Ruthless Addiction: Chapter 12

Ilingered in the doorway of Vanya’s room longer than necessary, my hand resting on the frame as I watched the steady rise and fall of his small chest beneath the covers. Sleep had claimed him at last, but only after a battle—questions fired like arrows into the dark.

Will you be here in the morning?

Why does the big house have so many doors?

Is the pretty lady bad?

I had answered what I could. Soft truths. Half-promises. I’d kissed his forehead, smoothed his curls back, and told him the world would feel safer tomorrow.

A lie wrapped in love—but it was all I had.

I closed the door quietly, careful not to let the latch click, and walked the short corridor to Dmitri’s room.

Our room.

The thought scraped against me.

My luggage sat at the foot of the massive bed—two modest suitcases placed with military precision, as if even my belongings had been assessed and accepted under terms. To the right, Vanya’s room, the connecting door cracked open just enough to ease my breathing. To the left—Seraphina’s.

The wall between us felt too thin.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by a single lamp on the nightstand. Shadows stretched across dark wood paneling and heavy curtains, the air faintly scented with smoke and lakewater and something distinctly him.

Dmitri was already in bed.

Sprawled might have been the wrong word—he occupied it, unapologetically, like a king who had never learned how to make himself small. Loose black sweatpants rode low on his hips, his bare chest and arms exposed, muscle and scar etched together like a history written in flesh. Old wounds. New tension. Power resting in stillness.

Five years.

Five years since I had last lain beside him.

Five years of graves and ghosts. Of letting the world believe I was dead while he mourned me—while I mourned him from the shadows.

Or maybe he had always known.

I changed into jeans and an oversized sweater.

The jeans and oversized sweater felt like armor, layers between me and everything my body still remembered.

I slipped off my shoes and crossed the rug barefoot, the plush fibers whispering under my steps. I eased onto the edge of the bed as if it might recoil from me, then lay flat on my back, hands folded over my stomach, eyes fixed on the ornate molding carved into the ceiling.

I didn’t reach for the duvet.

Neither of us moved.

His eyes were closed, lashes dark against his skin, but his breathing was too controlled. Not the slack rhythm of sleep. Anyone who had ever shared a bed with him would have known.

Memories came anyway.

The reckless joy of our teenage years—stolen kisses behind the old oak trees, the way he used to look at me like I was the only good thing in a brutal world.

And then the darkness.

The day he forced the ring onto my finger. The cold ceremony. The vows that felt like chains. The nights where love curdled into possession, into cruelty sharpened by jealousy and pride.

In one lifetime, this man had given me heaven and hell.

I hated that heaven still glimmered brighter.

“You’re not sleeping,” he said.

His voice rumbled low, certain, cutting through the silence like a stone dropped into still water.

I flinched, turning my head toward him. His eyes were still closed.

“How did you know?” I asked quietly.

The faintest smirk touched his mouth. “I know the sound of your breathing when you’re pretending.”

Of course he did.

I let out a slow breath, my fingers tightening briefly over my stomach before I forced them to relax. “I’m trying,” I said.

“If you’re worried I might touch you without your consent, put your mind at ease,” he said softly, his voice edged with warning and restraint. “I never have—and I never will.”

A pause.

“Sleep,” he added. “We have a party tomorrow evening.”

His chest rose and fell once, deeper this time.

He opened his eyes then.

Storm-gray. Unforgiving. They fixed on me with that familiar intensity that always made the air feel thinner, like breathing required permission.

“What party?” I asked.

“The annual gathering of the four families.” He replied, careful to keep his tone neutral.

He shifted, pushing himself up against the headboard. The muscles in his arms flexed with the movement, the duvet sliding lower across his waist as if the bed itself yielded to him. He didn’t bother pulling it back up.

“Every year,” he said, “the Volkovs, Orlovs, Morozovs, and Ferraros come together. A masquerade of civility.” His mouth twisted faintly. “We parade new soldiers, new alliances, new brides. We drink expensive wine, exchange pleasantries, and pretend we aren’t all calculating how best to kill one another when the night is over.”

His gaze never left my face.

“It’s how Lake Como stays standing,” he went on. “One evening of restraint so the rest of the year doesn’t drown in blood.”

I nodded slowly, a prickle of unease sliding down my spine. “And I have to be there?”

“Yes,” he said. “In fact, I’ll need you to handle a task for me tomorrow.”

The way he said it—calm, deliberate—made my pulse stutter.

