He pushes a second finger in and the world narrows to the heavy stretch of him. It’s a sting that blooms into a heat I wasn't prepared for. I’m so full I can’t breathe, every muscle in my body clenching around the intrusion of his skin.

  “Stop fighting it. You were made to take me.”

  He moves slow, making lazy circles. “I... it’s too much,” I bark into the mattress, my head thumping back against his shoulder.

  “It’s exactly enough,” Viktor grunts, his breath hot against my ear. “Stop overthinking and just feel how much of me you can take.”

  He adds a third finger. I gasp, my fingers clawing into the silk sheets. I can feel the shape of him inside me.

  “Relax.” He presses his forehead to the back of my head. “Take it.”

  I try. I fail. I try again. He lets me struggle for a moment, letting the frustration build until I’m the one pushing back against him, searching for the relief of his touch. When his fingers scissor me open, pleasure bursts inside me. My hips jerk back without thought. It’s a deep throb I’ve never felt before.

  “Viktor,” I gasp.

  He groans against my skin. “Say it again.” I shake my head, a low whine trapped in my throat. He curls his fingers. Pleasure hits so hard I shout into the mattress. The sounds coming out of me are foreign. I don't recognize my own voice. There’s no room for shame, only the desperate need for him to hit that spot again.

  My cock aches against my stomach. I can’t reach it. I can’t think. He pulls his fingers out and my body clenches at the loss. Then the head of his cock presses against me with pressure.

  “Oh God,” I whisper. “Fuck... it won't fit.”

  “It will fit perfectly. Take all of me, malysh.”

  I take a breath. My hands grip his shoulders until my nails sink into his skin. I begin to lower myself. The first inch is a stretch that makes my vision go dark. I shout, clawing at the sheets as my body screams at the displacement. I can see the sweat on his brow and the way his jaw locks, yet he doesn't slow down. I don't understand how he’s still moving with a hole in his side, but he’s pushing through the agony as if my surrender is the only thing keeping him alive.

  Viktor doesn't push. He stays perfectly still, letting me adjust to the burn. I’m shaking so hard I can barely stay upright.

  “Don't move,” I sob. “Just give me a second.”

  Viktor stays still. He lets me feel the scale of him. It’s a burning ache that shifts into a heavy throb. Inch by inch, he enters me. My insides feel stretched and compressed by his weight. I’m shaking so hard I can’t find my footing.

  “Don’t stop.” His hands clamp on my waist. “That’s it. You’re doing so fucking well. Most men would have broken, but you’re just getting hungrier.”

  I begin to lift, then sink. The drag of him is intense. Every time I sink back down, he hits a spot deep inside that makes my knees buckle. I’ve spent my life watching from the sidelines of my own body, but this is a total takeover. I can’t look away. I can’t pretend this isn't happening.

  “I’m going to stretch you until you can’t remember your own name,” he rasps. When his cock drags over that spot again, my knees go weak.

  “Oh, fuck.” I bite the blanket as the next thrust lands.

  “Let go.” His hand slides between my shoulder blades, pressing me down. “I want to hear you.”

  He changes the angle, hitting that same place again and again until my thoughts scatter. My body arches into him.

  “That’s right,” he growls. “Push back. Show me how much you need this.”

  Pressure builds fast, coiling sharp until I can’t hold anything in.

  “Come for me.” His hand clamps on my hip. “Do it.”

  The release hits me like a physical blow, violent and unprompted. I’m not even touching myself, but my body is reacting to the friction. My vision whites out. I can’t breathe. It’s a surrender I didn't give permission for.

  Hot cum spills across my stomach. Pleasure rips through me so hard I almost collapse. He keeps fucking me. His rhythm breaks. He groans, raw, then slams forward. His cock jerks inside me. I thrash as another shock hits. I feel the pulse of him deep inside me. I feel his heat.

  “Good boy. You took every inch of me. You’re perfect, Jonah. Exactly where I want you.”

