Page 62 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

I tug the chain on the lamp, lowering the light. The attic sinks into amber dimness, shadows pooling along the slanted ceiling. The bed sits against the far wall, tucked under the skylight, quilt tugged tight. Irina aired the sheets this morning. The scent of sun-warmed linen clings. I catch Elena’s wrist and place her palm against my chest so she feels the beat under her hand. “Stay.” Then I walk to the door, slide the bolt, check the window latch, the habit automatic. When I turn back, she’s watching me like she’s deciding whether to run or devour. I prefer the latter.

I cross back slowly, unbuttoning my shirt without breaking eye contact. Her breath hitches when I shrug it off, leaving only the white undershirt clinging to my shoulders. I stop a foot away and catch the hem of her sweater. “Off.”

She raises her arms, and I strip the sweater up and over, careful of her ribs. She’s in a simple black bra, soft fabric, nothing meant for show. Bruises bloom along her side in violet smears. Anger flares sharply in my gut. She notices. “Don’t get violent with ghosts,” she says. “I’m here.”

“To remind me they still breathe.” My voice scrapes raw. I slide my hands down and unhook the waistband of her leggings, kneeling to peel them off, then pull the socks from her feet one at a time. She sets her hands on my shoulders, steadying herself while I tug the fabric down her thighs. Her underwear matches the bra, cotton, worn. I hook my thumbs beneath and drag them down too, slowly, savoring how she shivers when the cool air hits her.

She’s naked except for the bandage on her wrist. She doesn’t cover herself, proud, defiant. I stand, towering over her, and drag my undershirt off. The slanted roof forces me to duck. It makes the scene intimate, no space to escape.

“Why are you actually here?” I ask, voice low.

Her throat works. “Because every time I close my eyes, I see them grabbing me. I smell the exhaust, hear the doors. Then I remember you pulling me out, wrapping me in your coat, holding me upright, and I hate—” She stops, breath trembling. “I hate that it helps.”

That truth splits me open. I grip the back of her neck and pull her in, crushing my mouth to hers. No soft coaxing, just heat, teeth, tongue. She meets me with equal force, hand fisting in my hair. The first kiss sears. The second burns hotter. I back her toward the bed, lips never leaving hers, until the mattress hits her knees. I press her down gently. She grimaces when her ribs touch the mattress, so I keep her upright, sliding one hand behind her back and lowering her slowly. I crawl over her, knees sinking into the mattress, the low ceiling brushing my shoulders. Shadows flicker across her face as the lamp sways.

“Tell me to stop,” I warn, though I already know she won’t.

Her fingers skim my jaw, nails light. “Make me feel anything else.”

I slide one hand from her throat down to her breast, cupping, thumb teasing the nipple until it pebbles. She arches, a hiss slipping through clenched teeth. I mouth down her neck, bite the tendon, lick the mark while my other hand drifts over her stomach, stopping at the band of bruises. I soften my touch instinctively. She notices, grabs my wrist, and presses my palm lower. “Don’t coddle.”

I obey. My fingers slide between her thighs, stroking the slick heat already pooling there. She’s wet, ready despite the pain. I circle her clit slow at first, building pressure, then flick faster. Her eyes flutter closed. “Look at me,” I remind her.

She forces them open. The amber light paints her irises gold. I push two fingers inside, curling up to find the spot that makes her curse. She gasps, “Maksim.” My name on her lips is a prayer wrapped in a threat. I thrust deeper, pace unhurried, coaxing her up and up until her breath staggers. The bed creaks under us, the old springs squeaking rhythmically.

“Come for me,” I command. “Now.”

She bites her bottom lip, fighting it, then breaks. Her back arches, a raw moan ripping free, “Ooh.” The sound echoes off the slanted ceiling. Her walls clamp around my fingers, pulsing. I keep circling her clit, dragging it out until she shudders, breathless. When she collapses back, I withdraw slowly, licking my fingers clean while watching her eyes darken.

She reaches for me, pulling me down by the back of my neck. I let her taste herself on my tongue, the kiss dirtier, deeper. She wraps her legs around my waist and hooks her ankles behind me. I grind my cock against her, the friction maddening. I need inside. Now.

She props herself on her elbows, watching, cheeks flushed. I push her down gently so her head rests on the pillow. “Stay still,” I murmur.

She smirks. “Try making me.”

I slide into her in one thrust, burying myself to the hilt. Her gasp is either pain or pleasure, maybe both. I hold there, letting her adjust, feeling her stretch around me, tight and hot even after everything. I brace my forearms on either side of her head, careful not to put weight on her ribs, and start to move. Slow at first, deep. The attic amplifies every sound—our breathing, the slap of skin, the soft creak of the bed. She claws at my shoulders, nails digging crescents into my skin.

“Harder,” she pants.

I drive faster, hips snapping, the headboard tapping the slanted wall in staccato beats. Sweat beads on my forehead. I drop down, lick the hollow of her throat, suck a bruise over her pulse. She moans, “Yes—again,” so I bite higher, leaving another mark. My hand slides under her, gripping the back of her thigh, lifting her leg so I can thrust even deeper. The angle punches a whimper from her chest. “Fuck.”

“Touch yourself,” I order, voice gravel.

She slides a hand between us, fingers finding her clit again, rubbing in rough circles while I pound into her. Watching her do it nearly undoes me. Her brows knit, teeth sinking into her lip. The second orgasm builds quickly, relentlessly. Her muscles quiver under my grip.

“Come,” I say, low and dangerous.

Her eyes lock on mine as she shatters, a strangled cry tearing free. “Maksim!” Her nails rake down my back, blazing lines. I follow, thrusting through the aftershocks until the base of my spine tightens, the coil snapping. I spill with a guttural groan, hips jerking. The world tunnels to heat, pressure, the wet clutch of her body around mine.

When the tremors stop, I collapse beside her, breathing hard. The ceiling feels inches away, closing us in. She rolls onto her side with a hiss, clutching her ribs, so I shift, slipping out gently. I wipe myself with the rag Irina left, then reach for her. She hesitates a fraction, then lets me pull her against my chest. Her hair smells like cedar shampoo and smoke. Her breathing slows, still uneven but calmer than earlier.

“Stay,” I murmur against her temple.

She stiffens, instinct to flee still wired. “I thought you didn’t do sleeping with anyone.”

“I don’t.” I tuck the quilt around us, the fabric worn soft by years. “Except now.”

“Why?” The question is quiet, but it lances.