“The Orlovs have already secured the Morozovs as allies,” he continued. “If I’m going to have any advantage when war breaks out, I need the Ferraros on my side before the Orlovs poison them too. That’s where you come in.”

His gaze held mine.

“They’ll be at the party tomorrow. I need you to speak to the Ferraros—Ricci Ferraro in particular. He’ll be there. He’s been… resistant to choosing sides.”

A knot formed low in my stomach. “You want me to speak to him.”

“Yes.”

“Convince him that siding with me is the smarter move when war comes.”

The word landed like a blade between my ribs.

“War?” I repeated softly.

His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking beneath the stubble. “I will not marry Seraphina Orlov.” His voice dropped, stripped of all pretense. “The idea of her in a white dress, wearing my ring—it turns my stomach. It would be the ultimate betrayal.”

His eyes darkened.

“Of Penelope.”

The possessive slipped out without effort, raw and unguarded.

“So yes,” he said. “War. Once the three months are over—once you and Vanya are safely out of reach—I will burn the Orlovs to the ground. Every last one of them.”

The violence of it should have terrified me.

Instead, something else bloomed—an ache, sharp and unwelcome. For the man who would raze empires for a woman he believed dead. For the boy sleeping in the next room who deserved a father alive, not a legend carved into marble.

“And if you’re the one who burns?” I asked quietly.

He stilled.

“You speak of war like it’s a clean decision,” I went on, my voice steady but tight. “Not rivers of blood. Not widows and children left behind. What makes you think you’re untouchable, Dmitri? That death won’t come for you the way it comes for everyone else?”

For a moment, he simply studied me.

Then he smiled.

Slow. Dangerous. A curve of his mouth that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You still don’t understand loyalty,” he said. “When a man chooses war over surrender, it means he’s already made peace with dying.”

He leaned forward slightly, close enough that I could smell smoke and lakewater and something darkly familiar.

“I would rather greet death as an old friend than spend a single second bound to that woman.”

I searched his face in the lamplight—the hard planes, the iron will, the grief etched so deeply it had become bone.

“Your hatred for her is… absolute,” I said at last. “Admirable, in a twisted way. All for the memory of your late wife.”

He didn’t correct me.

Didn’t flinch at the word late.

He just watched me, silent, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes—like a man staring at a ghost who refused to stay buried.

“Will you do it?” he asked again, quieter now. “Speak to Antonio Ferraro?”

The question hung between us, heavy as a drawn blade.

“Why me?” I countered, still staring at the ceiling as if it held answers I didn’t want to give him. “Why not you? Or Giovanni?”

“Because we’ve already tried,” he said without hesitation. “The Ferraros have kept us at arm’s length for years. Polite. Civil. Unmoved.” His mouth curved faintly, humorless.

“But the Orlovs are already whispering,” he continued. “Offering partnerships. Planting incentives. They’ve even gone so far as to offer their third daughter—no doubt as a marriage, neatly bound to the Morozov’s heir, Ricci.”

He paused.

“You’re my wife, Pen. For three months, that title has weight. It disarms. It intrigues.” His gaze burned into me. “He’ll listen to you.”

I turned my face back toward the ceiling, the carved molding blurring as my thoughts tangled.

“And if I refuse?”

“There will be no punishment,” he said simply. “I won’t force you.”

The words should have reassured me.

Instead, I almost laughed at the bitter irony. “And if I agree?”

“Then you earn a reward.”

His voice changed—softer, persuasive, the tone he used when he wanted something badly but refused to beg.

“When the three months end and this marriage dissolves, you may ask me for one thing. One.” He lifted a finger slightly, as if sealing a vow. “Anything. Half my wealth. Properties abroad. Enough money to vanish forever and live like a queen. Name it.”

I stayed silent.

Money meant nothing to me. I’d survived five years with nothing but Ruslan’s shadow and my own teeth bared to the world. Wealth couldn’t buy safety from a man like Dmitri Volkov.

But leverage could.

A promise from him—spoken, witnessed, bound by his iron sense of honor—that was something else entirely. Insurance, in case he decided not to let me go when the contract ended. In case he learned the truth and tried to keep Vanya. In case I needed to pry something precious from his hands later.

“I don’t want you to go to war, Dmitri,” I said at last, my voice barely above a whisper.

The honesty surprised us both.

I hated him. Feared him. Resented him for everything he’d taken from me.

But I didn’t want him dead.

Not the father of my son.

Not the man who still lived in my dreams like a scar that refused to fade.

