I stood frozen, my feet rooted to the cold floor, as the man before me emanated a raw and untamed energy that made the air feel heavy. His presence was overwhelming—broad shoulders that seemed to carry the weight of worlds, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and eyes like two shards of ice, piercing straight through my soul. He was handsome in a way that felt dangerous, almost unearthly, and his every move radiated control.
His hand came down hard on the rock-strewn table, the sound sharp and unyielding. "Where is Diane?" he demanded, his voice as cold and cutting as a winter storm.
I opened my mouth, but no words came. Fear clawed at my throat, making it impossible to speak. His patience snapped, and his gaze darkened with fury.
"Will you talk?" he thundered, leaning closer. The intensity in his eyes was suffocating.
"I—I don't know," I stammered, the words tumbling out incoherently. "She...she ran away."
He straightened, his expression hardening. "Diane ran away? Is that the best lie you can come up with?" His lips twisted into a cruel smirk. "Try again."
Panic surged through me, and I blurted out, "I'm not lying! My father told me to come here in her place. He said that if I married you, he'd find my mother."
His brow furrowed, but it wasn't confusion—it was a growing, volcanic rage. "So let me get this straight. Your father, Dale Morgan, knew you weren't Diane. He knew, and yet he sent you to marry me?" His voice dropped, quiet but laced with venom. "Such insults."
The tension in the room thickened, and I felt as if I were being crushed under his gaze.
"Please, Mr. Volkov," I said, my voice trembling, "just listen to me. Diane's gone, and I—I'll take her place. I'll be Diane. I'll do whatever you want. Just don't send me back."
His laughter was cold and devoid of humor. "You think this is a negotiation?" He stepped closer, towering over me, and I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Do you even know who I am?"
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "I—I know enough. I know you're the only one who can help me see my mother again."
His icy gaze softened for a moment, but the change was so fleeting I wondered if I'd imagined it. He turned away, running a hand through his dark, perfectly styled hair. "So you're doing all this for your mother?"
"Yes," I whispered, the word barely audible.
He turned back to me, his expression unreadable, though the corner of his mouth curled in something that might have been disdain. "And you think that pretending to be Diane will solve all your problems? That spending one year as my wife will magically bring your mother back?"
"I have no other choice," I said, my voice cracking. "Please, Mr. Volkov. I'll be Diane. I'll be whoever you want me to be."
He stared at me, his icy blue eyes searching mine, and for a moment, I thought he might relent. But then he shook his head. "You can't replace Diane," he said, his tone final. "She was...unique."
I froze, his words cutting deeper than I expected. "You—you loved her?"
He scoffed, a bitter smile playing on his lips. "Love? No. Diane was divine. Beautiful, perfect. A taste I can't forget." His gaze darkened, his jaw tightening. "But you? You're nothing like her."
His words stung, but I refused to back down. "Then let me prove it to you. Let me show you that I can be just as good."
His brow arched, a flicker of curiosity in his expression. "Prove it? How?"
My hands trembled as I reached for the buttons of my gown, the fabric slipping from my fingers. His eyes narrowed, his body tensing.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous.
"Showing you that I can be Diane," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. The gown slid from my shoulders, pooling around my feet. I stood there, exposed and vulnerable, my heart pounding in my chest.
His gaze raked over me, lingering, assessing. His jaw clenched, and for a moment, I thought I saw something flicker in his eyes—something dark and primal.
"You think this will work?" he asked, his tone laced with disbelief.
"I'll do whatever it takes," I whispered, taking a tentative step toward him.
His hand shot out, gripping my wrist with a force that made me gasp. "You think you can manipulate me?" he hissed, pulling me closer. "Fine. If this is what you want, I'll give it to you. But don't say I didn't warn you."
He released me abruptly, his expression cold and detached, as if I were nothing more than a pawn in his game. My heart sank, but I forced myself to stand tall, meeting his gaze with defiance.
"I'll be Diane," I said again, my voice firm. "Whatever it takes."
His laughter was soft, almost mocking. "You're playing with fire, Evelyn Morgan. And fire burns."
For a moment, I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. My pulse pounded in my ears as the heat of his presence enveloped me. A nervous laugh escaped me—a quiet, shaky sound.
"Uh-huh," I whispered, a faint smirk tugging at my lips, though I barely recognized the boldness in my own voice. My mind was scrambling to stay steady, but the truth? I was unraveling. I'm trying, I thought desperately. I'm trying so hard to pull myself together, to stay strong.
But my body betrayed me. A warmth—no, a heat—spread through me, igniting something I couldn't understand. My resolve wavered, giving way to a desire so raw and unfamiliar it scared me. It wasn't just him, though his proximity made it impossible to think. It was me—my body responding in a way I couldn't control, couldn't explain.
This isn't me. I'm not trying to seduce him. I'm not trying to be reckless. But something about him had awakened a fire in me, and it was spreading, taking over my senses.
"I would love to see," I murmured, my voice trembling yet daring, "just how this fire will burn me."
I didn't think. I couldn't think. Before I knew it, I moved, stepping closer until the space between us disappeared. My hand, trembling but determined, reached up. My lips brushed his, a soft, tentative kiss.
For a heartbeat, he didn't move. I thought I'd made a terrible mistake, but then everything shifted.
Suddenly, he was the one kissing me. His lips crashed into mine with a force that stole the air from my lungs. It wasn't gentle—it was angry, raw, and consuming. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me closer, and I felt the sharp edge of his hunger, his frustration, and something deeper, something darker.
I matched him, my hands tangling in his hair as I gave as good as I got. Our mouths collided, exploring, demanding, devouring. His tongue met mine, a fierce clash of wills, and I couldn't tell where the fire in him ended and the fire in me began.
It was reckless, wild, and utterly consuming, as if we were testing each other, pushing limits, daring the other to give in first. His hand slid to the small of my back, pressing me so close I could feel every inch of him, his heat, his strength.
The kiss deepened, a dangerous dance that neither of us could control. My nails scraped against his scalp, and he growled against my lips, the sound vibrating through me and making my knees weak.
We were two storms colliding, fierce and unstoppable, the intensity of it almost too much to bear. His lips, his touch, the way his tongue moved against mine—it was unlike anything I'd ever experienced.
When we finally pulled back, both of us were breathless, our foreheads touching as we struggled to regain some semblance of control. My chest heaved as I tried to calm the fire raging inside me, but his gaze told me I wasn't alone in my struggle. His eyes, now dark and smoldering, bore into mine with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.
"You don't know what you're doing," he murmured, his voice rough and low.
"Neither do you," I whispered back, my lips tingling from the force of our kiss.
For a moment, we simply stood there, caught in the aftermath of the storm we'd unleashed, neither of us willing—or able—to step away and then our lips crashed again.
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