The Final Hour (Volkov Bratva #3)(97)

“Let me.”

She eased his shirt up, a small smile curling her lips as he raised his arms to help her. His legs were moving beneath her as he toed off his shoes, lifting up to shove his jeans and briefs down his thighs.

“Will you look at me?” Lauren asked softly, resting her palms on his shoulders.

His gaze was pointedly focused downward as his hands made quick work of her bra. There was something detached about the way he was acting then. It wasn’t because she didn’t think he wanted her—she could feel the evidence of that pressed against her—but she needed more from him.

Instead of waiting for him to act on her demand, she forced his face up with her hands on either side of his face. In his eyes, she saw an agony that resonated through her, and she wished with every part of her that she could take that pain away from him.

She knew where it stemmed from, and could see the truth of it eating away at him, but she wasn’t willing to lose him to his grief.

“Kiss me.”

It was plea as much as command. Whatever he heard in her voice made him frown, his brows drawing together as he focused on her. He had made a promise to her once, that in their darkest hour, he would find his way back to her, no matter the cost.

She wanted him back.

Drawing her forward by the nape of her neck, Mishca pulled her into him, and she fell willingly, tasting the sharp bite of whiskey on his tongue. The arm banded around around her waist grew tighter as she slipped a hand between their bodies, sliding it down his chest until she held his erection, slowing sliding her fist over him.

He groaned brokenly, the sound sending a thrill through her, but it still wasn’t enough. She needed that passion from him that he only got when he let his guard down for her.

Even with her sitting on top of him, they managed to get his jeans unzipped and shoved down his legs, but he didn’t bother trying to take them all the way off. She did the honors herself, reaching to position him in just the right place before slowly sinking down.

His hands dropped from her face to her waist, his fingers digging into her skin as he kept her seated on him. Lauren waited for his grip to loosen, rolling her hips, but he wasn’t content with her steady pace.

He needed faster. Harder. Something that would combat with the raging storm inside of him.

Lauren couldn’t scream, could barely make a sound as she tried to do just that as she held onto him tightly, accepting everything he was giving her, responding in kind.

But she still felt like he was holding back, resisting letting go of what was eating at him.

She wanted him to come alive, to show her that he was still lurking inside of the shell of a man he had been.

Lauren grabbed his face, forcing him to meet her gaze, wanting him to see and hear the sincerity of her words. “Give me your pain, Mish. Just let it go.”

It took a second of him just staring at her before he gave her exactly what she’d asked for.

He whispered guttural words in Russian that she didn’t understand, but his intent was clear, the way his thrusts sped up, the sting of his teeth as he bit her neck not hard enough to break the skin, but enough that it would leave a mark, sucking roughly.

Lauren tried to breathe through it all, accept everything he was giving her, but the air wouldn’t, or couldn’t, fill her lungs, not even when he released the spot where he had undoubtedly left a hickey, her head falling back. She had been sure that he was close, was ready to feel him come apart, but he lifted her off him, carrying her into their bedroom, the first time they would be in there together for weeks.

He crawled onto the bed after her, slowly entering her again as he hooked her legs around his waist.

The pain he felt, that agony that had been consuming him for so long, he let it all out, taking it out on her body. But she really couldn’t complain, not with the way that the stress in his eyes was fading, and the way it made her feel in the process.

By the time they were coming together, Lauren felt breathless, unable to do anything more than rub her hand down Mishca’s back.

After several moments, he lifted his weight from her, rolling over to his side. He didn’t pause in pulling her closer, his hold still insistently strong, but at least the tension in his body was dwindling as he kept her in that spot.

“Thank you.” His voice was gruff, tired.

“There’s no need to thank me, Mish. I’d do anything for you. Is there anything else I can do?” she asked quietly, still clinging to him.

Mishca’s eyes were still haunted, still dark with emotion, but he was at least looking at her now with a ghost of a smile. “All I need is you.”





There was a different atmosphere about Mishca as he got dressed that morning for court. He knew there was nothing further the prosecution could present that would continue the case, and while he was happy with this fact, the consequences of the life he led weighed on him.

It was much easier for everyone else to pretend like Vlad wasn’t one of their own, to act like he was nothing more than a fraud and a blight in their inner workings, but to Mishca, he had been one of the closest people he’d had. Even though he hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger, Vlad’s death was still on his hands.

Lauren appeared in the doorway to the closet, already dressed and ready to go. She looked far better than he felt, and he wished he could feel that peace.

Without him having to ask, she reached to straighten his tie. Brazil had been left in the past, and she rarely spoke of it—much—because of the emotional toll Vlad’s death had on him.