Ruthless Addiction: Chapter 13

“I’m sorry you have to play the role of his father for the next three months,” I said lightly, the words slipping out before I could stop them. I tried to frame it as a tease, but my eyes betrayed me.

I watched his face closely, searching for any flicker of discomfort, any instinctive rejection of the boy who shared his blood—though he didn’t know it yet.

Dmitri didn’t scoff. Didn’t smirk.

Instead, something in him softened.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible—the easing of his jaw, the way his gaze drifted somewhere distant as if he were picturing Vanya’s face. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than I’d ever heard it.

“I would be honored to be his father for a lifetime.”

The words hit me harder than any shout ever could.

“He’s sharp,” Dmitri continued, eyes back on mine now, intent and thoughtful. “Smarter than most children twice his age. Curious. Fearless when he needs to be.” A pause. “But kind. That’s the part that stays with you. He listens when you speak—really listens. And the way he already positions himself in front of you when he senses tension?” His mouth curved slightly. “That’s instinct. You don’t teach that. That’s who he is.”

My chest tightened painfully. I swallowed, afraid if I spoke my voice would break. He was describing his own son without knowing it—his mind, his protectiveness, his Volkov steel wrapped in compassion.

I nodded once, silently, a quiet, aching gratitude blooming despite every scar he’d left on me.

Dmitri lifted a hand then, fingers brushing beneath my chin, gently tipping my face upward. The gesture was uncharacteristically tender. Moonlight shimmered across the water, turning his eyes into molten silver.

“You’re less tense than you were when you arrived,” he observed, his thumb tracing the faint line of my jaw. “Is it because you’re realizing I already admire your son?”

“I wouldn’t want my child raised in a hostile environment,” I said evenly, forcing steadiness into my voice. “He deserves peace. Stability. Safety.”

His gaze sharpened—not with threat, but with resolve. “He’ll have all of that here. From me.” A beat. “I don’t know how to be a father, Pen. My world isn’t gentle. I solve problems with leverage and violence. But for him…” He hesitated, as if the admission cost him something. “For him, I’d learn.”

His eyes searched mine. “Will you teach me?”

The vulnerability in that single question cracked something open inside me. I dropped my gaze, heat creeping into my cheeks, emotions tangling dangerously.

“I can teach you,” I whispered.

His mouth softened into something close to a smile. He tucked a wet strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering longer than necessary. Leaning closer, he studied my face with quiet intensity.

“You are so beautiful, Pen.”

Instinct kicked in—old armor snapping back into place. I tilted my head, a wry smirk tugging at my lips. “I suppose it helps that I share such a striking resemblance to your late wife.”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t deflect.

“I won’t insult you by pretending otherwise,” he said simply. “You do.”

The honesty lingered between us, heavy and intimate.

Then, without warning, he shifted. One arm slid beneath my knees, the other around my back, and suddenly I was lifted from the water. I gasped softly as he carried me to the pool’s edge, setting me down with surprising gentleness before pulling himself out beside me.

Water streamed down his body in silver rivulets, muscles flexing as he straightened. I tried—failed—not to look. His arousal was unmistakable, bold even in the cool night air. Heat rushed to my face, and I folded my arms around myself as a shiver ran through me, my soaked clothes clinging uncomfortably.

Dmitri reached for a thick towel, wrapping it low around his hips before turning back to me. His gaze swept over me, assessing, protective.

“Come,” he said, voice firm but gentle. “You’re freezing. You can’t possibly think I’d let you sleep beside me in wet jeans and a sweater.”

Before I could argue, he lifted me again, cradling me against his chest as if it were the most natural thing in the world. My hands went instinctively to his shoulders, my face close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him, to see droplets clinging to his lashes.

He carried me through the corridors, bare feet silent on marble, the estate hushed around us.

Nestled against him, my pulse finally slowed enough for reason to return.

“Tomorrow,” I said quietly, breaking the silence. “At the party… if I’m speaking to Antonio Ferraro—trying to sway him to your side—what if someone tries to hurt me? The Orlovs already despise me. The Morozovs too. They won’t hesitate.”

He didn’t slow his stride.

Instead, his arms tightened almost imperceptibly around me.

