Page 78 of Cruel Submission

Except Arkady chose him. Chose him despite his vow. Chose him when he could have walked away.

That has to mean something.

I feel a hand on my shoulder.

I don’t know if it’s real or part of my dream. Sleep and waking have blurred together. But the touch feels solid. Warm. Familiar.

Then I feel the warmth of a body at my back. The mattress dips with his weight. He fits himself against me, chest to my spine, legs tucking behind mine. The position is protective, possessive, like he’s trying to shield me even while we sleep.

Then a hand reaches under my top and strokes my back. Slow circles. Gentle pressure. The kind of touch that soothes without demanding anything in return.

Then lips kiss my neck. Soft. Reverent. Like I’m something precious instead of something broken.

I don’t want to wake up.

If this is a dream, I want to stay here forever.

I’m conscious, I’m awake, but I can’t open my eyes. My body knows it’s him. The weight. The scent. The way he breathes. But my mind can’t quite catch up. I’m trapped in that space where I’m nothing but nerve endings and his hands on my skin.

I open my eyes for one second, and in that fraction of a second, I see him. He’s stripped off his shirt. Lean muscle and dense ink. The wings that climb his throat. The latent power I’ve been unable to resist from the first moment I saw him.

Then my eyes close again. Too heavy. Too much effort.

I can’t speak. My consciousness is half back. I can only feel the world with my body.

His hand slides from my back to my hip, fingertips tracing the curve of my waist. The touch is worshipful. Slow. Like he’s memorizing the shape of me. He hooks his fingers under the waistband of my leggings, and I lift my hips without thinking—instinct, not intention—and he slides them down.

Cool air hits my skin. Then his palm, warm and rough against my thigh.

“Mirabel.” His voice is raw. Broken. “Zaychik, I need—”

He doesn’t finish. Can’t finish. But I understand anyway.

He needs me. Needs this. Needs to be close to someone who won’t break if he touches them wrong.

I reach back blindly, finding his thigh, his hip, pulling him closer. He understands. Doesn’t need words.

His breath hitches. Then his hands are everywhere—peeling off my top, unhooking my bra, tracing every inch of skin he uncovers. But it’s not frantic. Not desperate.

It’s tender.

God, it’s so tender it hurts.

He kisses my shoulder. The curve of my neck. The space behind my ear where I’m most sensitive. Each kiss says what he can’t. I’m sorry. I want you. Don’t leave.

I turn in his arms, still unable to open my eyes fully, and find his mouth with mine. The kiss is soft at first. Hesitant. Like we’re both afraid of breaking this fragile thing between us.

Then it deepens.

His tongue slides against mine, and I taste something desperate in it. Something that feels like fear. Like need so raw it has teeth.

I pull him closer, needing to feel his weight, his heat, his solid presence. My hands find his chest—the muscle, the ridges of ink beneath my palms, the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

He’s trembling.

Arkady Laurov—dangerous, controlled, always three steps ahead—is trembling against me.

I pull back just enough to whisper against his lips. “I’m here.”