Ruthless Addiction: Chapter 16

Vanya walked up to me, and Dmitri moved toward the house, his strides long and purposeful.

The tension of the car ride still weighed on him, the rigid lines of his shoulders betraying the anger he’d been holding at me. Yet with Vanya, he softened, chatting easily, his voice lighter, a brief smile breaking through. He set his own frustrations aside just to make my boy happy—admirable, infuriating.

But the moment Vanya slipped back into my arms, the warmth vanished. Dmitri’s jaw tightened, the anger flaring up again as if I were the only one to blame.

But before he could reach the steps, Vanya wriggled free of me and ran to him.

Catching up in a few quick steps, his small hand shot out and grasped Dmitri’s much larger one.

Vanya looked up at him with those wide, earnest eyes—eyes that could soften even the hardest of men.

“Is it Mom who made you lose your mood?” Vanya asked innocently, swinging their joined hands. “Did she talk to another man at the party?”

I froze on the gravel path, heat rushing to my cheeks. What on earth?

Dmitri’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. He ruffled Vanya’s dark hair affectionately, the gesture softening the hard lines of his face. “She said some words that got to me, that’s all. But I’ll be fine, little man.”

Vanya wasn’t deterred. He tugged on Dmitri’s hand, forcing him to slow down. “What did she say?”

“Vanya,” I started, stepping forward, trying to reclaim some authority, “that’s enough—”

But Dmitri crouched slightly, meeting Vanya at eye level. “I thought she cared about me—because I’m her husband, even if it’s temporary. Turns out, she’d worry the same for anyone. And she still sees me as a stranger. Wants me far from you both, I guess.”

“I never said I wanted you far from Vanya!” I protested, my voice sharper than intended, the heat rising in my cheeks.

Vanya turned to me, unflinching. “Mom didn’t mean it like that. You’re a man—how can you take a woman’s words so seriously? She does care about you. Haven’t you seen how she looks at you when you’re not watching? Come on.”

I stared at my son, mouth agape. Where had he learned to speak like this? Dmitri straightened, a genuine chuckle escaping him—the first real lightness I’d seen in him since the terrace.

“Hm. You might be right,” he said, eyes flicking to me with a warmth that made my stomach twist.

Then, to my astonishment, he scooped Vanya up effortlessly, settling the boy on his hip like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I think your mom might already be catching feelings. She’s just pretending not to.”

“I think so too,” Vanya agreed solemnly, wrapping his arms around Dmitri’s neck. “She blushes every time I mention you.”

“What! When?” I exclaimed, mortified.

Both of them burst into laughter—Dmitri’s deep, amused, and Vanya’s high and boyish. The sound harmonized in a way that twisted something sweet and painful inside me. Dmitri carried Vanya toward the door, one hand steady on the handle. Just before they disappeared inside, Vanya shot me a conspiratorial wink, as if he’d orchestrated the entire scene.

Who taught these boys such tricks? I wondered, shaking my head. Had Vanya been watching too many videos on that laptop Ruslan gave him?

I hurried after them, chastened and laughing softly at my own disbelief.

Two hours later, I sat at the long dining table with Vanya, the room softly illuminated by the glow of overhead chandeliers and the flicker of candles Giovanni had insisted on lighting. It was nearly eleven, far past Vanya’s bedtime, but he had refused to sleep until we ate together.

Giovanni moved quietly around us, placing steaming plates of pasta carbonara and fresh bread before us—simple, comforting food after the extravagance of the gala. The rich aroma filled the room, mingling with the faint scent of lake air drifting through the open balcony doors.

Vanya chattered excitedly about the party, the golden boat, and the little adventures he wanted to have with Dmitri the next day. I smiled, watching him mimic Dmitri’s deliberate way of walking, the exaggerated gestures of a man Vanya clearly admired.

“Shouldn’t we eat with Dmitri?” Vanya asked, nudging his pasta aside to make room for the small toy speedboat he’d been obsessed with all evening—a bright red thing with spinning propellers that whirred softly as he pushed it along the tablecloth.

I followed the imaginary wake it left behind, my gaze drifting to the empty seat at the head of the table. “He’s probably busy,” I said lightly.