  My legs shake. My arms give out. I fall into the mattress and he comes down over me. He’s anchored me to the bed with more than just his weight. I’m a prisoner of my own hunger, and I don't want to be set free. He is breathing hard. He pulls out and the emptiness hits ugly. I whine before I can swallow it. I look at the mess on the sheets. I didn’t just let him do it. I begged for it.

  He knows. He turns me onto my side and pulls me close. He parts my ass cheeks and slides his semi-hard cock back inside me. Lube and his cum make it easy. My body is still open for him. Relief knocks a sound out of my chest. The empty feeling vanishes. I feel centered. I feel grounded.

  “Sleep like this,” he murmurs, mouth brushing my neck. “On me. Around me. Let anyone watching think twice.”

  My body settles. I’m held, filled, and pinned in place. I shouldn’t crave the weight of him inside me, keeping me exactly where he wants me. But I do.

  The lock on the door doesn't matter anymore. He’s the only thing in this house that isn't trying to kill me, and I’m choosing to hide in the very fire that’s burning me.

  I should be planning an escape. But as I lie there, held in place by him, the only thing I feel is the silence. My old life is gone. There is only the heat of him, and the terrifying reality that I’m not trying to pull away.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  JONAH

  I didn't sleep much after last night.

  My body feels raw. Every shift is a reminder of what we did. Every breath pulls at places I didn't know could ache. Viktor fell asleep before I did, or maybe he only stilled. It's hard to tell with him. When I asked if he was hurting, he said no, but the strain in his voice made me doubt it. His bed is warm in a way I'm not used to. It makes it easy to stay beside him even after my heartbeat slows.

  I shouldn't get used to it. He's dangerous, and I'm just me. Someone who traded his freedom for a debt he didn't owe. My chest tightens when I think about the hospital. Would anyone even worry when I didn't show up?

  I get out of bed because thoughts of doubt and self-loathing are driving me crazy. The floor is warm underfoot, grounding in a way the mattress wasn't. Rawness stings the throat from sounds I didn't know I could make. One shoulder carries the imprint of where he held me, and a throb pulses through the lower back with every shift. Between the cheeks, there is a soreness I've never felt before. Every part of it happened because he wanted it. Skin can't forget a second of it.

  I stop at the piano by the window, press a key and listen to the note fade, then lift my head and take in Viktor’s room. Most of his furniture is arranged with care. A chair sits angled toward the window. A low table holds a glass, a book, and a folded jacket. I usually read a person by the state of their bedroom, but this one gives me nothing back. I suppose the same could be said of mine. My trailer stays neat, but only because I don't own enough to leave anything out of place.

  The gaze drops. The scrub top is gone, leaving ribs bare to show faint marks from his grip. One shoulder carries a thin line from his teeth. Nipples feel responsive when the air moves over them. It is hard to tell if the feeling in the stomach is fear or something else. His voice comes back, the way he said the name like he already knew what it would do. It is hateful to remember the sound of it. It is worse that the chest tightens when I do.

  I didn't mean to sound like that. I didn't mean to want it again.

  The thought lands heavy. I turn my head toward the bathroom. The shower's still running. Viktor hasn't called for help. I don't know if that means he's fine or just minding his own business. Now I'm panicking. He really shouldn't be moving alone. Not with fresh stitches and not after losing that much blood. The nurse in me snaps awake. He could tear the wound. He could be bracing himself against the sink right now, pretending the world isn't tilting.

  Suddenly, the lock turns. The door opens without warning. Sokolov steps in first, scanning the room before his gaze lands on me. Dr. Petrov follows. His attention moves over everything from the blanket to the marks on my ribs and the way I'm half-dressed and trying to stand straight.

  “Look at that. Our prince bounced back. Very nicely, in fact.” He comes closer. His eyes cut briefly toward the bathroom, then back to me. “You shouldn't even be upright,” he murmurs. “Not after whatever Viktor put you through.”

  My fingers tighten on the piano’s edge.

  “Careful.” Petrov lifts his medical case and sets it down with practiced precision. “If you faint, Viktor will assume I'm not looking after his nurse.”

  His palm rises and I flinch. Two fingers hook under my chin and tilt my face toward the light. He studies me like he's found a flaw. “Pretty,” he says. “That clears a few things up.”

