Page 48 of Devil’s Reign

Then it hits. Terror. It floods me, sharp and cold under the heat still coating my skin.

I'm not the same woman who walked into his room. He's carved himself into me, claimed me in a way I can't undo, and that terrifies me more than anything. Because I know I can’t have him.

I wanted him to fall for me, but I’m the one who ended up falling.

26

IVAN

I surface from sleep by degrees.

The first thing my brain registers is warmth, curved and pressed against me in a way that makes no sense at first. Then it catalogs the rest: the weight of a soft tit in my palm, the insistent pressure of my cock against a luscious ass, the mouthwatering scent of jasmine and smoke wrapping around me. I know who I’m holding before I’m fully awake. And my heart whispers her name before thought can catch up.

Melani.

My eyes snap open to a cloud of brunette hair. She’s fast asleep with her back tucked snugly against my chest, her head resting on my left arm—which seems to have gone numb.

Have we been like this all night? My left hand squeezes her tit on reflex, and she moans sleepily, pressing herself into my body even more. That small movement jolts me fully awake. The blood in my head rushes to my cock in one quick swoop. Fuck.

I release her tit and slowly extract myself from around her, carefully drawing out my right arm from beneath her head. The pins-and-needles sensation that follows is excruciating, but I barely notice. Jesus, I never cuddle with anyone. Ever.

I sit up and glance around, taking in the reality of what I’ve done. I definitely never bring women into my room—my sanctuary—and fuck them. That’s why I have another room two floors down, specifically for that purpose. Women have a habit of thinking they’re special when you bring them into your personal space. They start reading meaning into walls and furniture and the particular way the morning light hits your sheets, and then you have a problem on your hands that’s harder to get rid of than a business rival.

I know all of this. I’ve always known it. And yet… I look down at the woman in my bed. Wrong move. My breath fizzles out, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe as I watch her. Her eyes are closed, her face relaxed. She’s obviously still deep in sleep. But her lips—swollen from my mouth, from my cock—are curved in a faint, satisfied smile.

My cock stirs eagerly at the sight. With a low curse, I swing out of bed before I do something stupid—like wake her up by burying myself inside her again. Fuck me. I shouldn’t have let it get so out of hand last night. If she was under my skin before, she’s in my brain now—woven into the very chemistry that makes me tick. Dangerous. This is dangerous ground.

I give her my back and start towards the bathroom when my phone starts ringing. I lunge for my discarded pants, yanking the phone out and hitting end call before I’ve even registered the name on the screen. Then I switch it to silent mode, just in case. Heart pounding, I glance towards the bed and blow out a breath of relief when I see she’s still asleep. I woke her up enough last night; she must be exhausted.

My brows pull together as I realize what I just did. What the hell? I’m so fucked.

My phone vibrates in my hand, and I glance down at it with a scowl. Dimitri.

“What is it?” I snap, already moving towards the bathroom. I pull the door shut behind me and listen.

He’s silent for a beat, then, “Don’t tell me my call woke you?”

“I was already awake,” I bite out. “What do you want?”

Another pause, this one loaded with skepticism. “So you ended my first call while you were fully awake and aware?”

My jaw clenches at his question. He’s right to sound confused. I never end calls from my brothers, no matter the circumstances—not when I’m elbow-deep in a problem, not when I’m balls-deep in a woman, not when I’m dead asleep at three in the morning. In our line of business, a call from either of them could literally be the difference between life and death. And yet, I ended his call without a second thought—hell, I didn’t even check the caller ID before ending it. Because Melani’s sleep mattered more to me than anything else in that moment.

Fucked. Fucked. Fucked.

“What the hell do you want?” I growl. When he doesn’t answer immediately, irritation spikes. “I swear to God, if you don’t get to the point, I’m ending this call.”

“Well, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” Dima says flatly. “Turn on your TV.”

“Hold on.” I change course towards my closet and pull on a pair of sweatpants. Before I go, I steal one last glance at Melani. She’s migrated to my side of the bed, face buried in my pillow, one hand splayed out and patting around the mattress like she’s searching for me.

A weird melting sensation spreads through my chest—one I don't have language for and no intention of acquiring. Without thinking, I start walking back to the bed, my hand reaching for her—then I realize what I’m doing. I fist my hand mid-air, forcing it back to my side, then spin away from her and walk out of the bedroom without another glance back.

Fucked. Fucked. Fucked.

I try to shove the insistent mantra out of my head, and mostly succeed, but the echo lingers.

I may have claimed her last night, but she also claimed me. My hand drifts to my side, to the marks where her nails broke the skin as she came.