“He’s your husband,” Vanya pressed, zooming the boat in a neat circle around his plate. “Since we got here, it’s always just us eating alone.”

I took a bite of pasta, chewing slowly. The words lodged somewhere between my chest and throat. Vanya watched me with unsettling attentiveness, far too perceptive for a five-year-old.

“You two would make a great couple,” he went on, utterly sincere. “I wasn’t sure at first. But now…” He paused for effect, then nodded decisively. “I want him as my dad. All you have to do is love him back, Mom.”

My fork stilled midair.

“Love him back?” I echoed, setting it down carefully. The word felt foreign on my tongue. Ridiculous. Dangerous. He’d forced me into a marriage years ago—controlled my life, dictated my movements, shattered my sense of choice. Love had never entered the equation.

“Yes,” Vanya said, as if explaining something painfully obvious. “Didn’t you know he loves you?”

“Vanya,” I said gently, keeping my voice steady, “this is adult business. No matter how smart you are—and you are very smart—you can’t fully understand relationships yet. Now eat your dinner.”

He studied me for a long moment, then pushed his plate away. “I’m not hungry. I ate earlier.” He slid down from his chair. “I need the toilet.”

And just like that, he was gone—small feet pattering down the hall, leaving chaos and uncomfortable truths in his wake.

I exhaled slowly, rubbing my temples. Too clever for his own good. I forced myself to keep eating, though the pasta had turned bland and heavy in my mouth.

Then heavier footsteps approached.

I looked up—and there was Vanya again, proudly towing Dmitri by the hand like a triumphant hunter dragging home a prize far larger than himself.

“Sit, Dmitri,” Vanya ordered, pointing decisively to the head of the table. “I’ll tell Giovanni to bring your food. You adults need to talk about the future.”

“The future?” Dmitri and I said in unison, exchanging startled glances.

Vanya nodded solemnly, as if he’d just delivered a royal decree, then scampered off.

Moments later, Giovanni appeared with a fresh plate, Vanya marching behind him like a miniature general overseeing troop deployment.

“So Giovanni and I will play outside,” Vanya announced. “Leave you adults to it.”

My jaw dropped.

Giovanni—stoic, loyal, utterly unflappable Giovanni—grinned and allowed himself to be dragged toward the garden doors, already discussing something animated with Vanya involving speedboats and water battles.

What in the world was happening in this house?

Second day. And Vanya had everyone wrapped around his finger—everyone except me.

Dmitri lowered himself into the chair opposite mine, the corner of his mouth curved with faint amusement. “So,” he said, voice mild, “Vanya wants us to discuss the future.”

“As if there is one,” I muttered, focusing on my plate.

The air shifted abruptly.

Sharp, deliberate footsteps echoed across the marble—heels clicking with quiet authority. I looked up just as Seraphina appeared, carrying her own tray, blonde hair flawless, posture immaculate despite the late hour.

The warmth in the room evaporated.

Without waiting for permission, she slid into a chair across from me, crossing her legs elegantly. “I know I’m just the mistress here,” she said sweetly, lifting her spoon, “but I deserve to eat with family too, don’t I?”

Dmitri and I exchanged a look—pure, stunned disbelief.

She tasted her soup, utterly unbothered. “So,” she continued, eyes flicking between us, “what were we discussing? I’d love to join.”

Silence stretched—thick, brittle.

Then Dmitri’s voice cut through it, calm and glacial.

“You realize,” he said evenly, “that I will never marry you. Not after these three months. Not ever.”

Seraphina stiffened.

“If I have to,” he continued, eyes hard as stone, “I’ll start a war first.”

The words landed like a loaded gun placed gently on the table.

“That much is clear,” Seraphina replied coolly, her tone like ice sliding over steel. “All of Lake Como is buzzing. My father’s already preparing.”

Dmitri leaned forward, voice low, dangerous in its quiet. “Then end it. Tell him you’re no longer interested. Marry someone else. This war… it starts because of you.”