  My breath stutters. I glance toward the bathroom, to where the water is still running.

  “What do you think he’d do,” Petrov murmurs. He doesn't let go of my jaw. His grip weights until it hurts. “If he walked out right now and saw you shaking like this?” His gaze flicks to the door. “He wouldn't stop to ask questions. He’d either tear the stitches open trying to get to you, or someone would get hurt. “Is that what you want?” he asks quietly. “To be the reason he loses control?”

  I shiver. “N—no.”

  “No.” He crouches, opens his case, and metal glints inside. “Come here. I’ll show you what he needs. Because him walking around alone isn't part of the plan.”

  A knot tightens in my chest. “What do you mean? I won't⁠—”

  “Sokolov.” He gestures without looking up.

  Sokolov's hand clamps my wrist. He yanks me forward and pulls me flush against his side. I feel the gun at his hip.

  “Closer,” Petrov murmurs. He reaches into his case and pulls out a syringe. The liquid inside sloshes with a thick viscosity. He shoves the plastic casing into my hand.

  “You're the nurse, Jonah. You know the dosage. You know how to find the vein. You're going to put him under, or Sokolov gets to find out how many of your ribs can break before you pass out. Viktor likes his toys soft, but I don't mind if you're broken.”

  I look at the needle, then at the bathroom door. My heart is slamming against my ribs. I can't do it. Won't do it. My grip fails, and the syringe slips from my trembling fingers, clattering onto the hardwood.

  Petrov snarls, snatching the syringe up. “Useless⁠—”

  “Khvatit.”

  Viktor's voice cuts through the room. He's in the bathroom doorway before I can breathe. Naked. Bleeding. The bear on his chest looks black under the lights. “Let him go.”

  Sokolov laughs. “Easy, prince. The boy is nothing.”

  Viktor hits him. The impact cracks through the room. He pays for it instantly with a hitch in his breath and a dark stain blooming through his bandage, but he doesn't look down. “I said,” he snarls, “let him go. You don't touch what's mine.”

  Sokolov crashes into the wall and slides down. Petrov snaps his fingers. “Guards.”

  The door bursts open. Viktor turns just as the first man reaches him, slamming an elbow back. Someone yells. Another lunges.

  He’s moving with a raw, desperate momentum that ignores the physical reality of his body, betting everything that they’re too afraid of his name to truly break him.

  “Get out of my room!” Viktor roars. A guard grabs his side and Viktor's breath hitches. He ignores the man and looks only at me.

  I step forward. “Don’t touch him!” I’m throwing myself in front of a monster, choosing his violence over their order.

  Someone shoves me back hard, sending me sprawling against the piano.

  “Jonah,” Viktor snaps. “Stay where you are.”

  I've never seen a fight like this. There's blood everywhere, men swearing, furniture breaking. Viktor swings his fists like pain doesn't exist. He isn't fighting to win. He's fighting to keep them away from me. But more men pile in. We're not going to win this.

  “Hold him,” Petrov says.

  Viktor stumbles and my stomach drops.

  “Stop, Viktor,” Sokolov pants. “You're not thinking straight.”

  Viktor turns on him, feral. “Say that again.”

  Three men grab him, then four. “Jonah,” Viktor shouts. “Don't move!”

  I'm shaking. Fear knots low in my stomach. Then Petrov steps in close. “Sedate him.”

  “No,” I say. “Please⁠—”

  Viktor bucks hard enough that two men stagger. “Jonah,” he snaps. “Stay the fuck away from him!”

  Petrov already has the syringe ready. “This is containment, Viktor. Nothing personal, young bear. You need to sleep until further notice.”

  The needle goes in.

  Viktor roars. His body jerks violently. It takes four men to pin him, their combined weight barely holding against the force of him.

  “Hold him. He needs to learn that he doesn't keep his toys when he is this weak.”

  They do. I watch as Viktor's strength starts to fail in uneven pulls. His breathing stutters. His head drops back.

