Page 26 of Dark Possession
"Where's Alina?" I ask, my voice low, clipped.
She hesitates, her gaze flickering up to mine. "She left a while ago, sir."
I go still. The air thickens between us, heavy with unspoken words. My jaw tightens, but I don’t respond. Instead, I step past her, moving deeper into the house, the silence pressing in around me.
She’s right. She’s gone.
CHAPTER NINE
Alina
THE WATER SCALDS my skin, washing away the remnants of sex from between my legs. My legs are weak, my body still thrumming with the aftershocks of what Lev did to me. What I practically begged him to do.
I grip the shower tile with my fingertips, dragging in a breath, but the heat does nothing to erase the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he commanded my body like he owned it. Like I belonged to him.
Maybe I do.
The thought sends another flush through me, shame curling tight in my stomach. I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away. There’s no time for this. I have to move. I have to see Marina.
I turn off the water and step out, wrapping myself in a towel. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror, skin still flushed, lips still swollen. I press my fingers to my mouth, tracing where his had been.
Enough.
I push away from the sink and walk into the bedroom, my eyes catching on the closet. Everything in there is designer, expensive—luxuries I never imagined wearing in my lifetime. I reach for a pair of jeans, impossibly soft, paired with a sweater that’s warm and perfect, yet unfamiliar.
The only shoes in my closet are still just the heels from yesterday—dangerous, elegant, completely inappropriate for a casual day out. The same ones I wore to the charity event. I hesitate, then slide them on, my legs still shaky.
I huff out a breath, fingers shaking as I fasten the straps around my ankles. My body won’t stop humming with the memory of how I got this sore in the first place, and that’s fucking aggravating.
It was wild, like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.
I exhale, pressing my hands to my burning cheeks. I don’t take initiative like that—not ever. It was terrifying, standing before him, loosening the belt of my robe, letting it fall. Exposing myself to him, knowing exactly how he’d look at me, how he’d take me apart.
The lingerie was already in my closet, silky piles of lace and temptation in one of the drawers. It had to be him. He chose all of those pretties for me. At some point, he was going to want me dressed for him, ready for him.
I gave him exactly what he wanted; I just gave it to him on my timetable. My terms.
It didn’t feel like my terms in that kitchen, though. It may have felt for a moment like I was the one giving myself to him, but in the space of a heartbeat, he turned that table, laid me out on it, and took exactly everything he wanted.
He was the master; I was the chattel, and the sooner I understood that, the better off I’d be.
Heat curls between my thighs, unbidden, unwanted. I shake it off and grab my bag. There’s no time to sit with these thoughts, to let them twist through me and settle somewhere dangerous. Marina is all that matters.
I make my way downstairs, my heels clicking against the marble. Dima stands near the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she glances up. Her gaze sweeps over me, unreadable.
“I need a taxi,” I say, keeping my voice even.
Her brow lifts ever so slightly. “A taxi?”
“Yes.”
She folds the towel with quiet precision, then sets it aside. “I will call a car for you instead.”
I tighten my grip on my bag. “A taxi is fine.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but something in the air shifts. The weight of unspoken authority settles between us.
Hers. She is the queen in this household.