He shifted then, turning fully toward me. The mattress dipped under his weight, the space between us shrinking until his presence felt unavoidable. Slowly—deliberately—he lifted his hand, fingers hovering just above my cheek.

Close enough that I felt the heat of his skin.

Close enough that every nerve in my body screamed.

He didn’t touch me.

Not yet.

“You speak like you care whether I live or die,” he murmured.

There was faint amusement in the words, a lazy curl to them, but his eyes betrayed him. They were dark, intent, stripping me down to whatever truths I was still trying to hide.

I didn’t look away. “As long as you’re my husband—even on paper—I suppose it’s my responsibility to discourage reckless behavior.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. Not a smile. Something quieter. Almost… fond.

“Responsibility,” he repeated softly, tasting the word. “You always did hide your heart behind duty.”

He shifted closer. Deliberately. As if testing how far he could go before I broke.

His breath brushed my cheek, warm and familiar, and suddenly five years collapsed into nothing. Hospital lights. Blood on my hands. His mouth on mine the night before everything shattered.

His gaze dropped to my lips.

“Your lips,” he said, voice roughened by something dangerously close to reverence, “are exquisite and ruinous.”

The words struck harder than any touch could have.

The air between us crackled—alive with grief and longing and everything we had never said out loud. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

My body remembered him far too well, betrayal humming through my veins like heat.

For one suspended heartbeat, the world narrowed to this: the warmth of his skin, the promise of devastation, the gravity that had always pulled us together—inevitable, merciless.

Dmitri Volkov was still the man who could undo me without ever laying a hand on my skin.

Butterflies detonated in my stomach—wild, frantic—but I forced them down, schooling my face into cool indifference. I would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply his words had cut.

“Thank you,” I said, evenly. Calm. Unmoved.

I held his gaze without blinking.

Something darkened in his eyes at my restraint, as though my refusal to react pleased him more than gratitude ever could. That infuriating smirk curved his mouth as he leaned closer, his presence eclipsing the lamplight.

His breath brushed my cheek, warm, intimate.

“Luscious,” he murmured, voice low and ruined. “I want them wrapped around mine.”

The words slid over my skin like a blade.

I didn’t pull away.

God help me, I couldn’t.

Every instinct screamed at me to retreat, to armor myself in distance and silence, but courage deserted me.

His face hovered inches from mine, heat radiating from him, dragging me under with the same merciless gravity that had always existed between us.

My eyes fluttered shut, betraying me.

In Greece, in the quiet anonymity Ruslan had wrapped around me, I had dreamed of this. Of his mouth on mine—hard, relentless, unapologetic. Dreams that left me furious when I woke, sheets twisted tight around my legs, my body aching with a need I despised.

The other dreams were worse.

Dreams where he took me without mercy, where my body bowed beneath his will, where his name tore from my throat again and again as pleasure shattered me from the inside out. I would wake slick with sweat and shame, heart racing, hating myself for wanting a man who had once destroyed me.

Seconds stretched. Time warped.

I waited for him to kiss me.

For the claim. The possession. The thing I both feared and craved.

But nothing came.

Slowly, dread blooming hot and sharp in my chest, I opened my eyes.

He was still there—devastatingly close—watching me with an intensity that bordered on predatory. His gaze searched my face, my mouth, as if committing the moment to memory.

Then he pulled back.

No explanation. No words.

He turned his head away as though the last heartbeat had never existed.

The silence was brutal.

Heat rushed to my cheeks—humiliation first, then anger, then something sharp and fragile that felt dangerously close to rejection. Before pride could stop me, I yanked the duvet up and over my head, curling inward, hiding like a wounded thing.

The mattress shifted.

Fabric rustled.

I peeked out just in time to see him rise, broad back rigid with tension, every line of his body screaming restraint. He crossed the room in long strides, hand already reaching for the door.

“Where are you going?” The question escaped me before I could stop it.

He paused at the threshold and glanced back over his shoulder, one dark brow lifting.

“I would have thought,” he said mildly, “that you didn’t care.”

I pushed myself upright, the duvet slipping to my waist, pulse pounding. “You’re my husband,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice. “For the next three months, at least. It’s only natural I act like a wife.”

His eyes flicked to my bare shoulders, the exposed line of my throat.

“Where,” I added softly, dangerously, “is my husband going in the middle of the night?”

His gaze flicked pointedly to the unmistakable bulge straining against the black fabric of his sweatpants. “As you can see,” he murmured, voice low and rough with dark amusement, “I’m hard. I need something to… cool me down.”