“Let them try,” Dmitri said, voice low and lethal. “You will not take a single step tomorrow without eyes on you. If anyone so much as raises their voice in your direction, they answer to me.”

He glanced down at me, gaze unwavering.

“And if anyone forgets whose wife you are,” he added softly, “I will remind them.”

His grip tightened around me, possessive and unyielding. “Anyone who lays a finger on you dies,” he growled, voice low and absolute. “Slowly. Painfully. I will burn their world to ash before they touch a hair on your head. No harm comes to you, Pen—not while I’m breathing. I will stand between you and every bullet, every blade, every threat this lake can muster. You are under my roof, under my name. That makes you mine to protect. With my life, if it comes to it.”

The ferocity in his voice sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the cool night air. Every word cut through the tension that had coiled inside me for days, grounding me in a brutal certainty: he meant it. He would fight to the last breath for me and Vanya. I believed him. Every word, every syllable, was carved in steel.

We were almost at the bedroom when a door to our left slammed open with a crash, startling me.

“Help… help me, Dmitri! Please!”

The voice was high, frantic, laced with exaggerated fear. Seraphina.

Dmitri’s entire body snapped into alert, the arm around me loosening only enough for him to pivot. In an instant, he was in front of her, dropping to one knee with precision and urgency. His hand rose, gently lifting her chin to assess the blood streaking across her temple.

I froze, my stomach knotting with a mix of fury and disbelief.

Every instinct urged me forward—to pull Seraphina from his arms, to erase her from his skin—anything to reclaim the intimacy that wasn’t mine to take. But I stayed rooted, fists clenched at my sides, jaw tight. The sight of him bending for her, hands brushing her skin with care, was a dagger I couldn’t remove.

“Where does it hurt?” he asked, calm but commanding, eyes scanning her face and neck with exacting focus.

“I—I fell from the bed,” she stammered, voice trembling, tears mingling with the blood. “I’m not used to sleeping alone. I had a nightmare and… I rolled off. It hurts so much.”

Dmitri’s jaw tightened, the hand that had held her chin now checking her arms for bruises. He pulled out his phone with precise efficiency. “Giovanni,” he barked the moment the line connected. “Seraphina’s room. Now. There’s been an incident.”

Before he could hang up, she launched herself at him, clinging desperately around his neck. Blood smeared across his chest as her small body pressed against him, her face hidden against his skin. My chest tightened painfully, jealousy flaring hotter than fear or reason.

Every instinct screamed to shove her away, to erase the sight of him comforting another woman.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look elsewhere, nails digging into my palms until the pain grounded me.

“I was so scared, Dmitri,” she whimpered, voice quivering with calculated vulnerability. “Forgive me for bothering you.”

He allowed the embrace for a brief heartbeat, one hand settling lightly on her back in reassurance, but there was no softness in his eyes—just measured control. Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Giovanni was approaching.

“I’m scared,” Seraphina repeated, clinging harder, her nails digging into the muscles of his shoulder. Her gaze flicked toward me over his arm—sharp, triumphant, smug. Every glance screamed, look what I can do.

Dmitri’s voice was steel and velvet at once. “It’s all right. Giovanni will see to you.”

He disentangled himself slowly, stepping back so that his presence remained commanding but non-invasive. Seraphina stumbled slightly, unsteady, and he caught her with one arm, eyes sharp enough to remind her he was not to be toyed with.

Giovanni arrived in a rush, taking in the scene with a single, practiced glance. He didn’t panic, didn’t question. Kneeling beside her, he murmured reassurances and gently probed the cut on her temple, already taking control.

I stepped a pace back, letting him handle it, my chest still burning with indignation.

Seraphina’s trembling eased slightly under Giovanni’s scrutiny, but I could feel her eyes on me, the unspoken accusation and challenge searing across the room. Dmitri remained calm, calculating, the storm of his anger and power barely restrained as he watched Giovanni tend to her.

A hand settled on my waist—Dmitri’s—and I flinched violently, the instinctual recoil belying the longing I would never admit even to myself.

“Don’t touch me,” I snapped before I could stop myself, voice sharp as ice. Every syllable was a blade, cutting through the lingering warmth of his nearness.

