"Don't stop," I choke out, desperate, wrecked. "Please—don't stop."
He bites down on my shoulder, growling against my skin as his hips keep driving, merciless, grinding me into the desk, fucking me like he'll never let me go.
He grinds deeper, faster, dragging every last tremor from my body until I'm limp against the desk, my cheek pressed to the cool surface, breath shattered and broken. My cunt still flutters around him, sensitive, overused, pulling his cock tighter with every aftershock.
"Enough," he rasps, his voice wrecked, guttural. His thrusts grow rougher, uneven, every stroke a battle between restraint and the hunger he's been holding back. His grip on my waist turns bruising, hauling me back to meet his thrusts.
"Dmitri—" My voice is hoarse, a plea and a warning all at once.
"Can't hold it—fuck." He snarls against my skin, teeth gritted as he rams into me one last time before dragging out, his cock glistening, swollen, slick with me.
The next moment is fire.
Hot, thick spurts spill across the curve of my ass, streaking my back, dripping down my thighs. His release hits me in hard ropes, messy, marking me, his hand still stroking himself as he groans through it, head thrown back, chest heaving.
I watch in the mirror—watch him spill every last drop on my body, the look of ruin and reverence on his face, the sight of his cum glistening on my skin obscene and beautiful all at once.
When he's finally wrung dry, he collapses against me, his weight heavy, his breath hot and ragged against my neck. His hands are still on me, sliding down my hips, claiming even in the aftermath. "You belong with me, Valentina. And God help me, I will show you what it is like to be loved by a man, a real man."
A shiver runs up my spine as the words register deep in my gut. His words are terrifying, yet, they are all that I want to hear. And they stay with me long, long after he puts his clothes back on and leaves.
5
DMITRI
After leaving Valentina, I head back to the party, although it is the last thing I want to do. Valentina will likely return shortly as well. There is enough work to keep me busy the next day, but no matter what I do, I cannot shake the image of Valentina's mouth, her moans, her body arching beneath mine.
The last I saw of Daniil Reznik in the corridor is a thin line of red and a curse, still upright on pride and luck. I send Misha three words,make it tidy. He can do the math—walk Reznik out through the service hall, ice his mug, scrub the phone, and sell the fall on the terrace. His reply lands before the buzz dies,on my way. The terrace must vanish from the night, and Sergei's dog must return to rumor with nothing worth repeating.
The ballroom meets me with noise I can read. Laughter is high and thin on the stairs, which is a sign of nerves, not joy. Glasses kiss and don't ring, so deals remain unsettled. Cutlery keeps a steady march where hired muscle is eating. Russian syllables lengthen by the balcony, which means alate arrival of rank. At the coatroom, fur collars lean close, voices dip, pockets settle heavier. Money moves. I move through it as through an incident cordon, hands quiet, face neutral, permission and warning in one.
I take the service passage toward the chapel. The little side door is open. The chapel is dark except for the faithful flame of two vigil candles that are not meant to go out until morning. Someone has left the lavabo filled. The water is cool and clean. I rinse the scrape, and the sting is sharp enough to help. My reflection in the brass is warped. My mouth is a line.
I make the sign of the cross without thinking, fingers moving—brow, chest, shoulder, shoulder. My mother's voice rises from the old room inside me. The words find air even as the music down the hall shifts tempo.Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.I don't pray for enemies. I pray that order doesn't forsake me and that my hands don't fail. The cadence puts my pieces back where they belong. I don't smell blood anymore, while candlelight goes on forgiving whatever it touches, and that makes me grateful.
Then I step into the light and let the room fall into its proper grid. Men and their wives when they think no one is watching. Young soldiers trying not to look at the doors. The room remembers who is in charge, so I enforce it. I make one clean circuit, not prowling, correcting. A glance puts a guard on the east exit. Two fingers rest on the balcony rail where a lens might try for courage. A nod sends a busboy to wipe the camera halo and keep moving.
From the corner of my eye I catch Reznik's exit, between hydrangeas and a smile, as Misha ghosts him past the garden statues, ice pack intact. The house handler, solicitousby design, whispersslipped on the terracelike liturgy, and I watch it spread because the city loves humiliation when it comes with a napkin. I nod to the guard at the back gate, and he nods back. The night has returned to its cruelty within acceptable limits.