A hot spike of jealousy flared in my chest, sharp and unwelcome. My pulse thundered. “And what exactly would that be?”

His eyes drifted toward the door on the left—Seraphina’s room. The implication hung heavy, poisonous in the dim light.

“You said you don’t want sex in this marriage,” he added with a shrug, as if the idea were the most logical, innocent thing in the world. “I don’t see the harm in seeking it elsewhere. With someone who might actually welcome it.”

I froze. My stomach twisted, part anger, part disbelief, part that unwelcome heat I hated myself for. “With your mistress?” I snapped, voice sharp, words tasting like bitter acid. “The woman you can barely stand to look at? Please. I’m not naive, Dmitri, but even you wouldn’t sink that low.”

He tilted his head, smirk curling his lips like a knife drawn slowly across silk. “I guess we’ll find out.”

Before I could respond, before I could even process the audacity, he opened the door and stepped into the hallway, the soft click of it closing behind him echoing like a challenge.

My heart slammed against my ribs. Fury propelled me out of bed. I didn’t pause for shoes, didn’t bother with a robe. Sweater and jeans were enough armor as I stormed after him, my bare feet skimming over the cool marble, goosebumps prickling my skin.

To my relief—and my mounting curiosity—he didn’t turn left toward Seraphina’s room. Instead, his long strides carried him in the opposite direction, each footfall silent, purposeful.

I followed, careful yet clumsy, trying to match his pace without tripping. He would know I was there. A man like Dmitri, trained in shadows and survival, always knew when someone followed him. That knowledge made the heat in my chest flare even brighter.

He led me through narrow, dimly lit corridors I hadn’t noticed before, the walls lined with rich mahogany panels and faint traces of old oil paint.

A side door appeared, slightly ajar, leading out into a wing of the estate I hadn’t realized existed. The night air hit me cool and sharp as I stepped outside, carrying the scent of chlorine and wet stone.

Ahead, a private pool gleamed beneath the moon, glass walls revealing the gardens below and the faint shimmer of Lake Como far off. Moonlight danced on the water, casting silver ribbons that mirrored the tension coiling tight in my chest.

Without hesitation, he reached the pool’s edge and stripped off his sweatpants in one fluid motion. Naked. Unapologetic. Exquisite.

I ducked instinctively behind a potted fern, my heart hammering so hard I thought he might hear it. But even there, hidden, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Moonlight traced the hard lines of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, the firm curve of his ass. I hated that my body responded, hated the traitorous warmth coiling low in my belly, hated the pull of desire that had nothing to do with reason or morality.

Then he dove.

The water swallowed him with barely a splash. His body moved with effortless grace beneath the surface, cutting clean arcs, powerful and relentless. Every stroke reminded me how much he dominated space—and life.

Jealousy twisted sharper. What if Seraphina’s room overlooked this? What if she appeared now, drawn by the same restlessness that always seemed to follow him?

Seconds stretched. His head remained submerged. Long seconds, far too many.

Panic clawed at me.

He wouldn’t drown himself—not intentionally. But accidents happened. Or games. He loved both.

The rational part of my mind screamed at me to wait, to call out, to reason. But instinct, the raw, frantic pulse of fear, overrode everything else.

I stepped from my hiding spot, jeans cold against wet stone, sweatshirt clinging to my skin. “Dmitri!” I called, voice sharp, echoing across the glass walls.

Silence.

No ripple. No splash. Only the soft lap of water against the pool edge.

I swallowed hard, the fear gnawing, the jealousy and desire twisting inside me in a confusing, dangerous knot. And then, without another thought, without hesitation, I dove. Jeans, sweater, everything.

The water swallowed me with a cold shock, pulling me into its depths.

The shock of cold water slammed into me like a physical blow, ripping the air from my lungs. The pool was far deeper than I’d imagined—an endless, yawning blue that swallowed sound and light alike. My eyes burned as I forced them open underwater, searching wildly for any sign of him.

Nothing.

Just depth. Silence. The vast, indifferent weight of water.

Panic detonated in my chest. My lungs screamed almost immediately, a sharp, frantic burn that made my body thrash on instinct alone. I had never been a strong swimmer—never trusted water that couldn’t be crossed on foot—and the denim clinging to my legs dragged me down like iron chains. Every kick felt useless. Every stroke only seemed to pull me deeper.

I tried to reach the surface. Tried to scream.

Water rushed into my mouth when I gasped, cold and brutal, choking me. My limbs grew clumsy, uncooperative, the terror blurring into something dull and frighteningly distant.

No.