Seraphina’s spoon clattered against her bowl, but she didn’t flinch. When she finally lifted her gaze, her eyes burned like coals, unrelenting. “You forget,” she said softly at first, then louder, sharper. “I’ve loved you my entire life. I’d rather die than watch you with another woman. Yes, I seem desperate. Pathetic. A villain. But love does that. So go ahead—start your war. Let blood run in the streets. Let Lake Como burn. I don’t care. If I can’t have you, no one should.”

Dmitri’s chair scraped back as he rose, the movement precise, a predator slowly closing in. His dark eyes pinned her in place. “Leave this table,” he commanded, voice lethal, the kind that didn’t invite argument.

Her lips parted, trembling slightly, and she shot back, venom lacing every word. “Why? Because you’ll never stop hating me? Because I’ll never measure up to your perfect dead wife? Because I won’t fake cosmetic surgery to look like her?” She jabbed a finger subtly in my direction, and then her glare snapped back to him. “Because I’m being honest—who I truly am?”

“None of that matters,” Dmitri said evenly, every syllable coated in steel. “I want this moment with my wife. Alone. Without a forced intruder poisoning the air.”

For a heartbeat, Seraphina froze.

Then her chin lifted, her gaze sharp, eyes glittering with a storm of hurt and defiance. “Maybe you should push me away yourself,” she said, voice trembling but resolute. “Because I’m not leaving this table.”

Dmitri’s fists clenched, veins corded along his forearms as he took a menacing step toward her. I could feel the heat emanating from him, the kind of rage that could snap steel. This was the Dmitri I knew—the man who could make rooms quiet with a single glance, who could kill without hesitation.

And I knew Seraphina. She thrived on chaos, and this was a trap. One misstep, one burst of violence, and she’d spin it into proof of cruelty, a weapon for her father to unleash against Dmitri. She wanted the drama; she wanted leverage.

I moved before he could take another step, pressing my hands firmly against his chest. My palms were warm, but my grip was steady. “Dmitri,” I said softly, but with an urgent edge, “stop.”

For a heartbeat, his storm-gray eyes locked onto mine, fury coiled like a drawn bow. Then, somewhere between his temper and my insistence, reason flickered. He paused.

I forced a smile, teasing, light, as if none of this mattered. “Perhaps we should give Miss Seraphina exactly what she wants,” I murmured, loud enough for her to hear. “A show.”

Before he could question me, I took his hand—calloused, warm, familiar—and led him around the long dining table. The chandelier above cast a soft, golden light, the polished wood gleaming like a stage.

Seraphina’s gaze followed us, sharp and calculating, every muscle in her body taut with anticipation.

I stopped in front of him, my hands rising to cup his face. His stubble grazed my palms, grounding me in a way nothing else could. I rose onto my toes and pressed my lips to his.

The first touch was tentative, almost reverent, a gentle brush of mouths testing, remembering. For a heartbeat, he remained still, surprised, as if trying to place the weight of five years of absence in that single contact. Then his hands curved possessively around my waist, pulling me closer.

What had begun as soft and exploratory ignited like wildfire. The kiss deepened—hungry, demanding. His tongue brushed against mine, claiming, tasting, asserting. I melted into him, fingers threading through his thick hair, pulling him impossibly closer. Heat surged between us, years of longing and denial crashing together in one devastating wave.

His hands roamed my back, gripping, lifting slightly, and I arched against him instinctively. Mine were no less desperate, tugging at his shirt, ripping buttons free. Fabric tore under our fervor, falling to the floor. He shrugged it off, chest bare beneath my palms, scars and muscle familiar even after all this time.

The room blurred around us—the glittering chandeliers, the polished silverware, the lingering scent of pasta and wine.

Seraphina sat frozen, expression oscillating between shock and fury, powerless in the face of the undeniable bond we shared.

I pulled back just enough to look into Dmitri’s eyes, our breaths mingling, chests rising and falling in tandem. “Do you feel it?” I whispered against his lips.

His gaze darkened, desire and something unspoken—ownership, protection, and the weight of everything we’d lost—flickering there. “Every second I’ve waited,” he murmured, voice low, harsh, “I’ve burned for this moment.”

He backed me against the table’s edge, lips trailing fire down my neck as his fingers worked the zipper of my dress.

