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I crush her lips under mine. I pump into her, telling her, “You belong to me,moya malen’kaya lisa.You will carry my child.”
She lets out the three whimpering gasps that tell me she’s about to cum—the only vulnerable sound she ever makes. Then, as her pussy clamps down on my cock, I erupt inside of her, pouring my cum at the very entrance of her cervix, bathing her womb with my seed.
Her pussy twitches and clenches, helpless against the waves of pleasure washing through her.
I don’t stop fucking until I’ve milked out every last drop.
She lays still, limp and exhausted beneath me.
I scoop her up, depositing her on the sofa.
“Don’t stand up for an hour,” I order. “Let it stay inside you.”
For once in her life, Sloane obeys, looking at me with the simmering lust that only appears when I conquer her. She isn’t angry that I won—she married me because I’m the only man who can best her.
I take down a copy ofHiroshima,and I lift her head into my lap, saying, “Read to me.”
She reads for over an hour, weaving the history of war in the air with her low, enchanting voice. The fire pops and shifts in the grate. The snow batters silently against the dark windows.
I’m warm and more peaceful than I’ve ever been, wondering if, at this very moment, sperm and egg are meeting inside of her, inches below my hand resting on her belly.
I stroke Sloane’s hair, watching her eyelids grow heavy and the book droop in her hands as she succumbs to this most soothing of sensations.
Then the radio crackles on the end table.
Maks says, “Someone is coming to the gate.”
Sloane sits up, her dark curls disarrayed in every direction. She blinks, the usual avid brightness popping back into her eyes. She says, “Who would come visit us unannounced?”
It’s a rhetorical question. She knows Maks will answer it as soon as he approaches the vehicle. Sure enough, a moment later, the radio crackles again and Maks says, “It’s Marko Moroz.”
Sloane’s eyes meet mine.
She’s aware of my history with Marko, though she’s never met him. Marko hasn’t left Kyiv in several years, and I haven’t visited him.
I don’t know why he’s come here tonight.
After a moment’s hesitation, I say to Maks, “Let him in.”
Sloane and I retrieve our scattered clothes, subconsciously aware of the time elapsing while Marko drives up toward the monastery, parks, and strides across the snowy yard to our front door. I can almost hear the soft growl of the dogs, who will be held back from attacking by an order from Efrem or Oleg.
At the same moment, Sloane and I finish dressing. We abandon the book, walking down the hall to the front entryway. I pause to smooth back an errant curl from Sloane’s face.
“Yes, make sure I look pretty for Marko,” Sloane says.
My wife is equal parts playful, mocking, and brilliant. She’s never serious . . . until she needs to be. Then there’s no one more deadly.
I would never make the mistake of underestimating her.
I’m glad she’s here beside me, to meet this man who has been an uneasy shadow over my life since the day I met him in the prison camp.
The stories of Marko’s rise to power in Kyiv have reached far beyond St. Petersburg. It was one of the most brutal and bloody coupsof the last fifty years. I wouldn’t like to believe half of what is now said about Marko—though I wouldn’t dare doubt it, either.
I throw open the door.
Marko steps inside, his beard, mustache, and eyebrows frosted with ice, snow dusting his shoulders.
The cold comes in with him, the chill thick on his clothes.
