Page 21 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

Nothing.

Try again. Still nothing.

No movement. No hiss. No sweet click of escape.

Vasiliy found the old triggers. Changed them. Blocked the exits. Because of course he did.

Footsteps stop outside the door.

And then?—

It slams open.

Vasiliy fills the threshold like a storm about to break. His presence swallows the room, fury radiating off him in heatwaves, thick enough to choke.

I freeze, fingers still hovering near the drawer.

His eyes lock on mine, and in that breathless space between heartbeats, the game changes.

I might not make it out of this room whole.

He doesn’t speak.

He moves.

Three strides, and I’m caged between him and the wall, my back slamming into the cool paneling, breath stolen from my lungs. His hands grip my waist, strong and merciless, lifting melike I weigh nothing. My heels lose contact with the floor. Then his hips slam into mine—heat, pressure, command—pinning me in place with nothing but his body and the sheer will behind it.

And then his mouth is on me.

It’s not a kiss—it’s a claiming. A punishment. A war cry dressed as intimacy.

Teeth scrape. Tongue invades. It’s too much and not enough, wild and desperate and so brutallyhimthat my mind blanks, wiped clean of everything but the taste of Vasiliy Volkov.

I moan into his mouth, humiliated by the sound, by the way my body arches into his like it’s remembering what my brain is trying so hard to forget. My hands find his shoulders, curl into the thick muscle there, holding on like he might let me fall when we both know he won’t.

He devours me.

Every pass of his tongue reminds me of that night—of Moscow, of marble and madness and my body bent beneath his. The kiss deepens, turns cruel, and my blood ignites.

He pulls back just enough to breathe. “Lisichka,” he growls, low and rough, and it nearly unravels me.

I hate that name. I hate that I love it on his lips.

My heart slams against my ribs. My thoughts scatter. The rational part of me begs for distance. But my body?

My body wants war.

God help me, I want him to take me right here—against this wall, on his desk, on the floor—I don’t care. I want to feel the brutality of his desire carved into my skin. I want him to mark me, wreck me,ownme.

And I despise myself for it.

The calm I walked in with has shattered completely. All I know is the weight of his body pressing into mine, his breath hot at my ear, his cock hard against my stomach like a loaded weapon with my name on it.

He could destroy me. Snap his fingers and have me erased. Dump what’s left of me in East River and go about his evening like I never existed.

And the worst part?

I’d die with his name on my lips.

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