Page 7 of Empire
His mouth tips up at one corner, dimples showing. “You always say that.”
“And yet, you keep proving me right.”
I shrug my jacket off and toss it over the back of a chair harder than necessary. He watches every movement with full, dangerous attention, waiting for that exact moment I might lose my temper and give him exactly what he came for.
“That was a good idea you had in there. Shame you couldn’t defend it without losing your temper,” he says casually, as if he didn’t spend the last hour dismantling it.
My hands curl into fists at my sides before I can stop them. The restraint I’ve been holding onto since my father looked at me is starting to crack at the edges.
“You provoked me on purpose.”
“And you took the bait so quickly, your father had to rein you in,” he counters easily, gaze never leaving mine as he steps into my space. “That’s on you, Salvatore.”
The mention of my father is the final push, and before I can stop myself, I swing.
My fist connects with his jaw with a solid, satisfying crack. The impact jarring up my arm, and for a split second, there’s a sense of release that cuts through everything else.
He barely reacts before he’s coming back at me faster than I expect. His fist slams against my ribs, knocking the breath out of me as I stagger back.
We don’t stop after that.
There’s no pause, no hesitation; just the movement, impact, and kind of violence that’s been sitting under our skin for too long.
Fists, shoulders, and bodies collide as we crash into furniture and walls. It’s messy, unrestrained, and nothing like the controlled brutality we’re both trained for.
And that’s what makes it worse; that’s what makes it feel personal.
He’s stronger than me, he always has been, and he knows it. But it doesn’t stop me from going at him again, or trying to get the upper hand, even when I can feel it slipping through my fingers.
He catches my wrist when I try to swing one last time, twisting it to throw me off balance before he uses it to push me back until my spine hits the wall hard.
I try to shove him off, but he’s already pressing in, pinning me there with his weight while he forces my arms up, trapping them above my head.
“Still think you’ve got control,malysh?” he murmurs, that endearment landing exactly where he intended it to.
“Fuck you,” I spit.
He grins, tilting his head to the side, and his hair falls loose over his forehead, making him look younger and infinitely more dangerous. “Hmm, you already did that this morning.”
The bastard.
I turn my head before he can see the traitorous twitch at the corner of my mouth, but he catches it anyway. Ruslan knows my body better than even me.
His expression changes first; that’s the only way I know how to describe it. The rage doesn’t vanish, but it thins enough for something softer to show.
He loosens one of my hands and looks at me the way he only ever does in private—the peek behind all his blood and armor.
“Salvatore,” he breathes, and lowers his head to kiss me.
It isn’t rough the way it should be after a fight. It isn’t punishment or victory, either. It’s hunger with relief tangled through it.
The second his lips touch mine, everything hard in my body gives way so completely, it’s almost shameful. I melt under him; all that rigid fury runs out of my body as if he’s reached inside and switched off every defense I own.
My hands stop fighting him, and my body arches toward his on pure instinct. I kiss him back with a desperation that makes my chest ache. When he lets go of my wrist to cradle my jaw instead, I make a sound against his mouth I’ll deny until my dying day.
His kiss turns deep and goes slower; one hand sliding into my hair, the other braced on my hip.
The room disappears. The meeting disappears. My father disappears.