  “Jonah,” he manages. “Stay⁠—”

  His legs give. They drag him to the bed and force him down. He struggles once more, furious, then stills. Petrov watches his chest, counting.

  “He's under. Take him back to bed.” He gives me a leery wink. “Stay by his side, pretty nurse.”

  Sokolov grins. “Check his stitches when he wakes up. If they aren't holding, it's on your head.”

  They leave. The door locks. Viktor lies still. I reach the bed and take his hand. His fingers twitch, then curl around mine. He's barely conscious but still holding on.

  “Stay,” he murmurs.

  My chest caves in. “I'm here.”

  I watch him finally go quiet. In some unexplainable way, I already miss him the moment his eyes slip shut. The room feels empty without the heat of his stare.

  They needed restraints, bodies in the doorway, and a syringe pressed into his neck. I sit there shaking, holding his hand, trying to breathe in a house that suddenly feels smaller.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  VIKTOR

  I didn't sleep much after last night.

  My body won't move right. My arms and legs feel slow, thick with heat like I've been lying here too long. The world is still a grey, sluggish blur from whatever Petrov pumped into me, but I force my body to move anyway, overriding the chemical fog with the singular need to see him break.

  I blink, exhausted before my eyes fully open. The ceiling blurs. A line of light cuts across it. I can't tell if it’s morning or if I lost a day. I curl my fingers into a fist. The movement lags. I'm still here. They didn't kill me.

  They should’ve killed me.

  Jonah lies on top of the blanket, curled toward me with his knees drawn up. His head is resting against my ribs. One hand is tucked near my stomach, gripping a folded cloth. He stayed close. He chose the heat of my bed over the safety of the chair across the room.

  The room smells different. Clean. The sharp trace of blood is gone. My skin feels stripped of grit, touched by water and cloth. I don't have to think long to understand what happened. He washed me while I was under. Changed the dressings. Kept working while the drugs shut me down.

  That should bother me. Instead, it registers as a fact. Something to file away. He couldn't leave, but he didn't stop either. According to my logic, that makes him mine.

  Settling my hand on his shoulder, I feel the muscle shift. He breathes against my ribs and curls in tighter before he wakes. Then his whole body goes rigid. His breath changes.

  “Vik...” He cuts himself off, eyes opening wide, a smile breaking through before he can stop it. “You’re awake. I thought you...”

  He pushes up too quickly, the blanket sliding off his shoulder to expose a strip of skin. My gaze locks on the curve of his shoulder before he can pull the tee back in place. His face colors as he scrambles upright. “Never mind. You’re awake. Good. Wait, there’s food. Let me get it for you.”

  He stands and crosses the room, then hesitates. His fingers flex over the tray before he picks it up.

  “They just brought this in earlier, but I didn't touch it. I thought maybe you’d need it first.” He sets the tray on the edge of the bed. “You want some coffee? Or maybe water first?”

  I look at what the guards sent up. There’s a basket of dark bread and thick slices of roast beef. A wedge of aged cheese with a heavy knife laid across it. Butter. Olives.

  I study him. “And you didn't eat any of this? You’re crazy, malysh.”

  He ducks his head, worrying his thumb along the tray edge. “You need it more than I do. So, I waited.”

  He stays where he is, propped on one elbow, eyes already back on the bandage with that narrow focus he gets when he works.

  “How long have I been out?”

  “More than two days. You were hard to wake.”

  Two days. Whatever the fuck they gave me was meant to keep me down. I take the bread first, then the cheese, eating without ceremony. It goes down fast. Jonah sits beside the bed, hands on his knees. His shoulders ease when he realizes I'm not going to put the tray down.

  I lift my chin toward what’s left. “Eat.”

  He obeys. He keeps his eyes on the tray, on the floor. Anywhere but me. When he finishes, he wipes his fingers and sits still again. He’s been hungry. I don't know why he chose to wait for me, but the debt of it settles heavy.

  Jonah’s gaze darts to the door, then back to me. “What do they want from you?”

  A short breath leaves me. “Well, my uncle Sergei wants me gone, because he's a son of a bitch. And he's onto something. I just haven't figured out what.”