She was a vision. A creature spun from decadence, lounging against sheets that gleamed like liquid silver beneath the soft glow of the room. The subtle curve of her body, the way her ebony hair cascaded over her shoulders, the sultry, knowing tilt of her lips—it was all designed to tempt, to ensnare. And Polina knew it. Every movement, every glance, every slow, languid stretch of her limbs was an unspoken dare. She was exquisite, the kind of beauty that could ruin men, and she wielded it like a weapon. Yet, it was the fire in her eyes, the wicked intelligence lurking beneath the surface, that made her dangerous. That made her lethal.
Yuri tried not to flinch.
Not at the command, nor at the way she lounged before him, draped in arrogance and allure, a queen on her silken throne. He had spent the last month tempering her fire, weathering every storm she threw his way with the unshakable patience of a man carved from stone. And yet—this was different. This was not her usual defiance.
This was something else entirely.
Her foot, adorned by her priceless heels, tapped the air in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Once. Twice. Thrice. A taunt, an invitation. Her smirk curled, velvet and sin, as she tipped her chin toward him, the soft light of the room casting a halo over her golden hair. The words dripped from her lips like poison honey, thick with satisfaction, thick with promise. Another order, one contrasted to all that came before it. It wasn't not to touch her, no, it was to touch her more. On his knees. To slip her of the very heels she nearly stomped on him with countless times on the way home.
A silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.
Yuri exhaled through his nose, slow, steady. This—this was a new game. He had always known she would escalate, had anticipated that she would push him past patience, past restraint, to something far more dangerous. But he had not expected her to choose this route.
Clever girl.
A muscle in his jaw ticked as he held her gaze, as unmovable as ever. He could refuse. He could remind her who was in control, that no matter how she tried to wield power over him, it was only ever an illusion. But that would be letting her win. In truth, he had no capacity to refuse such a command, humiliating as it might have been.
So, he moved. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them until he was near enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body. Then, without breaking eye contact, he lowered himself onto one knee. The air shifted. His large hands, rough with the remnants of old scars and callouses earned through years of violence, reached for the back of her calf. But when he touched her, he was unbearably gentle. The contrast was stark—these were hands made for breaking, for bruising, for wielding cold steel. And yet, as they encircled her delicate ankle, they were reverent. Careful. Soft as they descended down every inch of skin until calf gave way to heel.
His thumb ghosted over the thin strap of her heel before he undid it, painstakingly slow, drawing the moment out like a blade dragged along tender skin. The warmth of her seeped into his fingertips, the pulse of her heartbeat barely perceptible beneath the fragile curve of her ankle. Yuri did not look up at her. No. He wanted her to feel this. That the road she chose was not a one way street. To feel the way his fingers slid along her skin, the feather-light pressure of his touch as he peeled away the first heel. The way he lifted her foot with one hand, his grip firm but careful along the curve of her foot, before placing it back against the lush carpet, bare and vulnerable.
And then, the second.
His hands traced the length of her calf again with unhurried precision, fingertips grazing along smooth skin, up to where the second heel rested against her foot. He could hear her breathing now, could feel the way her muscles tensed, waiting, anticipating. Another slow tug, another deliberate drag of his fingertips as he freed her from the last of it. Yuri did not speak, did not move to rise just yet. Instead, he let his hands linger for just a second longer than necessary, his touch whispering a silent warning against her skin.
Finally, he let her go, rising to his full height with a grace that did not match his size. His gaze found hers, dark and unreadable, lips curved just slightly—not quite a smirk, it curved in the opposite direction. Irritation. Whatever she was doing was working. This was getting under his skin.
"Happy now, принцесса?" The words were soft, edged with something that coiled low in the space between them.
He had done as she asked. But at what cost?
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