Page 97 of Fierce Pursuit

But it was never about Kostya. It was about Veronika’s need for control, her refusal to be caged. She had been willing to burn everything down to keep from feeling owned.

And yet, she had missed out on an incredible man.

A man I had taken for myself.

“Tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours,” he demanded.

I exhaled shakily. “I always thought I was better than Veronika. That I held some moral high ground because I never made the choices she did. But I was wrong.”

His brow furrowed. “Why?”

My voice cracked, and I hated myself for it. “Because I just slept with her husband.”

Kostya moved toward me, and I recoiled before I couldstop myself. He froze. A flicker of something dangerous flashed in his expression—anger, hurt.

It terrified me.

And yet, I still wanted him.

I stood and walked over to the window, pulling the robe tighter around me and staring out at the city spread beneath us. In the distance, Central Park burned in autumn’s colors, the people below going about their usual lives. I envied them, the ones who could hold hands without consequence, who could love without the weight of sin pressing down on their chests.

“You know that’s not the relationship Veronika and I had,” he said, his voice a shade softer.

He was closer now. Close enough I could feel his heat, but he didn’t touch me.

I was grateful for that.

And I ached for it.

“She never loved me, Marina.”

I closed my eyes, forcing down the tears. “But you were married.”

“So what?” he bit out. “It was never real. And she’s?—”

He cut himself off before saying it. Dead. She was dead. Murdered.

I shook my head. It didn’t matter. It didn’t erase the truth.

He exhaled sharply. “Marina.” This time, my name was a plea.

I should have walked away. I should have turned my back on him, on this, on us, before I destroyed what little of myself I had left.

Instead, I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He studied me for a long moment then, without warning, scooped me up into his arms.

I gasped, my body tensing, but he didn’t speak.

He carried me to the bedroom and laid me down, tucking the blankets around me with a care that sent fresh guilt tearing through my ribs.

His fingers brushed over my forehead, a barely there touch.

“This isn’t over,” he murmured.

And then he left, shutting the door behind him.

I lay in the dark, my body aching for something I could never have, and tried not to think about the way his touch still lingered on my skin.

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