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“So am I.”
“We’re not ready for a baby—and if we keep doing this—a baby is what we’re going to get.”
“Who says we’re not ready?”
I feel my mouth drop. Then I shove at his chest, trying to shove him out of me—away from me. “You are not ready for a baby! I am not ready.” I glare at him as I slide off the counter. “I don’t even know how I feel about you.”
He herds me to the shower with his back at my front. He’s hard again. I can feel his tip pressing insistently at my back as he stops us outside the glass. With one hand coming to plant itself at my lower belly, the other sets the water to hot.
When the steam begins to billow, he pushes me inside the glass and stone enclosure, his hands coming to mine at my sides, fingers linking through mine as he lifts my hands to place them on the wall in front of me.
He dips his head, speaking low into my ear. “You know perfectly well how you feel about me, wife. But you keep fighting it, so I’ll keep pushing into you again and again, until you admit it to yourself. Admit that you want me. That you crave me.” He leaves my hands there against the wall, dragging his down the length of my body to my hips, where he pulls my ass back to grind over his dick.
I moan.
He chuckles deep and low. “I’ll make you admit that you need me. I’ll show your body again and again that you can’t live without me inside you. And, eventually, you’ll be forced to admit what your heart already knows.”
“What’s that?”
Angling my ass back, Kirill positions his tip before he thrusts through the release of our last joining, rooting himself home inside me. He nips the lobe of my ear, earning a sharp cry that spills into the billowing steam.
And then he shakes me to the core. “That you’re in love with me.”
“No,” I lie. My wrecked heart falling to ruin at his feet.
He pulls out to slam home inside me again. I scream. He hooks his arm around me, forever his prisoner as he invades my body—imprinting himself into the very fabric that weaves my soul. “And, wife, I am in love with you.”
Thirty-One
Kirill
“I hear you got the cats.”
“Who did you hear that from?” I sit back in my chair, my eyes sliding to the clock on the wall of my office at Volk Vault Bank. It’s still early—too early to return home to my little wife. My already sour mood, sours more.
“You know Tatiana and Polina talk.” I grunt. He laughs. “Tatiana also tells Polina that you’re enjoying them.”
“I’ve been considering trying my hand at torture,” I say thoughtfully. “And that you would make excellent practice.”
“You don’t have the stomach for it.”
We both know that’s true. Stomach or not, we also know I’m no stranger to violence. I simply make a habit of making my kills quick.
Still, I say, “For you, I might just find the stomach.”
His chuckle drifts into a knowing sigh. “That bad?”
“The orange one never shuts up and the girl channels a demon every night between eleven and three, using my body to sharpen her claws.”
“It’s rare, but Lucifer does that sometimes.”
“At least he’s named accurately.”
Ilya pauses, then asks, “Does Ruby like them?”
“She loves them.” I sigh. “If she didn’t, I’d have fed them to Simba already.”
“What did she name them?”
