Page 31 of Crimson Curse
Each thrust slams deep, the sound of our bodies meeting echoing through the room. He buries his face in my neck, his teeth grazing my skin, and a growl rumbling low in his throat like a warning.
“You’re mine,” he snarls against my ear, the words a vow and a threat all at once. His hand slides up, closing firmly around my throat, not to choke but to remind me of his control. The pressure sends a hot rush of need spiraling through me, my body clenching around him.
He pounds into me harder now, abandoning restraint, his pace feral and relentless. My nails dig into his arm, my cries spilling out with every thrust, but he only growls with approval, each sound from me feeding his hunger.
“Feel that?” he demands, his voice rough, his cock driving into me with punishing force. “No one else will ever have you like this. No one else will ever make you come the way I do.”
The words send me spiraling closer to the edge, my body trembling, my release building with a desperate urgency. He feels it, senses it, and his hand abandons my throat to slide down and circle my clit in rough, insistent strokes.
“Come for me,” he commands, his breath hot and harsh in my ear. “Now.”
The second his fingers work over my clit, my body seizes. The tension inside me snaps, and my release tears through me in a shuddering wave. My scream rips free, muffled only by his hand clamping over my mouth, his growl vibrating against my skin as he holds me captive to the storm crashing through me.
I convulse around him, gripping him so tight that he curses low against my ear. His thrusts grow ragged, deeper, faster, as if he’s fighting not to lose himself too soon. My body milks him with every pulse of pleasure, dragging him closer to his own breaking point.
“Fuck…,” he snarls, his teeth sinking lightly into my shoulder as his rhythm falters. The edge of control slips from him, and with one final thrust, he slams deep inside me and lets go.
He shudders violently against my back, his cock pulsing as he spills into me. His growls break into raw, guttural sounds that shake through both of us, his release claiming him as brutallyas mine just claimed me. He clutches me tighter, as if I might disappear, his hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise while the other stays locked around my waist, keeping me bound to him until the last tremor leaves his body.
For a long moment, we are nothing but sweat and ragged breaths, bound together in the raw truth of what just happened. Possession, surrender, and the unshakable reality that he owns me in every way that matters.
When his hold loosens, it is not abrupt but reverent, as if he is reluctant to let me go. He gathers me up, dresses me with steady hands, and carries me upstairs. In the sanctuary of our bedroom, he turns on the shower. Steam rises as he guides me beneath the spray, the heat soothing the ache in my body. Daniil takes his time, sliding his palms over my skin, lathering soap with care. It’s unhurried, almost worshipful. When I return the touch, running my hands over his body, the intimacy is deeper than anything we did on the table downstairs. This is not just desire. This is devotion.
Standing there with him, water cascading over us, I feel it hit me hard. My love for him roots deeper than I thought possible. The swell of emotion is almost overwhelming, but I don’t fight it. I let myself drown in it.
When we’re clean, he twists the knobs and the water fades. He takes a towel and dries me gently, each stroke careful, his gaze lingering on me as though I am a delicate treasure he intends to guard. My eyes trace the hard lines of his chest and the water dripping down his abs before he wraps me snugly in the towel. Only then does he tend to himself, efficient but patient, always aware of me watching him.
We slip into bed, and the world is reduced to the warmth of sheets and the solid strength of his body curling around mine. His arm anchors me, heavy and protective, his breath brushing my hair. And I know with bone-deep certainty that whatever comes next, whether threats, betrayal, or war, the Bratva has seen us tonight. They saw me stand beside theirpakhan, undaunted. They saw him claim me publicly and absolutely.
There is no more hiding. No more pretending. For better or worse, we are bound together, and every faction in Chicago’s underworld knows it.
His lips press to my temple. “Let them look. Let them whisper. None of it matters. You’re mine, Naomi. My wife. My queen. And nothing, not the Bratva, our enemies, or fate itself will ever take you from me.”
My heart twists, fierce and full. I turn in his arms, my hand pressed to his chest, and whisper back the only truth that matters. “And you are mine, Daniil. Always.”
12
DANIIL
It has been three days since the attack on the shipping hub. Three days of keeping my men sharp, the routes guarded, and every shipment accounted for. I know Lucien's rhythm now. He hits hard, then steps back just long enough for you to think you've caught your breath and can plan a counterattack before he moves again. The next strike isn't loud. It's worse.
My phone vibrates against my desk, the sound cutting through the silence of my office. The number belongs to one of my contacts inside the museum, a man who's been feeding me information about security protocols and exhibition schedules for the better part of two years. His voice comes through tight, strained in a way that tells me this call will add to the stress of the last seventy-two hours.
“The reliquary's gone.”
For a second, I think he means damaged, broken during some clumsy security check or unfortunate accident. Museum pieces are fragile things, ancient and delicate, and accidents happen even in the most controlled environments. Then he clarifies, and the bottom drops out of my world.
“The case is intact, alarms never tripped, cameras show nothing. One moment it's there, the next, it's gone.”
The Byzantine reliquary. The centerpiece of Naomi's exhibition, the artifact she fought for months to bring to Chicago. I remember the late nights she spent writing proposals, the heated phone calls with committees that didn't understand the significance of what she was trying to accomplish. She built her entire exhibit and around that piece, structured every other display to complement its presence, and tell the story of cultural restoration and preservation that meant everything to her professional reputation.
It wasn't just gold and enamel work, or another pretty object for tourists to photograph through protective glass. It was history stitched together after centuries of fracture, a symbol of restoration that survived wars, theft, and the steady erosion of time. A symbol of survival and healing that spoke to something deeper than academic interest or cultural appreciation.
And Viktor knew exactly what it meant to her.
I can see the path already and trace the lines of connection like following blood through snow. Viktor feeds Lucien every detail, what the piece represents to Naomi personally, when the security rotations change, and which guards might be willing to look the other way for the right price. Viktor picks the target, and Lucien delivers the cut, making sure it goes deep enough to leave permanent damage.
“I'll handle it,” I tell my contact and hang up.
