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I braced myself on the doorframe, sucking in a breath as another sharp ripple of soreness rolled through me. I hated how my body reacted just thinking about him. How a hot flush crept up my neck, how my damn dick twitched like it remembered being humiliated and loving it. Hated even more the memory of that kiss, the way it had softened something in me I’d kept locked down for years.

Yuriy kissed like he left claims on a man’s soul.

The bathroom lights flicked on, too bright. I had no choice but to confront my reflection in the mirror—hair a wreck, cheeks red from where he’d slapped me, body covered in Yuriy’s marks, pupils blown like I was still drunk on him.

“Idiot,” I muttered at the mirror. “You’re a fucking idiot, Stanislav.”

But even as I cursed myself, his voice echoed in my head, the low rasp of Stanislav, the filthy praise juxtaposed with the degradation, the soft kiss that contradicted all of it.

The son of a bitch was impossible to predict. Had me spiraling at just the thought of him putting his hands on anyone else.

I peeled off the sheet that still clung to my leg and hissed at the sting deep inside. The blood, the soreness, the bruises along my hips…

Yeah, I’d gotten thoroughly fucked in the ass. But I’d also felt wanted. So wanted I still felt his hands mapping me. So wanted that some weak, traitorous part of me wanted him back in this room. A shiver ran down my spine as I braced against the sink.

A sharp knock on the door startled me. Pain lanced up my spine as Yuriy entered the bathroom.

“Jesus, fuck,” I hissed.

“Stas!” Yuriy’s voice cracked like he’d walked in on a murder scene. “Are you okay?”

He crossed the room in three long strides, the robe half-open, and his hair falling from a careless bun. His entire expression shifted.

Not smug.

Not playful.

Not even his usual too-pretty arrogance.

Was he worried about me?

“Stas.” His voice dropped, low and serious. “I saw the sheet. How bad is it? Do you want me to take you to a doctor?”

I let out a dry laugh. “So you can brag that you broke my ass? Isn’t your ego already big enough? No, thanks.”

His jaw tightened. A real scowl, not the fake dramatic one he used when fishing for a reaction.

“Stanislav.” He used my full name, which always made my stomach dip. “I’m being serious.”

I winced as I moved my weight to my other foot. “You may be hung like a horse, but I’m not made of glass.”

He didn’t look convinced.

I pushed on, partly because it was true, partly because his concern made something stupid and warm flutter in my chest. “I’ll be fine, Orlov. I need a shower and then… at least twelve more hours of sleep, and I’ll recuperate just fine, but we need to go home soon. Yelena’s probably worried we didn’t come back last night.”

“I already took care of it.” Yuriy waved a hand. “Sent them a message from your phone.”

I snapped my head up. “You touched my phone?”

“You were sleeping like the dead from all that good loving you got last night, and it would have been cruel to wake you.” His smirk came back, sharp and wicked. “The kids are just thrilled we aren’t trying to kill each other.”

I rubbed at a purplish mark on my chest, one of Yuriy’s more enthusiastic signatures. “Pretty damn sure when they begged us to stop trying to murder each other, they didn’t mean ‘go rail your brother’s father-in-law who happens to be your rival into next week.’ Doubt that was the intended family bonding exercise.”

He paused.

Then grinned like he’d just solved a puzzle. “Hey. Was that a joke? Looks like I’m rubbing off on you.”

I groaned. “Look at the state I’m in. I’d say you rubbed off on me… in me… and I’m suffering for it.”