I take a drink because a man should know what he looks like with a glass in his hand.Vodka. It slides like clean fire. I hold it until the chill leaves the crystal, and then I swallow. I let it burn discipline into me exactly where it threatens to soften. She is everywhere in this room, even when I don't look at her. Cedar and violet threaded through her hair move on the air like a winter dream that refuses to end, leading out of the dark and asking to be believed. The high, clean line of her neck shows when she turns to listen to a man she intends to disarm, and something in my chest answers. The deeper thing from earlier still rides my mouth and hands, heat that doesn't belong in a public room and refuses to obey simply because I'm good at rooms.
She holds back even when her body tells the truth. She wants to be soft, and she wants to be safe, and she believes those two things have never lived in the same bed. I'm not a poet. I know in my bones there is a wound in her that belongs to a ghost with a smooth voice and a pretty jaw, and it makes me want to pull brick from the wall with my hands just to prove a point about permanence. I'm a man who can carry both if she asks. I don't say it. I never will. It is not my place, and the room is watching.
Anatoly holds the head table the way a cathedral holds its altar, standing just off his own chair, breathing like a man who measures the room and himself with the same ruler. He softly speaks ofzoning, sanitation, a fundraiser in springtothe city officials he permits to believe they understand pavement and blood. His smile is slow, all patience. I watch the angle of his shoulders and know his breath is shorter than it should be. I count three seconds between laughs. I count the hand that goes to the back of the chair twice in a minute. I don't step in. Tonight, I keep the performance intact and take notes on the truths it leaks.
Around us, the room works in its own way, yet it is curated. Champagne climbs in thin columns. A waiter pours a Bordeaux that smells of old wood and iron. A spoon rings once on marble before a busboy catches it with his palm. A councilman murmurs about permits and pretends the word means mercy. A donor's wife laughs too loudly at a joke about snow and forgets she is holding her glass. One too many. A single nod shifts the tray path so nothing sloshes near her or a dignitary and keeps the press sightline blocked so no messy candid gets framed.
Valentina moves with that odd grace that is half queen, half girl. Pale silver gown, low braid, red ribbon flaunting as a rule. Effortless is the hardest work in this room. She poses by the west wall, light on her, a dignitary angling into the frame with a public smile and a hand that settles too easily on her shoulder. The flash pops. I take the space beside the photographer and lift my chin. The next shot reads correctly—Anatoly's daughter, the donor, the house. The press handler nods. The picture that will run tomorrow is the one we can live with. Valentina scowls. I let it pass.
A woman with mascara gone wrong clutches at sleeves, saying,purse, blue, I left it here. I nod. My man moves, quiet as a priest. In one turn of the floor, he has the clutch from under a chair, and the woman is crying "thank you" into hissleeve. He smiles like a doorman and steers her back to her table. Anatoly doesn't look over. He doesn't need to.
My phone lifts into my palm without thinking. Katya is sending just two screenshots, no text. A warehouse camera at the port shows a timestamp that tries to lie and fails when you look at the pixels. The second image is a ledger line, a sender's name I recognize with disgust. I text one word.When. She replies with a number.Forty minutes. I send her the prayer hands because she hates it. It makes her swear, and swearing keeps her awake. I send Misha the timestamp. He sends back a thumb and then a location. He will put our plainclothes spotters on the corner, and when the truck passes, those eyes will melt. East Boston will not become a mirror of L Street. One rupture per night is enough.
I'm back again at my post. Vetrov's satellites move like moths that have learned to pretend they are birds. I mark Grekov stays off-camera. His cufflinks ride other wrists. I mark the two men who don't track the dancers. They track the doors. I mark the woman in rubies who watches the vice director like a wolf in silk. Three reporters who discuss canapés while they negotiate how not to anger a man they cannot name on camera.
A woman from the philanthropy board takes my arm. She wants to tell me a donor is very concerned about the optics of distributing toys in neighborhoods where the police budget is already maxed. I listen with a face I rent for this purpose. I give three sentences that sound like a promise and are in fact a schedule. She leaves satisfied. I check the balcony rail again for the curve of a lens.
I ask for a second drink and don't drink it. I hold it because it gives my hands a reason to be in the open. I'm thinking ofthe way her mouth opened against mine when she forgot to fight me, the way her eyes went flat when she remembered she is not a woman with liberty, and the sound she made when I put her back against the wall and told her with my hands who she is to me. I shouldn't be thinking of any of this with a room full of judges and criminals twenty steps away. The problem with vows is that they begin before a man is ready to admit he made one.
