Page 101 of His Forced Bride
His grip tightens.
"You're protected now."
"I need to feel protected, Yuri."
It is painfully vulnerable for me to say it, but it has to be said.
"I need to know that someone will fight for what I've built, for the people who depend on me."
"I will."
His voice rumbles beneath my cheek.
"I am."
I lift my head to look at him.
His eyes are dark, tired, but heat burns there too.
Heat that's been building between us since our wedding night, the pull I've been fighting since he first touched me.
This man is a killer.
He tortured people today, probably with his own hands.
He's ruthless, cold, capable of unspeakable violence.
And I'm grateful for it.
I'm drawn to it.
"You belong with me now," he says quietly.
"Not because of contracts or alliances. Because I want you."
I press closer, my hand flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath my palm.
He belongs to me too, I realize.
My mind wars with itself.
The rational part screams at me to distance myself, perhaps find my mother and get her help, but his closeness pulls me in.
I curl into him completely, my face buried in the curve of his neck.
His warmth surrounds me as he holds me.
This is the paradox of Yuri Gravitch—capable of extreme violence and unexpected tenderness, often within the same hour.
"Stay," I whisper.
"I'm not going anywhere."
His hand moves to my hair, fingers threading through dark strands, his touch so gentle, so careful, completely at odds with the blood I saw under his nails earlier.
Two sides of the same man—destroyer and protector, killer and husband.
I close my eyes and let myself sink into his strength, allowing myself to acknowledge what I haven't been ready to admit.
