Page 30 of Crimson Curse
Several of thevorsexchange glances, their expressions recalculating once again. The silver-haired man strokes his jawthoughtfully. The ambitious lieutenant's smirk has disappeared entirely, replaced by a hint of respect, or at least serious consideration.
Daniil still hasn't spoken, but his presence at my side is an answer in itself. For the first time since I've met him, he doesn't step in to shield me from his world. He doesn't move to cut me out of the conversation or redirect their attention back to himself. He lets them see me here, standing beside him, part of whatever comes next.
The meeting continues for another twenty minutes, but the atmosphere has fundamentally changed. When discussions turn to specific operational details, I step back, knowing my limits and respecting them. But the men continue to glance at me, measuring, evaluating, and adjusting their understanding of who I am and what I represent.
When the gathering finally breaks, thevorsfile out in small groups, their conversations subdued but intense. I pick up fragments in Russian, tones ranging from curious to skeptical to approval. The silver-haired man pauses beside Daniil, his weathered face serious.
“Your woman has steel in her spine,” he remarks in accented English, clearly intending for me to understand. “That is... unexpected.”
After he leaves, the ambitious lieutenant approaches. His earlier mockery has been replaced by wariness mixed with grudging respect. “You surprised me,devushka,” he admits. “I expected soft words and pretty tears. Instead...” He shrugs, but there's acknowledgment in the gesture.
Finally, the heavy doors close behind the last of them, leaving just Daniil and me in the empty room. The air still carries traces of their presence, cologne and tobacco, tension and testosterone, but now it feels different. Calmer, somehow. Settled.
Daniil's office is only a few steps away through a connecting door, but he doesn't move. Instead, he studies me with those pale eyes that miss nothing, his expression unreadable as always.
I lean back against the table, needing the solid wood for support as adrenaline slowly ebbs from my system. The magnitude of what just happened is starting to sink in. Not just my unprecedented appearance at a Bratva council meeting, but the way Daniil let me stay. The way he let them see us together.
“You're letting them see us,” I finally manage, my voice softer now that we're alone. “Why now?”
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he studies me with an intensity that makes my breath catch, his pale eyes tracking over my face as if memorizing every detail. When he does move, it's with that fluid grace that always reminds me how dangerous he truly is.
“Because they need to know who I'd kill for,” he responds simply.
The words steal the air from my lungs and send my heart hammering against my ribs. There's no hesitation in his voice, no uncertainty. Just brutal, honest truth that cuts through every pretense we've maintained.
I can't look away from him, can't breathe properly, can't process the full implications of what he's just admitted. Not just that he would kill for me, but that he wants every one of his men to knowit. He's claiming me publicly, acknowledging what I mean to him in front of the most dangerous men in Chicago.
When his hands come to my waist, pulling me into him, there's no pause. The kiss starts out slowly, as if Daniil is taking his time to show me how he feels. But as the seconds pass, he becomes impatient.
His tongue lashes at mine, and when his teeth tug at my bottom lip, his hand moves away from my face, and suddenly, the kiss ends.
“You stood beside me,” he murmurs, his voice rougher than I've ever heard it. “Not behind me. Beside me.”
His hands slide up my sides, fingers trailing fire through the silk of my blouse. When he reaches the buttons, he pauses, his eyes finding mine in silent question. The answer is in my kiss, desperate and demanding, my hands already working at his shirt buttons with trembling fingers.
The fabric falls away, revealing the powerful lines of his chest and the intricate tattoos that tell the story of his life in permanent ink. I trace the elaborate designs with my fingertips, feeling the muscles flex beneath my touch, hearing his sharp intake of breath when I find a particularly sensitive spot.
He lifts me onto the table in one smooth motion, his strength effortless and intoxicating. Papers scatter to the floor, but neither of us cares. His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking across my cheekbones as he looks at me with an expression that is fierce yet completely undone.
“You're mine, Naomi,” he whispers against my lips, and there's no possessiveness in it, no domination. Just recognition andtruth. “Not because I protect you. Because you stand with me, as my wife.”
I don't answer with words. Instead, I show him, my hands sliding over the broad expanse of his shoulders, down the corded muscles of his back, mapping every scar and hollow. He's letting me see him, really see him, for the first time, and it's more intoxicating than any drug.
When his mouth finds mine again, it's with a desperate hunger that matches my own. His hands make quick work of my remaining clothes, reverent but urgent, as if he's afraid this moment might disappear if he doesn't claim it completely. When skin meets skin, we both gasp at the contact, at the perfection of finally having nothing between us but truth.
His hands part my thighs, and his mouth trails searing heat along the inside of my leg. A low, hungry sound rumbles from him a heartbeat before his tongue finds my clit. The shock of sensation makes me jerk against the table, my breath breaking into a gasp as he licks and sucks with unrelenting focus, as though I am the sweetest thing he has ever tasted.
Without warning, he lifts me and turns me with absolute strength. My chest presses against the cool surface of the table, my ass tipped high for him. His palm grips me firmly, kneading once before he eases my legs wider. I brace myself on trembling arms, my pulse rushing in my ears, as his hand slides between my thighs. A finger thrusts into me, slick and demanding, making me moan as heat pools low in my belly.
“You’re drenched for me, kiska,” he murmurs against my ear, the rough velvet of his voice wrapping around me like a promise.
A second finger pushes into me, curling with every stroke until sparks scatter behind my eyes. My body arches, trembling as the pleasure builds higher and higher. He drives me toward release, his pace quickening, his mouth tracing heated kisses down the length of my spine. Just as I’m about to fall apart, he withdraws, leaving me gasping, only to seize my hips and haul me back against his chest.
My ass collides with the hard ridge of his cock, his impatience vibrating through him as he positions himself. In one fierce, unrelenting thrust, he buries himself inside me. A cry tears from my throat at the sudden, overwhelming fullness.
“Yes,” he growls, his voice rough and commanding. “Take every inch of me.”
His arm clamps tight around my waist, holding me flush against him while he drives into me again. The rhythm he sets is deliberate, slow, and punishingly deep, each thrust stealing my breath. My breasts bounce in time with his movements, the ache and ecstasy twisting together until I can only cling to him, lost in the raw possession of his body claiming mine.
