“Oleg, oh my God,” I moan. “It’s so good. So intense. So good.” I’m babbling now. I don’t care. I don’t ever care with Oleg. I’m never self-consciousness. Never self-editing. “Please,” I whine. “Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.”
Oleg’s breath grows erratic. His thrusts get harder. He buries three fingers inside my pussy, pushing the heel of his hand over my clit with firm pressure. I squeeze my walls around his fingers, desperate to come.
He grunts and shoves in deep. I feel his thighs shaking against mine as he comes.
I cry out. My pelvic floor muscles don’t squeeze—maybe I’m afraid to contract my anus around his dick. Maybe it’s just too big. I don’t know. It’s a different sort of orgasm. Very different, but infinitely more intense.
I shake and shiver beneath him, and it ripples through my body.
He wraps his arms around me and hums softly.
“I love you,” I whisper. I haven’t said it before, even though it’s been true from the beginning. I was too scared. Too certain things would end, and I’d regret saying it.
But now, I’m moving in. We’re taking things forward. I’m still terrified, but I’m trying to trust that Oleg will still be around tomorrow.
That I can count on him to be as solid as he’s shown himself to be.
I feel him send the words back to me. Maybe it’s not telepathy. Maybe I’m just an empath. It doesn’t matter—all that matters is the message.
He loves me.
Oleg loves me, and he’s solid as a rock.
I can trust in this. In him.
I can trust in us.
Oleg
I ease out of Story and help her up off the bed and into my bathroom for a couples shower. Washing Story has become my favorite pastime. Right after fucking her. Kissing her. Having her in my bed. Having her in my apartment. Having her as my girlfriend.
I take my time with her, running soapy hands all over her smooth skin, shampooing her hair.
She’s tired and can barely stand after the orgasm I gave her, so I hold her up as we go. Towel her dry when we’re done. I tuck her into bed and go out to the kitchen to get us a couple glasses of water.
And that’s when I see it.
A bottle of Sovetskoye Shampanskoye sitting on the countertop with a red ribbon tied around the neck. I somehow force my fingers to move, to pick up the little card attached. My name is printed in the bold scrawl I would recognize anywhere.
Skal’pel’s handwriting.
Skal’pel’s gift.
Soviet champagne was a favorite of mine when I worked for him. It was the first alcohol I’d had to drink as a youth, and I suppose I still bought it out of familiarity. Certainly not out of good taste. I hate the stuff now.
My heart thuds thick and painfully in my chest. My stomach fills with acid.
Skal’pel’s here—in Chicago. As I feared, when word got out about me, it also reached him. I’m the loose end that he didn’t tie up well enough when he closed up shop.
With trembling fingers, I flip the card. A small photo is taped to the back of the card. It takes me a moment to make it out, but when I do, I almost throw up.
The image is of Sasha and Story in the hot tub on the roof.
Skal’pel’ was into games. He would set up tests for me to complete. Testing my loyalty again and again.
I always passed.
Perhaps that’s why he let me live.
Many, many times in prison I wished he’d just killed me.
But now? Fuck—now?
Story is in my bed. The most beautiful light of my life. The only thing I have worth living for.
Skal’pel’ knows about Story. He shot at her from the rooftop, or more likely, had one of his lackey’s shoot at her. That fits. The shooter should have known they couldn’t hit anyone. The bullets were a warning. A threat. So that when I held this photo in my hand, I would experience real fear for the safety of my beautiful swallow.
My insides turn cold. Swampy. Slimy. Skal’pel’s next move, if I don’t answer this message, will be to hurt Story. And it won’t be in a typical way. It will be something sick and twisted. Something that would cause me nightmares for the rest of my life. Not that I would live to let it happen to her.
No.
I won’t let him near her. Story Taylor must be protected above all else. And that means I have to offer myself up to Skal’pel’. If he wants me dead, he can have me.
He already knows I will sacrifice myself for her. He has no need to make the dark, overt threats. We both know what he’s capable of. And he knows me, inside and out.
He knows I would step in front of a bus for the people I love.
But he has no idea the depths of what I’d do for Story.
I leave the bottle on the counter, untouched. I walk quietly back down the dark corridor to my bedroom and open up the drawer in my walk-in closet where I store all the money Ravil’s paid me since I started working for him. Other than buying the Denali, I don’t spend it. The only activities I have are watching Story play.
I pull out a duffel bag and pack all the stacks of cash into the bag. I get the iPad and open a window with my Swiss bank account—the one Skal’pel’ left me somewhere between cutting off my tongue and framing me on drug charges. I make Story the beneficiary, then I compose a message for her.
It’s only a couple hours until sunrise. Time enough to lie down beside Story one last time before I go…
Chapter 13
Story
The only reason I wake is because I no longer feel Oleg’s solid form beside me. I snuggle into the soft sheets, relishing the smell of him that still lingers. After another moment, I crack my eyes and look at the bedside clock. Eleven in the morning. That’s pretty normal for me the morning after a gig. I sit up and rub my eyes, looking around.
Oleg doesn’t seem to be in the room.
Maybe he went for bagels again.
I swing my legs out of the bed and almost trip over a duffel bag beside it. On top of the navy canvas bag is Oleg’s iPad. I smile. He left me a note.
I grab the iPad and wake it up.
Story,
You are my reason for living, so of course, it is easy to make this choice.
A cold chill sweeps across my limbs. Renders me limp. My fingers holding the iPad tremble.
My death is the best protection for you. Take this money, so I can continue to protect you from the grave.
I love you, my lastochka.
No!
I might have screamed it. Maybe several times.
All I know is that a pounding starts up on the door to the penthouse.
Sobbing, I yank on one of Oleg’s t-shirts. The door opens, and Oleg’s friends pour in. I don’t see them. I barely hear them over the screaming in my head.
Dima picks up the iPad and reads the words out loud to the rest of them.
Someone gathers me into a hug. Nikolai, maybe. I’m passed to Sasha, who also envelopes me against her chest.
I can’t stop crying. I only hear snippets of their conversation: ...turning himself in to Skal’pel’...the bottle of Soviet champagne that was delivered here for him… I can’t track him, he left his phone here…
Finally I make myself speak. “S-stop him,” I sob. “You have to stop him.”