Page 61 of Fierce Pursuit

I might have given Veronika her freedom, but I’d bury anyone who tried to take Marina from me.

Marina’s breath caught as she stared past me, her gaze unfocused, lost. The reality of what had just happened was sinking in, piece by damning piece.

Her eyes locked on the window.

I followed her stare and saw it. Her handprint, smeared on the fogged-up glass.

Like thatTitanicmovie. How fitting.The thought slashed through me, sharp and bitter. Two people caught in a moment of reckless passion, leaving proof of their sins behind. Except there were no doomed lovers here, just the wreckage of a past neither of us could escape.

“This is so wrong,” Marina whispered, her voice raw, her fingers combing through her already-mussed hair. Her hands dropped to smooth over her middle in an attempt to cover herself. As if that changed anything.

“She was my sister, and?—”

God, I wanted to tell her. Wanted to rip the illusion from her grip and show her the truth. That Veronika had never really been my wife in anything but name only. That we were strangers under the same roof, two peoplebound by duty and contract, never by love. But I couldn’t say it.

Not when Veronika was gone. Not when she wasn’t here to defend herself. Whatever she’d been—reckless, selfish, lost—she was still Marina’s sister.

“Marina,” I murmured, reaching up to trace my fingers along her jaw, brushing over the soft skin. For the briefest second, she leaned into my palm, her lashes fluttering closed.

Then, just as quickly, she pulled away.

Her expression hardened. “Why?” she demanded, her voice trembling with anger, shame…and something else neither of us wanted to name. “Why would you do this?”

So many reasons.

Because I’d wanted her from the moment I laid eyes on her.

Because every time she walked into a room, I fucking felt it crackling under my skin, burning through my restraint.

Because no matter what she wore, whether it was a silk dress or jeans and a T-shirt, I could only ever picture her like this. Naked. Pinned beneath me. Mine.

Because she was the only woman who had ever fought me, and I loved it.

She had made me chase her. Across the city. Across continents. She had built a life for herself with nothing but grit and defiance, surviving in a world that should have swallowed her whole.

And when she fought me in her bedroom, trying to resist what we both knew was inevitable, I hadn’t felt rage. I’d felt fucking pride.

I couldn’t tell her any of that.

So I gave her the simplest, ugliest truth.

“I wanted you,” I said. “You wanted me too. So I took you.”

My gaze trailed over her, zeroing in on the belt next to her on the bed.

Her eyes followed mine, and I caught the moment realization hit, the way her cheeks burned, her breath stuttered.

That belt was my new favorite.

I’d never look at it again without remembering how beautifully pink her delicate skin had turned, the way her cries of pain had been laced with want. How her body had betrayed her, trembling, aching, soaking wet even as she fought against it.

“Tell me you didn’t like it,” I murmured, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. My fingers lingered for a beat longer than they should have, and she stiffened beneath my touch.

“Lie to me,” I pressed, my voice a low command. “Tell me you didn’t come on my cock over and over. Tell me you don’t want to do it again.”

Her gaze snapped back to mine, wild and sharp, her lips parting as if she were about to say something. Then she shook her head, clearing the thought.

“Fuck you,” she spat, shoving at my chest as if she could erase what had just happened.

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