I count down the days. Weeks. Months.
Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.
Just two more years until she graduates. Two more years of waiting, planning, preparing for the moment I can finally take what's mine.
Except I don't have to wait that long.
The call comes on a Tuesday evening. Mikhail Reznikov is dead. Heart attack. Massive. He was dead before the ambulance arrived.
I hang up the phone and sit in silence.
Then I smile.
The contract specified: marriage upon university completionor death of Mikhail Reznikov, whichever comes first.
Early the next day, I shower, shave, dress in funeral black. I look at myself in the mirror, at the tattoos covering my hands,crawling up my neck, the wolf that prowls across my throat. The face of a killer. A monster.
Her monster now.
I check my watch.
I've already arranged everything—the service, the burial, the collection. Sofia, Mikhail's sister, knows I'm coming. She'll have Vera ready.
Ready to learn she's been mine for two years.
Ready to learn she's getting married in three days.
Ready to learn exactly what it means to belong to Pyotr Maksimov.
I grab my keys and head for the door. Two years of obsession, planning, waiting. Two years of watching her, wanting her, preparing to claim her.
It's finally time.
And when I sink into her virgin pussy, when I breed her and make her scream my name, when I watch her belly swell with proof of my ownership—it will all be worth it.
Every second of waiting.
Every moment of desperate, aching need.
Worth it.
I climb into my car and start driving toward the funeral home. Toward her.
You’re mine, Vera.
And there's not a fucking thing you can do about it.
2
Vera
Ishould be crying.
Good daughters cry at their fathers' funerals. They sob into tissues and accept condolences with trembling lips and red-rimmed eyes. They wear their grief like a shroud, publicly mourning the man who raised them.
I feel nothing.
Well… that's not entirely true. I feel guilty about feeling nothing. Guilty that when Aunt Sofia called three days ago with the news, my first thought wasfinally. Guilty that standing here beside this mahogany casket in a dress I panic-bought yesterday, I'm thinking about whether I remembered to submit my psychology paper more than I'm thinking about my father.
