Page 45 of Crimson Sin
“Do you know what this is?” I whisper in her ear. “It’s my kingdom. And I want every inch of it to know you’re mine.”
My hand slips between her thighs again, fingers parting her folds, slick and ready from the orgasm I already gave her. I thrust them inside, faster this time, harder, my palm slapping against her clit with every movement.
She cries out, her breath fogging the glass, her body arching helplessly against me. “Daniil—oh God?—”
“Louder,” I snarl, my teeth scraping her shoulder. “Let them hear you. Let the walls know who makes you scream like this.”
Her hips slam back against my hand, desperate, needy, as I work her mercilessly against the window. Her moans echo in the room, high and frantic, her nails scratching at the glass.
“Come again for me,” I growl, my hand moving at a relentless pace. “Do it. Now.”
Her body convulses, the orgasm tearing through her with brutal force. She screams my name, her voice shattering against the glass as she trembles violently, collapsing against the pane, slick and undone.
I hold her there, pressed against the window, my breath harsh in her ear. My hand lingers between her thighs, stroking her through the aftershocks until she’s shaking too hard to stand. Finally, I drag her back against my chest, my arm wrapped tightly around her waist. I kiss the mark I left on her throat, slow and possessive.
“My mark is on you now,” I whisper roughly with hunger and jealousy. “And if Viktor ever dares to look at you again, I’ll cut his eyes out.”
She shudders, her body still trembling in my arms, her answer a broken gasp of my name. And God help me, I’ve never wanted anyone more.
15
NAOMI
I wander the halls of Daniil's mansion, my footsteps soft yet echoing in my chest with the weight of unease. It has been almost two weeks since the attack, two weeks since I was pulled from one cage into another, though this one gleams with glass walls and iron security. The house feels less like a home and more like a fortress disguised in modern luxury. Every corner is sharp, every surface immaculate, and every door is a reminder that nothing here belongs to me.
Each morning, I wake in the guest bedroom, with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking manicured gardens that stretch to the lake beyond. The view is breathtaking, designed to soothe and impress, but I cannot forget the armed guards who patrol those pristine grounds like well-dressed shadows.
The kitchen is a marvel of modern design, all gleaming granite and stainless steel, staffed by a cook who prepares meals that rival five-star restaurants. Yet I find myself picking at plates of perfectly prepared salmon and asparagus, my appetite diminished by the suffocating atmosphere of orchestrated perfection.
Except one door bothers me more than all the others. It's tucked away at the far end of the east wing corridor, set in clean black wood with an antique brass handle that gleams like gold under the hallway lighting. Unlike the rest of the rooms, which open at my touch to reveal studies, libraries, sitting rooms, and guest suites, this one is locked. I tried it once, just casually, my hand grazing the knob as if I were searching for a bathroom. It didn't budge.
Daniil's voice had cut across the hall, low and sharp. “Not that room.”
He had appeared behind me like a ghost, silent in that way of his that makes my heart race with fear and excitement. His ice-gray eyes had fixed on my hand still resting on the brass handle, and for a moment, I saw a shadow of pain cross his face before the mask slipped back into place.
He hadn't explained. He hadn't needed to, because the finality in his tone warned me that pressing further was dangerous. But the more he denies me, the more curiosity gnaws at my insides like hunger. What could be so sacred, so private, that even in his own home, he keeps it locked away? What ghosts live behind that black door that he cannot bear to face, even alone?
I have theories, of course. Perhaps it's an office where he conducts the darkest aspects of his business, where blood money changes hands and death sentences are pronounced with the stroke of a pen. It could hold weapons, or documents that could topple governments, or photographs of his enemies marked for elimination. The possibilities spiral through my mind during the long hours when I have nothing to do but think, wonder, and imagine.
Tonight, I find myself standing before it again, drawn like a moth to flame. The light from the corridor chandelier glints against the brass, almost daring me to try it. I lean close, pressing my ear to the smooth wood as though the door might whisper secrets if I only listen hard enough. The silence beyond offers no clues to the mysteries within.What are you hiding, Daniil?
When I turn, he is there. Silent and imposing, a storm wrapped in a tailored suit. His dark hair is perfectly styled, even at this late hour, not a strand out of place, and his eyes seem to see straight through to my soul. His gaze cuts to the door, then to me, and I see his jaw tighten. A muscle jumps in his cheek, the only sign of emotion in that perfectly composed exterior.
“You enjoy testing boundaries,” he declares, his voice carrying that familiar undertone of authority that makes my spine straighten involuntarily.
My pulse jumps, heat flooding my face at being caught. “You could just tell me what's inside instead of acting like it's forbidden treasure.”
His mouth presses into a line, his lips thinning with displeasure. “It's private.”
“Everything in this house is private,” I reply, gesturing at the cameras I know watch from hidden corners. “I'm watched by cameras, followed by guards, and given no choices of my own. I can't leave, can't work except through a laptop that monitors every keystroke, and can't even choose what to eat for breakfast without someone anticipating my needs before I voice them. And yet this one door, the one thing you clearly don't want me near, has me wondering what you can't even admit to yourself.”
He steps closer, and suddenly the wide hallway feels cramped, the air thick with tension and the scent of his cologne threading between us like silk ribbons.
“Some truths destroy more than they protect, Naomi. Leave it.”
The words feel like a dismissal, like a door slamming in my face, but I can't let them go. The dismissal stings more than I want to admit. “If this marriage is just a performance, then what happens after? When the will is settled and Viktor is dealt with. Do I disappear? Do we go back to being strangers?”
His silence answers louder than words. He looks at me, unblinking, his jaw tight with some internal struggle. Those gray eyes search my face as though memorizing every feature, every freckle, every curve and hollow. I wait, my heart hammering against my ribs, praying for something that might give me hope. A promise. A denial. A single word that might indicate I mean more to him than a convenient solution to his inheritance problem.
