I reach back desperately. I want to touch him so I can secure myself to something solid as my world fractures into pure sensation. But Lukas catches my wrists, wrenches them behind me, and cuffs both together at the small of my back in one hand. With the other, he shoves me face into the pillows.
“Moya,” he snarls in Russian. Then in English: “Mine. Ty moya, Rae. You’re mine.”
“I— I— I—” I try to respond, but he’s f*****g me so hard now that speaking is out of the question.
“Say it,” he demands anyway, slapping my ass for good measure.
“I don’t—I d-don’t know how—”
“Ya tvoya.” He presses my cheek harder into the mattress. My nose is filled with the faintest scent of lavender detergent, still alive after all these years. “Say it. Ya tvoya.”
I try. My brain is goo. My body is no longe
