Ashley's POV:
"Let's marry."
The words hung in the silence of the bedroom, heavy and absolute, swirling with the dust motes in the dim light. They didn't sound like a question. They sounded like a decree. A new law of physics he had just invented and expected the universe to obey.
I lay frozen beneath him, my body still humming with the aftershocks of what we had just shared, my skin slick with sweat and the scent of him. The intimacy of the last hour felt like a fever dream, but this—this staredown—was cold, hard reality.
"Roman," I whispered, my voice cracking. "We... we just..."
"We just sealed it," he interrupted, his voice rough, vibrating against my chest. He shifted his weight, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at me. His hair was messy, his eyes dark and blown wide with that terrifying, singular focus. "You gave yourself to me. You said you loved me. There is no going back now. There is no 'dating.' There is no testing the waters. You are mine."
He reached out, tracing the line of my jaw with a thumb that was surprisingly steady. "Marry me, Ashley. Let me put my name on you in every way that matters to the world."
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Part of me—the part that had melted under his touch, the part that had whispered I love you—wanted to scream yes. Wanted to dissolve into the safety he promised, no matter how sharp the edges were.
But the other part—the girl who remembered the basement, the girl who remembered the gun at the shooting range—felt the walls closing in. Marriage wasn't just a ring. With Roman, it was a padlock.
"You're asking me this now?" I managed a breathless, incredulous laugh. "While we're still... like this?"
"I am asking you now because I have never been more certain of anything in my life," he said, his expression sobering. The predatory gleam softened into something painfully raw. "I have spent my life taking things, Ashley. Stealing them. Breaking them. But with you... I want to build. I want to build a fortress around us that no one can ever breach."
He leaned down, pressing his forehead against mine. "I want to wake up every day knowing you are my wife. I want to know that if anything happens to me, you own everything. My empire. My money. My protection. I want you bound to me so tightly that even death would have to think twice about separating us."
The intensity of his words stole the air from my lungs. It was terrifying. It was beautiful. It was Roman.
"I..." I swallowed, the magnitude of the choice crushing me. "My parents..."
"Will be there," he promised instantly. "They will sit in the front row. They will smile. They will be happy because they will see that I worship you."
He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching mine. "Say yes, Solnyshko. Don't make me demand it. Give it to me."
I looked at him—this broken, violent, magnificent man who had torn my life apart and stitched it back together with gold thread. I realized then that I had already said yes. I had said yes the moment I stopped running. I had said yes the moment I kissed him in the kitchen.
"Yes," I whispered.
Roman let out a breath that sounded like a shudder. He didn't smile. He closed his eyes for a second, looking almost pained with relief.
Then he kissed me. It wasn't the hungry, devouring kiss of before. It was slow. Reverent. A seal on a contract written in blood and desire.
"Good," he murmured against my lips. "Good."
He pulled me into a fierce embrace, rolling to his back and tucking me fully against his side, his arm clamped over my hip, pulling my legs flush with his. His relief was a palpable, trembling energy.
"Ty vsya moya (You are entirely mine)," he whispered, the possessive Russian a vow spoken directly into my soul. "My wife. My everything."
We didn't talk about rings, parties, or lawyers. The promise was enough. The sheer weight of that single word, yes, had changed the gravitational center of the room.
Finally, the exhaustion of the night claimed me. Roman held me tight, never loosening his grip, the powerful thrum of his heartbeat a steady drum against my ear. It was the most secure sleep I had known since coming to this house, tucked into the arms of the man who was both my captor and my sanctuary.
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I woke suddenly, not to light, but to a terrifying, absolute tension.
Roman was awake. He was no longer the man who had drifted to sleep with me; he was a statue of pure, rigid fear, sitting bolt upright in the bed, his back to me. His shoulders were hiked up to his ears, and the muscles in his neck were cords.
"Roman?" I whispered, reaching out to touch his back.
He spun on me, his eyes black voids, manic and glossy with cold sweat. He didn't see me. He saw the end of his world.
He lunged, not with violence, but with a desperate, animalistic terror. He caught my wrist and pinned it instantly, looming over me, his face close to mine.
"You left," he grated out, his voice low, guttural, a sound scraped from the deepest parts of his chest. "You were gone. You chose him. You looked at me like I was nothing."
His fear was contagious, making my own heart slam against my ribs. He clamped his hand over my throat, the non-negotiable grip of a man claiming his property. My breath hitched, a low gasp escaping my lips, and my eyes filled with pure shock. I was utterly confused by the sudden, violent shift.
He reacted to the motion instantly, his terror shifting into a desperate, ferocious need to possess. He tore his hand from my throat, replacing the threat with a searing kiss, taking my mouth with a crushing hunger.
"Mine," he roared, the sound swallowed by my mouth. "You are mine. You can never leave me!"
He shifted, his body covering mine. He drove into me, his hips moving with a furious, relentless urgency born of panic. The sudden, violent pressure brought a low cry of pain from my throat, but the sound seemed only to feed his frenzy, locking him deeper into the delusion that I was slipping away.
He was slamming his body against mine, his movements desperate, punishing, demanding confirmation that I was physically bound to him. He was chanting the single word, "Mine," over and over, his face contorted with the maniacal focus of a man fighting for his life.
I twisted beneath him, trying to speak, trying to get him to see me, to stop the painful, overwhelming intensity, but he was deaf to everything but the terror of his nightmare. He bit fiercely into my shoulder, a mark of absolute possession that made me gasp in searing pain.
The relentless, furious claim continued, exhausting me, leaving me bruised and aching. The shock and confusion were absolute. Why was the man who loved me acting like this?
He finally collapsed, spent and trembling, his massive weight heavy on my body. He lay there for a long moment, breathing raggedly, his body slowly relaxing into the undeniable reality of our shared space. He shifted, pulling himself onto his elbow, his eyes sweeping over my face, searching for damage, searching for betrayal.
I was sore. Exhausted. My skin was still singing with the violent, beautiful intensity of the act, but I was not afraid. The confusion, however, lingered, leaving me breathless and bewildered.
He traced the slight redness where his hand had been on my neck, his expression turning instantly to profound regret.
"I am sorry, Solnyshko," he whispered, his voice thick with shame. "I thought... I thought I had lost you. You were laughing, and you were with another man. You looked peaceful. Not like you look with me. And you walked away, and I couldn't follow you. I was drowning."
He caressed my cheek, his touch feather-light now, desperate to repair the damage.
I reached up and pulled him close, pressing his cheek against mine. Now, the chaotic pieces of the last few minutes clicked into place. His terror, his demand—it was all rooted in the absolute devastation of the nightmare.
"I understand," I said softly, stroking his hair. "It's okay. You were scared. I am here. I am never going to leave you. Calm down. Relax, okay? I am all yours. No one else's. Just yours."
He squeezed his eyes shut, nodding repeatedly against my ear, accepting the absolute, necessary truth. I knew then that my yes was not just a word. It was a lifeline.
He held me, trembling only slightly now, until the first faint light of dawn painted the room in cold grays. He didn't sleep again, but lay still, listening to my breathing, his fingers gently tracing the pulse point in my neck, a possessive yet careful reassurance.
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Author's Note:
Roman had a nightmare, and the cure for separation anxiety is a midnight panic-fueled claiming and an immediate, non-negotiable declaration of 'Mine.'
Ashley's confusion melted into acceptance—she's definitely got Stockholm Syndrome, but at least the devotion is absolute.
Trauma, terror, and mandatory property ownership before breakfast.
Classic Roman.
She just needs a minute (and maybe an ice pack). 💀🥺
#PossessivePancakes #VolkovVows
-Vaanni 🖤