His brow furrowed, that familiar flash of confusion and restrained amusement flickering in his storm-gray eyes, but I didn’t care. I spun on my heel, storming past Seraphina and Giovanni without a backward glance, and slammed the bedroom door with more force than necessary.

The sound reverberated through the room like a gunshot. I threw myself onto the bed, letting the mattress swallow me in a mix of fury and exhaustion, my hands clutching the sheets until my knuckles went white.

Minutes passed. The silence in the room became unbearable, pressing in from all sides. Then—the quiet sound of the door sliding open. I didn’t move.

He stepped in, towel still knotted low around his hips, droplets of water glinting on his bare chest and shoulders. He paused at the foot of the bed, hands hanging loosely at his sides, watching me with that unreadable expression that had haunted my dreams for years.

“That wasn’t jealousy, was it?” he asked, low, careful. His voice had softened, but there was a trace of steel beneath the words—as if he were measuring me, testing my reaction.

I stayed silent, chest heaving, staring at the ornate ceiling.

The truth burned hotter than I wanted to admit. It was jealousy. Raw, consuming, and utterly ridiculous.

Jealousy at watching him cradle another woman, at seeing that flash of concern in his eyes that should have been mine. The irony of it stung. We weren’t strangers. He was the only man I had ever truly loved. The only one capable of setting my blood on fire, even after years of grief and distance. And he might never know.

He moved closer, slow and deliberate, sitting on the edge of the bed a few feet from me. The mattress dipped under his weight, radiating warmth and danger at the same time. “It’s… cute,” he said finally, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “That you’re already jealous of me touching another woman. On the very first day of our three-month marriage.”

He emphasized ‘three month’ deliberately, testing me, gauging how much I cared, watching for the flicker of emotion he could exploit.

The words landed like a punch. I’d known from the beginning this was a contract, a fleeting arrangement—a public charade with an expiration date everyone in Lake Como would notice. But hearing him say it aloud, so casually, twisted something deep inside me that had nothing to do with reason.

I turned my face away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

My throat felt tight, a mix of heat and frustration choking me. The silence stretched between us, thick with all the things we weren’t saying: anger, desire, regret, and a yearning I could not allow myself to acknowledge.

He leaned back slightly, letting the shadows of the room play over his face, the tension coiled in his posture as palpable as mine.

“I only helped an injured woman. That’s all,” Dmitri said quietly, his voice stripped of any defensiveness, as if the mere truth should make everything simple.

I sat rigid on the edge of the bed, arms crossed tightly over my chest, the damp fabric of my sweater clinging unpleasantly to my skin. “You don’t owe me explanations,” I replied, sharper than I intended. “She’s your mistress, after all. Forced or not, she’s here because of you. She deserves your attention more than I do.”

His exhale was slow, measured, carrying a weight that pressed into the room. “She is not my mistress, Pen. Never was, never will be. She and her family manipulated their way into this house—kidnapping a child to force my hand. I’d sooner cut my own throat than touch her willingly.”

I said nothing. Couldn’t. The image of Seraphina draped over him, the smear of blood on his bare skin, the smug glint in her eyes—it seared behind my eyelids. Jealousy, fierce and animal, coiled in my chest, spitting venom. My pulse thundered against my ribs.

Dmitri moved closer, and the mattress shifted under his weight as he lay down beside me. “Go change,” he said softly, tone carrying a quiet command masked in care. “Your clothes are soaked. Put on a proper nightgown—not jeans and a sweater, like you’re ready to bolt at any moment.”

I rose without a word, refusing to meet his gaze.

In the bathroom, I peeled off the cold, clinging layers and stepped under the hot water, letting it scald the chlorine and strip away the lingering unease of the pool.

Steam curled around me, a fleeting shield against my own thoughts. I lingered longer than necessary, letting the warmth seep into my bones, reminding me I was alive, that I was here, and that he was just beyond the bathroom door.

Finally, I emerged, slipping into a simple silk nightgown—pale gray, soft as whispers. It clung lightly, a modesty that felt almost foreign in Dmitri’s presence. When I returned, he was still awake, propped against the headboard, low-slung sweatpants replacing the towel. The lamplight carved shadows across his chest, highlighting the scars I once knew by heart, each one a map of pain, survival, and a history I was not sure I could ever fully untangle.

