Page 39 of The Enforcer's Vow
The orgasm takes me in one long, brutal surge, tightening around his cock with a force that robs me of air. I can’t move, can’t breathe—every muscle locks down as heat spreads through my spine and rushes outward. The sound that leaves me isn’t controlled. It’s broken, desperate, torn from someplace deeper than reason. I dig my nails into his shoulders, holding on only because I have no other anchor. Each pulse drags another wave through me, thick and hot and blinding. I feel stretched, claimed, undone completely. It doesn’t ease. It keeps coming, wave after wave, until I’m raw and trembling beneath him.
When his grip loosens and oxygen floods my lungs, I feel him flood me.
He thrusts once more and stays buried, cock pulsing as he comes. I feel every surge of release, thick and hot inside me. My muscles clamp down around him, drawn tight by aftershocks I can’t control. His chest presses to mine, each breath heavy and uneven. My legs remain hooked at his waist. The sheets lie twisted under my back, damp with sweat. My thighs ache from how tightly they’ve locked around him. I don’t move. I stay open, full, stretched to the edge of what I can take. My pulse hammers through every inch of me, and the air smells like him.
The room is quiet except for the sound of our breathing gradually returning to normal. He traces lazy patterns on my bare shoulder, and I close my eyes, letting myself pretend this is simple.
His hand moves to my hair, fingers combing through the dark strands. "I can't wait to make you my wife," he says, his voice soft in the darkness.
The words make my throat tighten. Tomorrow's wedding feels suddenly real, suddenly loaded with possibilities I hadn't considered. I press my face against his chest, hiding my expression, and try to remember why I'm here. Damir. Protection. Making Maksim care enough about me to spare my brother's life.
But with Maksim's arms around me and his heartbeat steady under my ear, those reasons feel tangled up with other things I don't want to name.
"Are you okay?" he asks, and I realize I've been quiet too long.
"Just thinking about tomorrow." I lift my head to look at him. "It's a lot."
"We'll get through it together." He cups my face in his hands, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones. "I promise."
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest ache. I want to believe him, want to trust that this feeling between us is real. But I know better than to trust feelings, especially when they're this strong and this dangerous.
When he's not looking, I press a hand to my stomach. The gesture is automatic, protective, and it reminds me of the secret I'm carrying. The one that changes everything, even if I'm not ready to face it yet. I'm pregnant with Maksim's baby.
The realization should terrify me, should make me run, should make me end this before it gets any more complicated. But lying here in his arms, feeling safe for the first time in weeks, I can't bring myself to move.
Maybe this is better. Maybe carrying his child will make him see me as family, make him want to protect what's mine. Maybe tomorrow's wedding will mean more than I planned.
"Get some sleep," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
I close my eyes and let myself sink into the warmth of his embrace, a place I shouldn’t feel safe at all. A place I’ve been warned is dangerous, but it’s also a place where I feel like I’ve found something I’ve never had before, but something I’ve always wanted. Tomorrow, I'll marry a man I've been trying to manipulate. Tomorrow, I'll smile and play the part of the blushing bride while hoping that becoming his wife will save my brother's life.
But tonight, I can let myself want this. Tonight, I can let myself believe that when he says he can't wait to make me his wife, he means it.
Even if I'm not sure anymore whether I'm playing him or playing myself.
16
MAKSIM
The Nevsky Hotel rooftop transforms into a cathedral of power and money. White flowers cascade from wrought iron arches, and candles flicker in glass hurricanes despite the afternoon hour. Every detail screams expense and taste, from the imported marble aisle runner to the string quartet positioned near the bar. The guests arrive in waves—men in Italian suits with their wives draped in jewelry that costs more than most people's homes.
I stand at the altar wearing the same charcoal suit I reserve for funerals, watching familiar faces fill the chairs. Rolan sits in the front row, his expression unreadable behind dark glasses. Vadim and Renat flank him, their presence more security than sentiment. The photographer circles the perimeter, capturing every angle, every guest, every moment that will prove this union happened.
The music shifts to announce the bride's entrance. Conversations die as heads turn toward the double doors at the back of the space. When Zoya appears, the collective intake of breath from the assembled crowd is audible.
She moves down the aisle with the controlled grace of someone who knows she's being watched. The dress is simple—white silk that skims her body without clinging, long sleeves that cover her arms, a neckline that reveals nothing. Her dark hair is swept up in a style that shows off her neck and the delicate bones of her face. She carries no bouquet, wears no veil, needs no adornment beyond her own stark beauty.
But it's her expression that commands attention. Calm, poised, almost regal. She doesn't smile or lower her eyes or play the blushing bride. Instead, she looks directly at me as she approaches, her hazel eyes steady and assessing. The woman walking toward me could be negotiating a business deal or accepting a crown.
When she reaches the altar, she takes my offered hand without hesitation. Her fingers are cool, steady, and I feel the slight callus on her ring finger where she once wore different jewelry. The officiant begins the ceremony, but I barely hear the words. My attention stays fixed on Zoya's face, searching for cracks in her composure.
"Do you, Maksim Vetrov, take Zoya Mirova to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
The question cuts through my distraction. I look into her eyes and see something flicker there—uncertainty, maybe, or hope. When I speak, my voice carries across the rooftop with absolute clarity.
"I do."
The words taste real on my tongue. Not the hollow promise of a strategic marriage, but something deeper, more binding. The realization should concern me, but instead it settles in my chest with the weight of certainty.
