Page 45 of Beautiful Monster

The engine purrs to life, and we pull away from the carnage. Through the bulletproof glass, I watch the garage disappear into shadow, taking with it any remnants of the woman I was an hour ago.

Mikhail's hands are on me before we've cleared the parking structure, his fingers threading through my hair, tilting my face toward his. In the dim interior light, his eyes burn with something primal—a hunger that has nothing to do with the violence we've just survived and everything to do with how I wielded that gun.

"You magnificent creature," he breathes against my lips, his accent thick as honey. "Do you have any idea what you've done to me?"

His mouth crashes against mine, tasting of copper and desperation. I can feel the tremor in his hands as they map my face, my throat, the torn fabric at my shoulder. He's never touched me like this—like he's drowning and I'm oxygen itself.

"Mikhail," I whisper, but his name dissolves into a gasp as his teeth graze my lower lip.

"You stood your ground," he growls, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes heat pool low in my belly. "You fought beside me. You saved my life."

His hands find my waist, spanning it completely as he lifts me with effortless strength. My knees bracket his hips, the torn silk of my dress riding up my thighs as I settle against him. Through the expensive wool of his trousers, I can feel exactly how much my display of violence has affected him.

"I can still smell the gunpowder on your skin," he murmurs, his lips trailing fire down my throat. "Still see you standing over that bastard with smoke curling from your barrel."

The Range Rover takes a sharp turn, the motion pressing me more firmly against him. I bite back a moan as his arousal presses against the silk between my legs, already damp with my own need.

"You're not the same woman who walked into that garage," he continues, his hands sliding beneath the torn fabric to find bare skin. "You're something else entirely. Something mine."

His fingers trace the edge of my lingerie, and I arch into the touch despite myself. The contrast is intoxicating—his gentleness now against the lethal precision I witnessed minutes ago. Both sides of him call to something dark and hungry in my chest.

"Yes," I breathe, the word escaping before I can stop it. "I'm yours."

His pupils dilate at my admission, swallowing the ice blue until only a thin ring remains. Something shifts in his expression—possession mingled with wonder as if I've given him a gift he never expected to receive.

"Again," he commands, his voice hoarse. "Say it again."

The car sways beneath us as we speed through the night, the tinted windows sealing us in our own private universe of blood and desire. Outside, the city lights blur into streaks of neon against the darkness. Inside, there is only his heat, his hands, the thundering of my heart.

"I'm yours," I repeat, the words which have never sounded so true. "And you're mine."

A growl rumbles from deep in his chest. His hands slide up my thighs, leaving trails of fire in their wake, bunching the silk of my ruined dress around my waist. The cool leather seats press against my bare skin as he hooks his fingers into the delicate lace of my underwear.

"These are in my way," he murmurs, and with one sharp tug, the expensive fabric tears like tissue paper.

I should be scandalized. I should remember that we're in a moving vehicle with his most trusted soldier just beyond a thin partition. Instead, I find myself reaching between us, my fingers fumbling with his belt buckle, desperate to feel him.

"So eager," he says, his lips curving into that dangerous half-smile that never fails to quicken my pulse. "What happened to my reluctant bride?"

"She discovered what it feels like to choose her own fate," I whisper against his mouth. "To fight for what's hers."

His hands cup my face, surprisingly gentle for a man who, minutes ago, ended lives without hesitation. "And am I yours, Kira? Is that what you're choosing?"

The question hangs between us, weighted with everything unsaid. Six weeks of arranged marriage. Six weeks of careful distance punctuated by moments of unexpected tenderness. Six weeks of wondering if I could ever truly belong in his world.

Tonight, I stopped wondering.

"Yes," I breathe, finally freeing him from the confines of his trousers. He's hot and hard in my palm, a stark contrast to the cool metal of his watch that brushes against my wrist. "You're mine, Mikhail Zhukov. And I want what's mine."

His control—that legendary restraint I've watched him maintain through negotiations and threats and tonight's violence—shatters. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise as he positions me over him.

"Look at me," he demands, his accent thick with desire. "I want to see your eyes when I make you mine."

I obey, locking my gaze with his as he lowers me onto him in one powerful thrust. The fullness, the stretch, the exquisite pressure tears a gasp from my throat. My fingers dig into his shoulders, clinging to him as the world narrows to the place where our bodies join.

"Perfect," he groans, his forehead pressing against mine. "So perfect for me."

The Range Rover hits a bump in the road, driving him deeper, and I cry out—a sound caught between pleasure and pain. His hands guide my hips, setting a rhythm that matches the racing of my pulse. Each movement sends sparks cascading through my nervous system, building a pressure that threatens to consume me.

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