The air in the dining room thickened until it felt like I was breathing through wet silk.

Viktor Volkov’s eyes never left mine. Not when Rocco pulled out my chair. Not when servants poured wine. Not when the first course was set in front of us. Those cold steel eyes stayed locked on my face like he was still watching me choke on his cock two nights ago in a New York hotel room.

I sat. Crossed my legs under the long table. The modest cream dress I had chosen for the wedding reception suddenly felt paper-thin. Every shift of my thighs reminded me how sore I still was—how the...