Page 63 of Cruel Submission

The words lodge in my throat. I swallow them down, tasting copper.

“When you’re what?” His eyes narrow.

“When I’m trying to understand what the hell this is!” I gesture between us. “You kiss me like I matter. You look at me like… like I mean something to you. But you won’t let me in. You won’t tell me anything. So what am I, Arkady? Your housekeeper? Your fuck? Your—”

“Don’t!” He moves toward me again, and I should back away. Should maintain distance. But my feet stay planted as he crowds into my space. “Don’t reduce this to something cheap.”

“Then tell me what it is!”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

His jaw tightens. His eyes search my face, and I see it: the same guilt that’s been eating at him for weeks. The same pain he won’t explain.

“Both,” he admits quietly.

The honesty stuns me. I open my mouth to respond, but he’s already moving—fingers sliding into my hair again, tilting my face up.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you answers,” he murmurs against my lips. “I’m sorry I’m selfish enough to keep you anyway.”

Then he kisses me again.

This time, when my hands come up, they don’t push. They grip. Fisting in the open sides of his shirt, yanking him closer instead of shoving him away. My mouth opens under his, and I kiss him back with all the fury and confusion and desperate need burning in my chest.

He makes a rough sound—surprise or relief, I can’t tell—and his hands are everywhere. Sliding down my sides, gripping my hips, pulling me flush against him. I can feel him already hard against my stomach, and the evidence of his want sends heat flooding through me.

But when he starts walking me backward toward his bedroom, something shifts in me.

No. Not like this. Not with him in control again, making all the decisions, leading while I follow.

I break the kiss and plant my feet. “Wait.”

He freezes immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“You know what’s wrong.” I meet his eyes. “I’m not… I need—”

The words tangle in my throat. What do I need? To not feel helpless? To have some power in this twisted thing between us? To prove I’m not just some passive body he can move around at will?

I grab his face with both hands and kiss him hard enough to bruise. Pour all my frustration into it, all my anger at his secrets, all my fear about the pregnancy, all my fury at myself for wanting him anyway.

He responds instantly, hands tightening on my hips. But when he tries to deepen the kiss, to take control again, I bite his lower lip. Hard enough to warn.

He pulls back slightly, eyes dark and pupils blown. “Mirabel—”

“Shut up.” My voice comes out rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “For once, I need you to shut up.”

I kiss him again, walking him backward this time. He goes, stumbling slightly as his shoulders hit the wall. I press against him, feeling his heart hammering under my palms.

“Here?” he asks roughly, glancing around. We’re standing in the hallway that leads to his suite.

“Here.” I yank his shirt open the rest of the way. Buttons ping against marble, scattering. “Now.”

His breath catches. “Zaychik…”

“I want you right now.” I know we’re exposed here, but I don’t care who sees. Don’t care about propriety or professional boundaries or any of the careful lines I’ve been trying to maintain. I’m so tired of caring.

His hands find the hem of my dress, shoving it up around my waist. Cool air hits my thighs. His palm slides up my leg, fingers hooking into my underwear.