Chapter 9 I'll ruin you so thoroughly!

Caitlyn's POV

Get off me. Now!" My voice is barely a whisper, but it slices through the thick air.

Vlad freezes, his hand still warm on my thigh, his mouth hovering over mine. The heat from his body seeps into me, but I feel cold.

Raw.

Broken open.

He pulls back slowly, expression unreadable. My legs tremble as I sit up and pull the ruined scraps of my underwear over my thighs, trying to reclaim a sliver of dignity that I'm not even sure I still possess.

He doesn't speak. Just watches me with a gaze that burns.

"I need to leave," I whisper, pulling away from him as I straighten my crumbled dress down my thighs.

He moves closer, and I flinch before I can stop myself. His eyes narrow.

"Are you afraid of me now, babochka?" he asks, voice low, a mockery of tenderness.

"Shouldn't I be?" I snap, though my voice betrays me-shaky and unsure.

He tilts his head, like he's calculating. Studying. His hand raises, and for a split second I think he's going to touch me again, but it just hovers in the air between us.

"You said stop," he murmurs. "So I stopped."

His restraint doesn't make me feel safe. It makes me feel owned.

The silence between us stretches like some acrid smoke. I try to stand, but my knees nearly buckle. He moves instantly, reaching out to steady me.

"Don't," I hiss, slapping his hand away. "Don't pretend this meant something."

His jaw clenches. He doesn't argue. That scares me more than if he had.

I stumble toward the door, heart pounding like a war drum against my ribs. But his voice stops me before I reach the handle.

"You're lying to yourself, Caitlyn."

I turn slowly, trying to mask the panic clawing up my throat. I swallow nervously, my eyes wandering elsewhere but his eyes.

"You liked it," he says, stepping forward, his boots echoing against the marble floor. "You moaned like a fucking siren under my fingers. You begged."

"Because you pushed me," I shoot back. "Because you invaded a part of me I wasn't ready to give."

His smile is slow. Dark.

"And yet... you gave it. You begged me to take it from you"

The tears sting my eyes before I can stop them. I hate that he's right. I hate that part of me craved it-even the twisted way he touched me. I hate that my body betrayed me before my mind could scream no.

His voice dips lower. "Do you really want to walk out of here pretending that wasn't the best orgasm of your life?"

I freeze.

"I can make you come again, Caitlyn," he continues, crossing the room until he's inches from me. "Harder. Deeper. I'll ruin you so thoroughly you'll wish for no man to ever touch you after me."

My breath stutters.

He leans down, whispering by my ear. "Do you want me to tie you up, suspend you like a precious piece of art, and fuck you until you can't breathe? Until you forget your name?"

My throat closes up.

"I'll watch you drip with me," he growls. "I'll fuck your mouth while my cum leaks out of your virgin pussy. I'll sit back and light a smoke while you hang there, ruined and marked."

I feel like I've been set on fire. But I can't move. Can't speak.

"You think that scares me?" I whisper hoarsely. In Fact it shouldn't because men like him think of-sex, sex, and more sex. Its where they get to dominate and treat women like some pleasure toys meant to satisfy their animalistic urges.

"It should," he answers.

Then, softer, like he's whispering a confession, "But you're wet again, aren't you?"

All the blood rushes from my face at the thought of what he'd do. How vulnerable I'd be. How easily he'd be able to fuck whatever hole he wanted. Turning me into his fucking sex doll.

Tears fall freely now. Because he's right. Because I hate myself for it. I loathed myself if how wet I become to hearing how he will toy with my body!

"I want to hate you," I murmur.

"You will," he says. "But not before you come for me again."

The door opens behind me-one of his men, summoned silently.

I don't wait for permission. I walk out, trembling, humiliated, aching.

And I don't look back. I run.

×××

I would never drink vodka tonics again. Ever. They were fun when the lights were low and the music loud, when the world blurred enough to feel bearable. But in the sobering sting of morning sunlight, all they left behind was a pounding head and a heart steeped in shame.

My cheeks burned as flashes from last night flickered through my mind. The VIP room. His mouth. My legs wrapped around him like he was oxygen and I was suffocating. I'd let Vladislav Mikhailov touch me in ways no man ever had. I'd let him take what I'd guarded for so long, and I'd wanted it.

Until I didn't.

"God," I groaned, thunking my forehead gently against the kitchen cabinet door as I waited for the coffee to finish brewing. The sharp scent of caffeine couldn't mask the bile of regret churning in my stomach.

Thank God Mia wasn't home. She'd gone home with some stranger-likely tall, dark, and emotionally unavailable-and would no doubt spend her morning either bragging about it or pretending it hadn't happened at all.

She had the emotional memory of a goldfish.

Me? I had the guilt-ridden memory of an elephant.

What would last night have looked like if I hadn't stopped him?

A kiss. Just one more.

Shh. Patience.

That's what his eyes had said. His hands. His voice.

But my heart was a battlefield, and I couldn't afford another scar-especially not one carved by him.

My skin flushed as my traitorous body remembered the feeling of his mouth on me, the way he whispered filth like a vow, the way I shattered under his touch. I hated him. I hated how easily he got under my skin. I hated that I still ached for him even after I'd told him to get off me.

I poured the coffee with shaky hands.

"At least you didn't sleep with him," I muttered. That was supposed to make me feel better. It didn't.

Because I'd almost let him. If that guard hadn't banged the door-if I hadn't panicked-I would've let the devil himself between my thighs and called it heaven.

I clutched the warm mug with both hands, sinking into the chair as silence wrapped around me like a shroud. A small part of me-one I wanted to crush-wanted to rewind time. To do it differently. Slower. Without the guilt.

But that was the problem. With Vlad, there was no slow. No safe. Only fire.

I shook off the thought. I had things to do. Patients to attend to. Bills to pay. A routine that didn't allow space for emotional spirals or dark, dominant older men!

After breakfast and my second cup of coffee, I pulled on my running gear and tied my shoes, needing the burn of a morning run to chase away the shadows in my head.

The sun was barely up, a thin golden line over the rooftops, the world still half-asleep. I pushed my earbuds in, music loud enough to drown my thoughts, and took off down the quiet street.

I barely made it two blocks before I saw him.

Vladislav Mikhailov.

Dressed in a black running shirt and matching joggers, like this was just a casual morning for him. Like he hadn't torn me open last night with his mouth, his fingers, his words.

My breath caught in my throat.

Holy shit!