Not like this.

Not now.

Vanya’s face flashed through my mind—his smile, his small hand curled in mine. I clawed weakly at the water, rage and fear tangling as my vision darkened at the edges. I had survived too much. I had earned my life back.

And then—

Arms wrapped around my waist.

Strong. Unyielding. Certain.

I felt myself surge upward, lifted with devastating ease. We broke the surface together, water exploding around us as I sucked in air, coughing violently, my body shaking as breath tore back into my lungs in ragged, desperate gulps.

Dmitri held me effortlessly, one arm locked around my middle as he treaded water for both of us. His chest rose and fell steadily beneath my hands, powerful and controlled—nothing like my own frantic heaving. Wet hair clung to his forehead, droplets tracking down the sharp lines of his face, catching moonlight as they fell.

He looked unreal like this. Dangerous. Beautiful. Elemental.

My soaked clothes plastered me to him, and there was no mistaking the hard planes of his body against mine—his chest, his thighs, the unmistakable heat of him pressed flush against me. A shiver tore through me, sharp and traitorous, carrying nothing of cold and everything of memory.

“I—I was worried,” I rasped, coughing again as I tried, feebly, to put space between us.

His grip tightened instead.

“As you should be,” he murmured, voice low and rough, vibrating straight through me. I felt the steady, relentless thud of his heart beneath my palm—strong, unbothered, alive.

Before I could gather my thoughts, before I could summon anger or pride, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to my cheek. Slow. Deliberate. Not possessive—but intimate enough to unravel me. His lips lingered just a second too long, sending heat spiraling through my veins.

I sucked in a sharp breath.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes, his gaze dark and intent. “I didn’t mean for you to panic.” A pause. Then, softer still, almost honest: “I only wanted you to come to me.”

The words wrapped around my ribs like a tightening band.

I stared at him, suspended between water and moonlight, fear and desire, knowing with a sick certainty that this—this pull between us—was far more dangerous than the pool ever could be.

And the worst part?

Some treacherous part of me had come to him willingly.

“You knew I’d dive in?” I asked, incredulous, even as my hands instinctively clutched his shoulders for support, fingers digging into the taut muscle beneath the wet skin. My hair plastered to my face, droplets running down my neck, I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with water.

“I played my cards,” he admitted, a flicker of satisfaction lighting his storm-gray eyes. “But it warms my heart knowing you’d risk your life for mine. We’re barely strangers, yet here you are—diving into the deep end for a man you claim to tolerate for three months.”

I exhaled, tension bleeding out of me as we floated in the pool, water lapping gently against our bodies. The temptation of him—so close, so bare—was almost unbearable. I pressed my chin to his chest, inhaling the scent of him, a mixture of chlorine, earth, and something unmistakably Dmitri. Focusing on anything else became imperative.

“Meanwhile,” he said, his voice steadier, “I could teach you how to swim. Properly. You know… without nearly drowning in the process.”

I chuckled, low and rich, the sound vibrating through my chest into his. “I don’t think swimming lessons are what I need from you right now.”

“No—” I said quickly, shaking my head. “That’s not what I meant. I meant Vanya.” I drew a breath, grounding myself. “He knows the basics of swimming, but he could be better. Safer. If you could teach him.” My voice faltered despite my effort to steady it. “I just… I want him to be safe.”

Dmitri’s expression softened, subtle but unmistakable. The hardness in his eyes ebbed just a fraction, replaced by something warmer, something unspoken but infinitely protective. “My schedule is brutal,” he said at last, voice low and steady, “but I wouldn’t mind carving out time for him. Not in the slightest.”

The sincerity behind the words struck me like a small miracle. Here he was, still the same man who had made my life both heaven and hell, offering care without a trace of ego. A quiet warmth spread through me, momentarily drowning the years of bitterness, betrayal, and fear that clung to my heart.

I glanced up at him, eyes catching the moonlight on his wet hair, the sharp planes of his jaw softened by the water, the faintest tension in his shoulders gone. “You mean that?” I asked quietly, disbelief mingling with relief.

“I do,” he said simply, brushing a damp strand of hair from my face.

His fingers lingered just a second too long at my temple, and I caught my breath. “Vanya’s safety comes first. Always. You’ve carried him all this way. I won’t let anyone—or anything—take him from you again. That includes me, if necessary.”

A shiver ran through me, equal parts fear and longing. He spoke not as a husband, not yet as a lover, but as a man who could—and would—move mountains for the boy. And for me, perhaps, though he would never admit it out loud.