his warmth first, the sudden absence of his weight as he pulls back, rolling off me and rising to his feet in one swift motion. For a moment, I can only lie there, dazed and trembling, my top still pushed down, my body still humming with the heat of him.

When I finally sit up, pulling the straps of my top back into place with shaking hands, I glance up at him. He’s standing a few feet away, his back to me, one hand raking through his hair as his chest rises and falls with heavy breaths.

“Ivan?” I whisper, my voice small, hesitant.

He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t look at me. “Go,” he says finally, his voice rough, strained.

I stare at him, my cheeks flushing with humiliation as I fumble to fix my clothes, my hands trembling as I smooth the fabric back into place. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t offer an explanation, and the silence feels louder than anything he could say.

My throat tightens, a lump forming as I rise to my feet, brushing dirt and leaves off my dress. I take a step toward him, my heart pounding, but he still doesn’t look at me.

“Was it—” My voice cracks, and I stop, swallowing hard before trying again. “Was it something I did?”

“No,” he says quickly, but his voice is clipped, his tone leaving no room for further questions. “Just…go, Alice. Now.”

The finality in his voice stings, and I feel my chest tighten even more. Without another word, I turn and walk away.

By the time I reach the door, I’m trembling for an entirely different reason, and the memory of his touch feels like a cruel reminder of something I shouldn’t have let happen. Something I’ll never let happen again.

14

DMITRI

The hum of the city filters faintly through the windows of my office in the city, muffled by the thick glass that separates me from the chaos outside. Manhattan never sleeps, but up here, perched above it all, there’s a sense of detachment.

Not that I ever truly feel detached.

I sit at my desk, the glow of the computer screen illuminating the dark room. The air is stale, the faint scent of cigar smoke lingering from whoever was here last, but I barely notice. My focus is entirely on the task at hand—tracing the number that texted Ivan.

I lean back in my chair, clicking through encryption tools and database records, every click bringing me closer—or so I tell myself. Whoever sent that message knew what they were doing. The number is masked, bouncing off servers across continents. It’s clever, but not infallible. Everyone makes mistakes. Everyone leaves a trail.

And if someone is playing games with us, I’ll find out who. I lean back in my chair, rubbing a hand over my face.

As I work, my mind drifts, unwillingly, to the past. Toher.

It’s been almost two years, but the memory is still sharp, clear, as if it happened yesterday. I was the last one to see her alive, the last one to talk to her before everything went to hell. And I let her go. I knew something was wrong, that she wasn’t herself, but I let her go anyway.

I close my eyes, the memory flooding back with cruel precision.

She was standing in the foyer of the mansion, her coat draped over one arm, her keys clutched in her hand. I remember the way her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes darting toward the windows as if she couldn’t wait to leave.

“Elena,” I called from the bottom of the stairs. She turned, her smile forced, tight. “Where are you off to?”

“To my parents’ house,” she said lightly, too lightly. “I’m taking the kids for the weekend.”

Her parents. The Zhurovs. One of the most powerful families in the city, with a reach that extended far beyond the confines of Manhattan. They were allies in name, but their loyalty was always tenuous, tied to Elena’s marriage to Ivan. And Elena herself…she was the glue that held everything together.

Something about the way she said it struck me as off. “Are you okay?” I asked, stepping closer. “You seem…tense.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, brushing off my concern. “Just tired.”

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