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Chapter 84 – Ivan POV
"What's on the menu?" I ask, leaning against the archway with deliberate ease.
Zander doesn't turn right away. He's at the stove, wearing a plain apron over a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The kitchen is warm and golden, firelight flickering just behind me.
His hands move with practiced calm as he dices vegetables—carrots, peppers, something aromatic sizzling in the pan.
"Steak," he says after a beat. "And maybe a potato salad. Something simple."
I nod slowly, eyes tracing the curve of his shoulders, the flex of his forearms, the quiet tension in the line of his spine.
"I'm starving," I say.
He stills for a fraction of a second. Just a pause—but I see it. I feel it.
And then he keeps chopping, not looking at me. "We can have snacks while we wait."
But there's something tight in his voice. Strained. Like it's costing him to stay polite.
I smile slowly. The nerves I brought with me dissolve under the heat of this—this current thrumming in the space between us.
"I'm not hungry for food," I say softly.
The knife clinks hard against the cutting board.
Zander turns.
His eyes flash—dark, stormy, restrained. His jaw clenched tight, his breath just a bit too sharp.
"You really should stop messing with me, Ivan."
There's something rough in his voice, something fraying at the edges. He looks like he's two seconds from either kissing me or throwing something.
I step closer, pulse skipping. "I'm not messing with you."
He scoffs under his breath, running a hand through his hair like he's on the verge of losing composure.
"You walk in here like that," he says, voice low and fast, "barely dressed, glowing, smelling like you want to be—"
"I do," I interrupt.
That stops him.
His eyes meet mine, sharp and unreadable.
They flick down—over my collarbone, my bare thighs under the robe—and then back up. The air between us thickens, heavy with heat and something darker. His jaw tightens.
"What do you mean?" he asks, already undoing the apron.
His voice is low. Dangerous. Too calm.
He shrugs out of it in one swift motion, tosses it aside like it means nothing. The apron lands on the arm of the couch, forgotten.
"You know what I mean," I say, backing up a step.
Then another.
The hardwood floor is cool against my bare feet as I retreat, the flickering light from the fireplace casting long shadows across the room. The scent of seared garlic and steak lingers in the air—but it's overpowered now. Thick layers of pheromones pulse like waves around him, coating everything.
Including me.
Until my back hits the wall.
I stop breathing.
Zander doesn't rush.
He stalks toward me slowly, eyes fixed on mine like I'm prey he's already claimed.
When he reaches me, his right hand comes up and curls around my throat—not squeezing, just holding. Possessive. Firm.
I tilt my chin up, pulse fluttering wildly. Not afraid.
Never afraid.
Zander would cut off his own arm before he hurt me. Somehow I know that with certainity.
But still—this? This is power. Coiled. Contained.
And only for me.
"You don't get to rile me up and stop halfway, sweetheart," he says, voice hoarse now, edged in restraint.
"Do you have any idea how long I've been struggling because of you?"
His thumb brushes the corner of my jaw. My breath hitches.
"I'm frustrated. And I won't be nice."
I swallow, hard.
"I'm counting on it," I say, my voice smaller than I intend, breathier. My hands curl against the wall for support, my knees already threatening to give.
He leans in closer. His nose brushes my cheek. His breath is hot against my skin, and the sheer proximity of him makes my entire body light up.
"I won't stop," he whispers against my ear.
"Not even when you beg me to."
Goosebumps erupt down my arms. A shiver runs through me.
"Promises, promises," I murmur, trying for flippant.
But it doesn't land. Not with the way my body is trembling slightly. Not with how much I want him to ruin me right here, against this wall.
His other hand slides around my waist, pulling me flush against him. I gasp at the contact—at the feel of his body, hard and heated and unyielding.
His pheromones curl tighter around me, like invisible ropes pulling me deeper into him. They cling to my skin, sink into my lungs—thick and heady, all dominance and heat and intent.
His thumb drags across my bottom lip, slow and deliberate.
"Are you sure?" he asks, voice low and rough like gravel wrapped in velvet.
I nod automatically, but he doesn't budge.
"Words, sweetheart."
The way he says it—sweetheart—like it's both a warning and a promise, makes my knees buckle.
I swallow. Then smile. The kind of smile that says I know exactly what I'm doing—and that I'm daring him to ruin me for it.
"You want words, big guy?" I purr, stepping closer even though there's hardly any space between us. My chest brushes his. I tilt my chin up, eyes bright, breathing shallow.
"I want you to fuck me so hard I remember you for days. So hard I can't walk. So hard you leave bruises. So hard my throat goes sore from screaming your name. So hard I feel you in my skin."
His hand tightens on my waist, and I swear I feel him tremble.
"You don't know what you're asking for," he mutters like he's trying to talk himself down—but his body is already moving, crowding me further into the wall.
I smile, lips brushing his.
"Then show me."