"You're more than that. You've always been more."
I fall asleep with his cum still dripping from me, marked inside and out by our choices. When I dream, it's not of Mikhail or gardens or forgotten promises.
It's of Alexei between my thighs, looking at me like I'm his salvation and damnation combined.
And that voice whispers: This is a cliff you can't climb back from.
I know.
I jump anyway.
17 - Alexei
“She’s asking for you.” Katya’s voice through the phone is threadbare while Sofia’s naked body burns against mine, her thigh pressed against my cock that’s been hard since dawn. “She’s getting worse. The doctors are concerned.”
Sofia shifts in her sleep, unconsciously grinding against my length, and I have to bite back a groan. Her breath warms my chest directly over Mikhail's initials, each exhale a reminder of what we did last night. What I let her do to me. What I did to her.
"Is she still compis mentis?" I manage, my free hand sliding down to grip Sofia's hip, holding her still before her movements make me lose what's left of my control.
"Not really. She’s confused. She keeps asking if Misha is there. If you've brought him home." A shaky inhale from my sister. "Alexei, you need to come to Moscow. Now."
My mother is dissolving into nothing while I'm here, corrupted by the woman I should have killed, my cock still sticky with her arousal. The weight of last night crashes over me: the taste of her lips still coating my tongue, mixed with the salt of her tears when she came so hard she cried. The memory of being buried inside her tight heat makes my cock throb harder against Sofia's thigh. How she gripped me like she'd die without my dick filling her. How she clawed bloody furrows down my back while I fucked her into the mattress. How she told me she deleted intelligence that could save her family while my cum was still leaking from between her legs.
And I let her own me right back. Let her ride my cock until I begged like a desperate fool. Let her see me shatter completely when she clenched around me and whispered my name.
"No.I have things to deal with here."
The call ends, and I dump the cell phone on the bedside table. I stare at the ceiling, duty crushing down like concrete. Sofia's hand spreads across my chest in her sleep, fingers twitching. Her touch burns.
I should wake her gently. Instead, I study her in the morning light: hair tangled across my pillow, lips swollen from my kisses, from wrapping around my cock. My bite marks on her shoulder spell out possession.
Sofia's eyes flutter open, drowsy blue that guts me before she's fully conscious. She smiles, unconscious, genuine, before reality returns. The smile falters but doesn't disappear.
“You’re still here,” she says.
She sits up, sheet falling to reveal perfect tits, nipples already hardening in the cool air. My mouth goes dry.
She pulls the sheet up, covering the masterpiece. The loss is immediate.
I sit up, letting the sheet slide off my chest and puddle at my waist, the air cold against my skin.
“This is my room,” I say, and the possessiveness comes out like a growl, deeper than I intended. A perverse part of me wants her to flinch, to show some sign of submission, but Sofia just tilts her head, chin high, watching me with cool detachment. Her face is still sleepy-soft, but her eyes—icy, sharp, bladed—track every movement, every word.
My gaze sweeps the length of her, the way the sheet outlines her body: the curve of her shoulders, the soft dip at her waist, the muscled tension in her arms as she clutches the fabric to her chest. I want to rip the sheet away and pin her, to see if she’ll fight me or yield. I want to mark her again, to watch her try tohide the bruises and bite marks I leave behind. I want her to see just how much of her is already mine.
“I own everything in here.” I drag my gaze up to her face, let her see the hunger in my eyes.
Sofia’s lips twitch. Maybe she thinks I’m bluffing, or maybe she knows I’d rather devour her than hurt her. She’s wrong. I can do both.
I look away first, rolling my shoulders, feigning boredom. I reach for the water glass I left on the nightstand, but as soon as I move, she does too—a flicker of intent beneath her sleepy veneer. Her hand dips under the pillow and then snakes under the mattress in a swift, practiced motion, and before I’ve even registered the threat, the blade is at my throat.
It's a short, curved knife, the kind used for gutting and skinning, not for decor. It glints in the light, the edge so thin it practically vibrates with anticipation. She presses it to my neck, just enough for me to feel the steadiness of her hand, warm skin and cold steel.
“Are you sure about that?” She smiles—sweet, mocking, dangerous.
The blade kisses my jugular. A bead of blood wells up, hot and slow. I can feel it roll down my neck, sticky and stimulating. My heart kicks into a higher gear. It would take nothing for her to open my artery, but I know she won’t, not unless I give her a reason. I stare her down, and for a second we just breathe the same air, suspended together at the knife’s edge, both of us waiting for the other to flinch.
I push into the blade, closing the gap, daring her to finish what she started. The knife bites at my skin, stinging. Sofia’s pupils flare and for a second, I see the calculation in her: the weighing of risk, the cost of violence versus the cost of losing this game.
