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She couldn’t contain her amusement, hastily placing her hand in front of her mouth to stifle a laugh that was dying to burst out. I could see the sparkle of joy in her eyes, a delightful secret she couldn’t keep to herself.
I had this strong urge to push her hand away, to capture her laughter with my lips, but I restrained myself, opting to remain silent and instead focus on observing her closely with hunger in my eyes.
“Alright, alright, you win,” she grumbled, her voice filled with a touch of resignation, as she snuggled back onto my chest.
Her hair draped over us like an enchanting veil. Her arms wrapped tightly around me, holding on as if she never wanted to let go, and a pang of pain surged through my chest at that thought.
Less than 6 hours left.
She tilted her head, looking up at me with curiosity, her chin nestled on my chest.
Her lips were slightly parted, while her eyes roamed freely across my face.
“What’s your actual name?” she whispered, barely audible, as I casually brushed a few strands of hair behind her ear.
“Mikhaïl Volkov,” I said, the words slipping off my tongue.
Only two people knew my real name—Igor and Alexsei.
I didn’t know why, but I had this urge to tell her, maybe because deep down, I knew I’d never see her face again, and she seemed trustworthy enough to keep my secret. There was something about her that made me want to share this part of myself, this hidden truth. I wanted to share all my dark secrets with her, and I wanted her to do the same.
“My mom died during labor,” I said, the weight of those words settling heavily upon my chest. “My dad was devastated by her loss, and in his grief, he decided to honor her memory by naming me after her. Her name was Mikhaïla Volkov.” I stayed silent for a couple of seconds, feeling suddenly very exposed. “He only had one picture of her,” I scoffed softly, my voice tinged with sadness. “It was taken on their wedding day in Moscow. He was 22, she was 21. In the photo, he wore a plain white shirt and black shorts, while she had on a flowy floral dress. They looked so happy, unaware that someone was capturing their moment. He had his arms around her waist, and she had hers around his neck. Their foreheads were touching, and they both had genuine smiles on their lips.”
“My dad always carried that picture with him in his wallet,” I continued with a hint of nostalgia. “Whenever he wanted to share something about their past, he would let me look at it. He’d tell me stories about how she loved dancing while cooking his favorite meals, and how they would take long walks together every day, holding hands and trying to name all the birds they saw in the sky. I remember him mentioning how she would kick him at night when he’d snore too loudly, and how he would make up for it by baking her blinis with strawberry jam and whipped cream because he knew she couldn’t resist them.”
Those memories were like frozen snapshots, capturing the beautiful moments they shared. Even though my mother passed away during childbirth, my dad held onto those memories dearly, keeping her spirit alive through his stories.
They became a way for me to connect with the mother I never had the chance to meet. It was his way of keeping her memory alive and helping me understand the love they had shared.
Listening to his stories, I could almost imagine her presence in the room.
Sofiya’s fingers delicately traced the tattoo on my arm, bringing it closer to her face. Her eyes focused on the inked skin, pausing at the intertwined initials inside a sinuous snake on my wrist.
“P and M?” she asked softly, her gaze lingering on the tattoo.
“Peter and Mikhaïla Volkov.”
The tattoo was my way of honoring my parents, a means to keep their memory alive. Each time I glanced at it, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the family I had lost. The snake coiled around their initials symbolized the harsh reality of death and how it had taken them away from this world.
“Mikhaïla Volkov,” Sofiya murmured softly, savoring the name on her lips. It was clear she wanted to hold onto it, as if carrying a piece of my mother’s memory with her. “It’s a beautiful name.”
She gently pressed her lips against the tattoo, leaving a faint kiss, then glanced up at me with her wide, doe-like eyes. Sensing my contentment, she lowered her head once more, showering my arm with kisses.
In that moment, a soft hum of satisfaction escaped my lips.
“Volk, I—” she began, but I gently interrupted her, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
“You can call me Mikhaïl.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, surprise evident in her voice and eyes.
I nodded, reaching up to stroke her cheek and planting a soft kiss on her nose.
“Well, Mikhaïl,” she whispered, her voice carrying a playful tone as a sweet laugh escaped her lips. “I want you inside me again, please.”
The sound of her voice, calling me by my real name, hit me like a thunderbolt, almost making me drop to my knees and beg for her to repeat it over and over again.
From that moment on, it struck me like a ton of bricks—she was fucking mine.