The fabric pooled at my feet, leaving me in nothing but lace underwear.

His mouth returned to mine, fierce now, as he lifted me onto the table’s polished surface.

Plates rattled, silverware clinked, but neither of us cared.

I reached for his belt, fumbling in my urgency.

He helped, kicking off trousers and boxers until he stood gloriously bare before me.

His eyes met mine—dark, questioning—as his fingers hooked the clasp of my bra. I nodded, breath hitching.

He unfastened it with practiced ease, letting it fall away before lowering his head.

The first pull of his mouth on my nipple sent lightning through my veins.

He sucked hard, teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp, my back arching off the table.

His free hand slid down my stomach, past the waistband of my panties, fingers brushing through the soft curls before finding slick heat.

My jeans from earlier were gone—this was only lace now—and his touch was unhindered, stroking, circling, teasing until I was writhing.

“Dmitri…” I moaned, head falling back, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. “Don’t stop… please…”

He moved to my other breast, lavishing the same attention, while his fingers finally slipped inside me—slow at first, then deeper, curling just right.

Pleasure coiled tight and hot in my belly, building with every thrust of his hand, every pull of his mouth.

I was lost—utterly, gloriously lost.

My wet dreams in Greece had nothing on this reality.

“I’m removing these,” he growled against my skin, tugging at my panties.

I silenced him with another kiss, desperate and devouring, as I helped shove them down.

In seconds, I was naked beneath him. He set me fully on the table, plates crashing to the floor in a distant clatter.

His erection pressed hot and heavy against my thigh.

He paused, eyes searching mine one last time.

I nodded frantically, wrapping my legs around his waist.

He entered me in one deep thrust.

I cried out—pain and pleasure intertwined—as he filled me completely. “I’ll take it easy, Maliya,” he whispered, voice rough with restraint.

Hearing that old nickname—Maliya, his private endearment from a lifetime ago—shattered something inside me.

He began to move—slow, deliberate strokes that quickly built to something harder, faster.

The table rocked beneath us, cutlery scattering, wine glasses toppling.

I clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, meeting every thrust with my own.

“Look at me,” he commanded, hand gently collaring my throat—not squeezing, just holding, grounding.

My eyes, which had rolled back in ecstasy, snapped to his. The intensity there undid me.

He slammed deeper, hitting that perfect spot over and over until I was chanting his name like a prayer. Pleasure crested, sharp and overwhelming.

Then, abruptly, he pulled out.

Before I could protest, he flipped me—gently but firmly—until I faced forward, bent over the table.

Seraphina sat mere feet away, pale as death, eyes wide with shock and humiliation.

Dmitri entered me again from behind, one hand fisting my hair, the other gripping my hip.

The new angle was devastating—deeper, harder. I couldn’t hold back the screams of pleasure.

“Yes… yes… Dmitri!” Each thrust sent waves crashing through me.

I locked eyes with Seraphina, a triumphant smirk curving my lips despite the ecstasy rendering me boneless.

Shame burned in her gaze; she looked ready to vanish into the floor.

Dmitri’s pace became relentless, his ragged breaths hot against my ear. “Come for me,” he growled, plunging deeper and faster.

I gasped, again and again, each wave of sensation pulling me closer, until suddenly everything shattered—an orgasm crashing through me like a storm.

My body convulsed uncontrollably, cries tearing from my throat as the world narrowed to the heat and force of him.

He followed moments later, burying himself deep with a primal groan that vibrated through my back.

He collapsed over me, peppering kisses along my shoulder, my neck, as we both trembled in the aftermath.

Slowly, gently, he pulled me upright and into his arms.

I was limp, boneless, but he carried me effortlessly—naked, sated—up the stairs to our bedroom.

He laid me on the cool sheets, sliding in beside me.

I curled into him immediately, desperation I couldn’t hide driving me to press as close as possible.

His arms wrapped around me, strong and warm.

I knew questions burned in his mind—why this intensity from a woman he believed he’d known only days? But he asked none of them. He simply held me, fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back until sleep claimed me.

When I woke, blinding light stabbed my eyes.

I squinted, blinking rapidly, confusion mounting.

This wasn’t the bedroom.