We have lunch in the cafeteria, and Mishka complains about the food with theatrical disgust while eating three servings, and Roman tells him about the chef at the Moscow house who makes pelmeni that would make their grandmother weep.
“Bring some next time,” Mishka says, and the wordsnext timesettle warm in my chest.
When we leave, Mishka hugs me so tight my ribs creak.
“Come back soon,” he whispers. “And bring the chess monster. I have moves to practice.”
“Two weeks,” I promise. “Maybe sooner.”
He hugs Roman too, brief and awkward and earth-shaking in its significance, and Roman’s expression as he receives it makes my eyes burn with tears I refuse to shed in front of armed guards.
“Take care of her,” Mishka tells him.
“With my life. Always”
* * *
The flight back to Moscow takes five hours, and I spend most of it curled against Roman’s side.
“Thank you.” I press the words against his shoulder. “For being what he needed.”
“I was being honest.” His left hand strokes through my hair with repetitive gentleness that makes my eyes heavy. “He deserved that.”
“You earned something today.”
“The beginning of something.” He tilts my chin up to meet his eyes. “Trust takes time. But I have time now. We have time.”
“We do.” The realization still catches me off-guard sometimes—that we’re not running anymore, not surviving, just living. Building. “What do we do with it?”
“Right now?” His thumb traces my lower lip. “We land in Moscow. We go home. And I keep a promise I made this morning.”
Heat blooms low in my belly. “The one about taking me apart?”
“The one about making you forget your own name.” His voice drops to that register that makes my thighs clench together, low and rough and full of promise. “I’ve been thinking about it for ten hours, solnyshko. Thinking about your hands tied to the headboard and your legs over my shoulders and the sounds you make when I’m so deep inside you there’s no space left between us.”
“Roman—” My voice comes out breathless. “We’re on a plane.”
“I’m aware.” His smile is wicked in a way that makes my pulse quicken. “Which is why I’m only talking. For now.”
The anticipation coils tight in my stomach, hot and liquid and impossible to ignore.
“Tell me more.”
“About what I’m going to do to you?” He shifts closer, his mouth brushing my ear, his breath warm against sensitive skin. “Kiss every scar. Remind you with my hands and my mouth and my cock that you’re mine, that every piece of you belongs to me, that I will worship this body until my last breath.”
I make a sound that’s embarrassingly close to a whimper.
“I’m going to taste you until you’re begging.” His left hand slides up my thigh beneath the blanket covering us, stopping just short of where I need it. “Mark you so thoroughly, everyone who looks at you knows exactly who you belong to.”
“Yes.” The word is barely a whisper. “Pozhaluysta.”
“Not yet.” He withdraws his hand, leaving me aching and desperate. “Two more hours until we land. Use the time to think about everything I’m going to do to you.”
I spend the next two hours in exquisite torture.
* * *
The moment our bedroom door closes behind us, Roman moves.
