I let out a sharp laugh. “Hell no.”
I walked past him deliberately and dropped into the armchair across the room, folding one leg over the other, putting space and furniture between us on purpose.
I faced him squarely.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, but the corner of his mouth lifted—just barely. Amused. Resigned.
My gaze betrayed me anyway.
The bulge straining against his trousers was unmistakable.
“You’ve been having sex with Seraphina, haven’t you?” I asked flatly.
“No.” His answer came too fast to be rehearsed. His voice was rough. “I haven’t.”
I looked up sharply. “How is that possible? They made you believe she was your lover.”
“They made me believe you were dead,” he corrected. His jaw tightened. “That was more useful to them. A grieving widower is easier to control than a man in love.”
That landed harder than I expected.
“Besides,” he continued, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “I never found her attractive. I’ve seen her naked—multiple times. Forced proximity. Nothing.” His mouth twisted faintly. “She might as well be furniture.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And you’re hard now because...?”
He didn’t dodge it. Didn’t soften it.
“Because you fucking turn me on, Penelope.” His voice dropped, stripped of pretense. “That’s it. That’s the truth.”
Silence stretched between us, thick and humming.
“That’s why I wanted you as my sex slave at first,” he went on, unflinching. “I didn’t understand what I was feeling, so I reached for control. Ownership. Something temporary.” His eyes locked on mine. “But the more I thought about it, the more wrong it felt. I don’t want temporary.”
He straightened slightly.
“I want permanent,” he said. “I want you in my life—not as property. As mine.”
The words knocked the breath from my chest.
I exhaled slowly, lowering my head, fingers tightening around the armrest.
“I can’t help how I feel about you,” he said quietly now. “It’s old. Buried deep. But it’s crawling back up, piece by piece. And I don’t want to fight it anymore.”
I lifted my eyes to his.
The legendary Dmitri Volkov—cold, calculating, feared by entire syndicates—sat on the edge of my bed looking at me like I was the last solid thing keeping him from coming apart.
No commands.
No threats.
Just need.
Dmitri stood abruptly.
In two long strides he crossed the space between us, closing the distance until there was nothing left but heat and breath and the quiet hum of tension humming through my veins.
He stopped inches away.