Throne of Power (Throne Duet #1) by Rina Kent

That moment when I saw Kyle lying in his own blood, all I could think about was that I’d lost him right after I had just gotten him back.

So, during these past couple of weeks, I’ve been at his side as he slowly recovers. I haven’t gone to the company a lot, and even when I do, I bring my work back home with me.

It’s not easy to juggle two lives at the same time, but I make it work so Kyle can get back on his feet again.

His recovery has been going smoothly. Even Dr. Putin said he has a strong immune system.

Last night, during a dinner with the leaders of the brotherhood, Sergei officially named him as his honorable councilor.

Though there was no formal ceremony, the fact remains that Kyle is now part of Sergei’s closest circle. If it were a few weeks ago, I would have been suspicious of how close Kyle has gotten, but after he put his own life on the line to save mine and Sergei’s, it’s not possible to.

Little by little, the bridge that was already broken between us has started to build again. For the first time since our marriage, it feels like there’s something to salvage between us, a connection of sorts that’s not directly connected to the physical department.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s inexplicable energy about having sex with Kyle. It’s freeing in a way words can’t describe.

Only a few days after being shot, Kyle insisted on fucking me—he wouldn’t stop talking about it every time we were in the same room. As a result, I attempted to get on top and ride him so he wouldn’t hurt his wound, but he suddenly flipped me over onto my back and fucked me until I screamed his name.

It’s become a habit since then. I try to ride him, and he goes with it at first, giving me a sense of power, just to snatch it away a few minutes later. It’s not really about the power anymore—for me, at least. I’m more interested in the tension and the connection that blossoms between us whenever I’m in his arms.

For Kyle, it’s most likely about the power and the control that comes with it. He likes it when I fight him in bed just so he can subdue me.

He gets off on seeing me powerless. He gets off on holding me by the throat. He gets off on having me underneath him, screaming or moaning his name, begging him to stop or go faster and harder. He gets off on those things, and he’s not ashamed to admit it.

I’ve become so addicted to that side of him, the side that lets go completely even though he’s injured. On one of those nights, he didn’t stop; he literally had the stamina of a youngling on Viagra. I was less concerned with the delicious soreness between my legs, and more scared that he would rip his stitches out and we would have a bloodbath on our hands.

Thankfully, that wasn’t the case, but I overestimated my endurance ability and was barely able to walk the following morning. Kyle teased me about it during the entire walk. His eyes twinkle with amusement whenever I rise up to the challenge. Our banter can last for an eternity if we’re not interrupted.

Our morning walks around the garden started as a sort of physical rehabilitation for Kyle, but with time, it’s become something I look forward to every day. There’s a peace in having my arm around Kyle’s waist and just talking, even if we clash most of the time.

Today, I woke up early so I could help prepare breakfast. It’s been a long time since I cooked, but I try my hand with the kitchen staff and ignore the weird glances Katia and Ruslan keep throwing my way.

So what if I’m doing something out of the norm? It’s true that I haven’t done it since I came to live with Dedushka, but I used to cook just fine when I was living with Dad. That was sixteen years ago, so my memories aren’t exactly that perfect, but it will work.

I make some pancakes and toast with jelly. Well, some of the toast is a bit burnt, but Kyle doesn’t have the right to complain after I did all this for him.

No—I’m not doing this for him. I’m just doing it because I feel guilty about what happened to him because of me. That’s it. That’s all.

After preparing the picnic basket, I hold it and attempt to go upstairs, but I find Kyle already waiting for me at the entrance. He’s wearing his usual black pants and a white shirt.

The clothes and the bandage hide his injury, but I can almost see the hole currently lodged in his chest.

The images of him being shot rush back to the front of my mind, and I have trouble getting them out. It’s not until his very distinctive scent overwhelms me that they slowly dissipate.

Kyle places his hand on my arm as he usually does every day. “Morning, Mrs. Hunter.”

“Morning. Are you feeling better today?”

“Are you still asking that after I fucked you till you tore the sheets yesterday?”

“Kyle!” My face burns, and I instinctively check our surroundings in case someone heard.

“What?”

“What if someone is listening?”

“Then they have voyeuristic tendencies. Is auditory porn a thing?”

“You’re hopeless.”

“For having sex with you? I’ll take that badge with honor.”

“For being this shameless about everything.”

“We’re already husband and wife. It’s universally known that fucking is included in that holy union.”

He is incorrigible. There is no way I can get him to stop saying these crude things. The more I try, the more creative he gets about getting on my last nerve.