He watched me cross the room, eyes tracking, intense and unyielding. I slid under the covers on my side—far from him—and deliberately curled toward the edge, creating distance as if I could make an ocean between us.

The silence stretched, thick and expectant. My heartbeat echoed in my ears, loud enough that I feared it would betray my inner turmoil.

Then, the mattress shifted again. His arm slid across the sheets, tentative yet insistent, searching until it found my waist. Gently, carefully, he tugged, drawing me back toward him. “Come here,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing. “It’s cold. Let me warm you.”

I stiffened, fighting the pull, trying to anchor myself in logic and restraint. “I’m fine,” I said, though my voice trembled more than I wanted.

“I know you are,” he countered softly, voice threading around the edges of the space between us. “But I am not.” His hand moved slightly, brushing against the small of my back. “I will not leave you shivering alone.”

My resolve wavered. The warmth of him, the familiar scent of him, the undeniable weight of his presence pressed into me like gravity. I could feel the pull, the silent promise of protection and danger wrapped into one impossible man.

His arm encircled me, snug and possessive, pulling me closer until my back pressed to the solid plane of his chest. I could feel the steady drum of his heartbeat, the heat radiating from him, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing against mine.

“Better?” he asked quietly, lips brushing the top of my hair.

I swallowed hard, words lodged somewhere between pride, fear, and desire.

His thumb traced a slow, absent circle against the silk at my hip, a touch so light it was almost worse than pressure. Familiar. Intimate. Dangerous.

“You’re still angry,” he said quietly.

“I’m tired,” I corrected, keeping my voice flat, brittle at the edges.

Another tug—gentler than before, but more certain. “Pen.”

“No.” I shifted farther away, pressing myself toward the edge of the mattress until there was nowhere left to retreat. My back met open air, a precarious drop. “Just… sleep, Dmitri. Please.”

He froze. The word ‘please’ landed between us like a boundary he hadn’t expected. After a long pause, his hand withdrew.

The loss of warmth was immediate, shocking. I heard him settle onto his back with a controlled exhale, the sound of a man forcing himself into stillness.

The space between us felt vast.

I stared into the darkness, eyes burning, heart pounding in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the pool or Seraphina or the way jealousy had embarrassed me. Tomorrow loomed like a storm waiting just beyond the horizon.

The annual Lake Como gala.

Four families under one roof—Volkovs, Orlovs, Morozovs, Ferraros—each smile sharpened into a blade, each polite greeting layered with threat. Alliances made and broken over champagne flutes. Old grudges dressed up as civility. Dmitri wanted me in the middle of it. Wanted me to approach Ricci Ferraro and tilt the scales before blood was spilled.

Charm him. Persuade him. Pressure him.

I had never been raised for this world. I wasn’t bred for politics or power plays.

The thought of stepping into that viper’s nest tomorrow—of speaking for Dmitri, of carrying his name and his intent into that room—sent my pulse racing, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs.

And beneath that fear—deeper, darker, far more lethal—was the secret I carried like a live wire against my skin.

Vanya.

My son.

Our son.

Sooner or later, Dmitri would see it. Blood always told its story. The resemblance was already there, growing sharper by the day—the dark eyes, the stubborn tilt of the chin, the way Vanya’s rare, crooked smiles mirrored his father’s. Ruslan had warned me this moment would come. That blood called to blood, no matter how far you ran.

If Dmitri discovered the truth before I secured an escape—before the three months ended and I could disappear again—he would never let us go.

A man who would burn the world for a ghost would chain the living without hesitation.

And me… I wouldn’t just be bound by a contract anymore. I’d be bound by something far stronger. Permanent. Inescapable.

Family.

The thought stole my breath. My fingers curled into the sheets until my knuckles went white. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing sleep to come, to silence the spiraling dread clawing through my chest.

Beside me, Dmitri didn’t move. But I felt him—awake, restrained, a storm held behind steel walls.

I didn’t feel the moment exhaustion finally claimed me. One heartbeat I was drowning in tomorrow’s shadows; the next, there was nothing at all.