She gasps my name, over and over, brokenly, her voice sharp with need. Her pussy clenches tightly, milking me, and I know she's close. I angle my hips, grind against her clit, and she shatters, screaming into my mouth, convulsing around me, every squeeze dragging me closer to the edge.
I push away from the wall and carry her toward the bed. She clings to me, legs locked around my waist, our bodies still joined, every step a drag of friction that makes her moan into my throat.
I lay her down, but I don't let go. I keep driving into her, slow and deep, savoring the way her body flutters around me after that first violent climax. She whimpers, biting her lip, and I catch her wrists, pinning them above her head against the mattress.
"You're not done," I murmur, rocking into her, drawing out another soft gasp. "I'll take you until you can't say his name even in your dreams."
She arches under me, eyes blazing even through her shivers. "Then don't stop."
I don't. I pound her into the bed. Her cries rise higher, each thrust dragging her closer, until she's trembling again, clenching around me. I release her wrists, and she grabs my shoulders, pulling me down for a kiss that's more teeth than lips. Then she flips me. I don't resist. She straddles me, hair falling like a curtain, breasts bouncing as she rides me hard, her hands braced on my chest. The sight makes me snarl, my hands gripping her hips tight as she slams herself down, taking me to the root with each stroke.
"You look at me," I rasp, staring up at her, sweat slicking her skin. "Don't close your eyes."
She doesn't. She rides me harder, faster, until she's crying out again, grinding her clit against me, chasing her own release. I thrust up into her in rhythm, and when she breaks, screaming my name, I grab her and roll us, keeping inside her as I take control back. This time, I put her on her hands and knees, fist in her hair, yanking her back onto me. Her scream muffles into the pillow as I slam into her from behind, the angle brutal, my balls slapping against her with each stroke. Her slick gushes around me, dripping down her thighs, her ass slamming back into me in rhythm with my thrusts.
"Tell me," I growl, tugging her hair so her back arches. "Tell me who you belong to."
"You," she gasps, breath hitching with every thrust. "Only you."
Her cunt clenches, spasming again, and I feel her gush around me, soaking the sheets as another orgasm rips through her. The sight nearly undoes me, but I'm not finished.
I drag her down flat onto her stomach, still buried deep, my weight crushing her into the bed as I fuck her slowly and grindingly, forcing her to feel every inch. She sobs into the sheets, overstimulated, shaking, but she doesn't tell me to stop. Her nails claw weakly at the mattress, her body quivering under mine as I keep her pinned and full.
Then I pull out, flip her onto her side, hook her leg over my hip, and slide back in. She gasps, eyes wide, the new angle hitting deeper, sharper, dragging another strangled cry fromher. I pound into her like that, my hand around her throat, thumb brushing her pulse, and I feel her tighten again, unbelievably, ready to break one more time. "Come with me," I snarl, thrusts growing ragged. "Now."
Her orgasm milks me mercilessly, and when her teeth sink into my shoulder, I lose it. With a roar, I slam into her one final time and spill inside her, hot, violent pulses filling her until it runs down her thighs. Her head drops against my chest, both of us shaking, breaths ragged, sweat slick between us. I stay inside her, holding her pinned to the wall, her heartbeat hammering against mine. "Valentina," I murmur against her hair, voice hoarse, "I meant it. To guard your life with my own."
She looks up at me, eyes glassy, lips swollen, and for the first time tonight, she doesn't argue. She just holds my face in both hands and kisses me like trust.
14
VALYA
Morning arrives like a hymn I know by heart. Light pours through the high panes and lays clean bands across the floor. It tastes like honey that is not there, and before I remember myself, I hum the song my grandmother shaped over bread dough and small sorrows. Yelena carried it after her, low and steady, the nights she tucked me into bed while men downstairs turned oaths and debts into iron talk. My body feels both new and known, as if a door long stuck has remembered its hinges and begun to swing true.
I lie very still and let the room come into focus—linen and lace, a whisper of lavender from the wardrobe where fur kisses wool from a bygone winter. I touch the little cross at my throat. The hush inside me is not empty. It is the kind a church keeps after the last footfall has faded and the lamps go on burning.
I dress without ceremony because I don't want to break the spell by thinking too hard about it. A simple sweater, a skirt that lets me move, wool tights, and flats I can run in if I mustbut hope not to. I part my hair cleanly and let it fall in loose waves. From each temple I braid a narrow strand and join them at the crown with a thin red ribbon, tradition stitched softly in a modern line. The mirror holds a woman I recognize and a girl I don't want to lose. Both of us are smiling.
There is a knock at the sitting-room door, polite and quick. Not family. A houseman stands there with a crystal vase in both hands, careful as a man carrying a crown. White blooms spill over the rim, thick as cream, petal upon petal. He nods and sets them on the console when I step back.
"From a courier, Miss," he says. "No name given." He leaves me with the flowers and the choice of what to do with them.
Gardenia. The scent hits like a hand on my collarbone. My grandmother dabbed the oil behind her ears on feast days, a secret she pretended was nothing. The smell filled the pew while she prayed, little moons of scent that rose and fell when she bowed. Something cold drops into the pool of my morning and makes rings. There is a card tucked among the leaves, plain cream, and the morning holds its breath.
I don't set the card on the table. I slip it into my pocket and feel it like a splinter.
The flowers are beautiful. They are also a message I did not invite into a morning I meant to keep honest. I lift the heavy vase, carry it to the small hearth, and kneel. The matches wait in the drawer Yelena keeps for simple dignities. I strike one and tip it to kindling. Dry wood takes fire with an obedient hush. I feed the flame until it is truthful and high. The gardenias don't belong to this room. They belong to a memory I refuse to loan to a man who traded me for a family with better stationery.
I pull the blooms one by one from their stems. I lay them on the fire and watch the white turn brown. The edges curl, the perfume thickens into something sweet and choking. I open the flue wider and let the smoke find the cold. I burn them all. When the last petal blackens, I set the empty vase on the hearthstone and wash my hands until the scent is only a thought.
Yelena taps and peeks in. She takes in the vase, the ash, my face. Her mouth tightens and then softens.
"Breakfast," she says, as if that word can balance the rest of it. Perhaps it can.
I take tea with honey and toast with marmalade at the little window where the light makes the city look gentler than it is. The card feels heavier than paper in my pocket. I fold it once without looking and slip it under the back cover of my grandmother's prayer book, where old paper has learned to keep other people's certainties quiet. It doesn't belong to the room any more than the flowers did. If I keep it, I keep it on my terms.
By afternoon I'm in the South End, the morning and the flowers shut behind me. The driver lets me out a block from the center because I prefer to arrive on my own feet. The cold is clean and doesn't promise what it cannot give. The brick building looks more forgiven than funded, and the door sticks the way it always does until I lean my shoulder into it and remember that nothing worth keeping opens the first time you knock.
