He fucked me hard—hands bruising my hips, pace punishing.
At some point he leaned over me, one hand sliding up to cup my breast, pinching the nipple until I cried out.
His other hand stayed braced beside my head—caging me.
Every thrust hit deep, grazing my g-spot, sending shocks of pleasure through my core.
I moaned—not his name. Never his name.
I moaned the pain. The sorrow. The years of bleeding alone in a cell. The stillbirth. The silence.
Tears slipped free—quiet, mixing with sweat.
I hated him. I hated how good it felt. I hated that my body still remembered him like this.
His pace quickened—frantic now.
One hand left my breast, cracked across my ass—sharp, stinging.
I should have laughed at the pleasure-pain. Instead I let the pain bleed into everything else—mixing with the rhythm of his thrusts until I couldn’t separate them.
He came hard—growling low in his throat, hips slamming one final time as he spilled inside me—hot, pulsing, filling me until it leaked down my thighs.
I was close—so close—but I didn’t tell him. Didn’t ask. Didn’t beg.
He pulled out slowly—careful now—then turned me over with gentle hands.
His face—flushed, bright with release—went dull the instant he saw my tears.
“I thought you wanted this,” he said, voice cracking.
Almost scared. “Elena... did I—?”
“You didn’t violate me,” I said firmly, wiping my face with shaking hands.
“The sex happened with my consent. I appreciate that you didn’t force me. I just... couldn’t stop thinking about how much you ruined me.
“My child would have been four years old today.”
Ruslan swallowed — hard — his throat working as emotion pushed through the controlled exterior he always wore.
“Our child,” he repeated quietly. “Not just yours.”
I stared at him for a long second.
Then I laughed — but it wasn’t humor.
It was sharp. Cutting.
“Actually,” I said coldly, “it was just mine.”
His jaw tightened immediately.
“Because you never even knew I was pregnant.”
I stepped closer — anger rising like heat under my skin.
“I carried that baby alone.”
