Page 60 of His Hold

“Yes, ohhh…Nik.” My eyes are half-hooded and heavy, satisfied, but I’m still trembling, still tethered to him.

“We’re not done yet, baby,” he says in a husky tone. I can see the need in his eyes. In his lips. In the way he holds me to him, like I’m his to break. “You’re gonna take my load, aren’t you? Gonna let me fuck you until you can’t think straight.”

“Wait—”

But he doesn’t. Instead, Nikolai continues his onslaught of my pussy, slamming hard against me every single time, his hand tightening around my neck until black spots dance in my vision. I’m feverish with need as he stretches me to accommodate his length, pounding me raw. Nothing about this is rehearsed, and when I glance back outside, the others are staring, and nobody is turning away. I’m supposed to be embarrassed. I’ve been embarrassed over a lot less, but suddenly, I feel powerful. Untethered. In love. Twisted and alive in the wreckage of us.

“Beg for it,” he rasps, his free hand digging into my hip. “Beg me to ruin you.”

“Please, Nik… ruin me,” I moan, my voice a fractured plea as my body arches into him, chasing the edge of oblivion. I’m so close to passing out, the air barely scraping through my lungs, but I want it—want him to push me until I shatter.

We come together, breathlessly, sweating, a mess of growls and cries. He kisses my neck as he comes, his teeth sinking into my skin, marking me as his, and then, out of the blue, he does something unexpected. He tells me he loves me.

“I didn’t think I’d ever be able to say this or feel this way about someone. But I do. I am in love with you, Katya Yasenev. Completely.” His voice is rough, spent, but it’s never sounded more beautiful.

I kiss him with everything I am—my lips crashing into his, tasting the tears, the sweat, the salt, the madness tangled between us.

Chapter 18

Nikolai

People say life is a straight line from birth to death, a path laid out by the choices we make. But that’s bullshit. Life is a mess of jumbled gossamers, fraying and knotting until you can’t tell which end leads anywhere.

We trip, scratch, and scorch our way through, chasing whatever purpose we think we deserve. Influence. Money. Love. Amity. Most of us die before we even find it.

I never cared about all of that but survival. Only to feel the rush I get from when a gun is in my hand and the simplicity of violence. But Katya... she’s a thread I can’t cut loose. I’d tear the whole world apart before I let her be swallowed by it.

And that’s all I think about as I drive toward the ambush point. I stare down the empty stretch of road, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. The dirt path cuts through nowhere—just trees and more trees on either side.

The road stretches out in front of us, a narrow, icy ribbon cutting through dead trees. The place is perfect for an ambush. Remote. Desolate. No backup coming for miles.

Pavel and Ivan hunker down in the brush twenty meters ahead, six others positioned further back. Nine of us against Roman’s crew. Not great odds, but enough.

“He’s coming,” I mutter into the radio. “Two minutes.”

Kirill wanted this done yesterday. I just want it over with. Five years of Roman Druzhinin’s shadow hanging over everything—Katya most of all. Time to end it.

The rumble of engines breaks the stillness. Two black SUVs approach, kicking up dust. Something’s off. There should be one vehicle, according to our intel.

“Stay sharp,” I warn the others. “Something’s not right.”

The vehicles slow as they reach the narrowest part of the road. I count three seconds, then hit the detonator.

The road erupts in front of the lead SUV, sending it careening into a ditch. Immediately, gunfire erupts from the second vehicle.

Chaos unfolds. Gunfire echoes in the stillness, sharp and brutal. Men scream. Metal shreds. Blood splatters. I fire from behind cover, picking off Roman’s men like they’re nothing but prey.

They fight back hard. Bodies hit the snow, twitching, crimson spreading over white. But the bastard came prepared. My own men fall too, their lifeless bodies crumpling like discarded trash.

They were ready. Too ready.

“We’ve been made!” I shout, ducking behind my car door as bullets ping off metal.

Roman’s men pour from both vehicles—at least eight of them, all armed to the teeth. Pavel drops two before they spot him, but then one of Roman’s guys puts a bullet in his shoulder.

“We’ve got a mole,” I realize, catching sight of Roman himself crouched behind an open door, barking orders. Someone told him we’d be here.

The next minutes blur into chaos. Gunshots echo through the trees. I take down three men, moving from cover to cover. Ivan falls, a red hole punched through his chest. Ivan takes one in the leg but keeps firing.

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