“What are you gonna wear?” she asks me.
“This,” I say, gesturing to my trousers and sweater vest.
I detest the uniform, but I also hate doing laundry, so I don’t change outfits any more than necessary. You can’t go to class without your uniform, or to the dining hall. I usually wear a sweater vest or pullover with no blouse underneath, and a pair of trousers with my army boots. It’s an uneasy compromise between me and Kingmakers that displeases us both.
“Nix,” Sabrina says patiently. “Everybody dresses up for parties.”
“How do you know?” I say. “We haven’t been to any yet.”
“Not here,” Sabrina says, “but it was practically my full-time job in Chicago.”
“I don’t like dresses,” I tell her. “I like them on you, but they look stupid on me, like a bear in a bikini. I’m too big.”
“There’s a million sexy outfits you can wear that aren’t a dress,” Sabrina persists. Then, with a sly look, “You know Ares is gonna be there . . .”
She knows we’ve been spending time together.
Still, I have to squash her insinuation up front.
“He’s not trying to date me,” I say bluntly. “Nobody in their right mind wants to date the daughter of Marko Moroz, that’s pretty fucking clear.”
“Did he say that? Or are you just assuming?” Sabrina inquires, calmly glossing her lips.
“We’re just friends,” I tell her stubbornly.
“I’ve got a lot of friends,” Sabrina smiles. “They don’t look at me like that . . .”
“Everybody looks at you like that.” I roll my eyes.
Sabrina is sex incarnate. The way she walks, the way she stands, the sultry rasp of her voice . . . even the Chancellor couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“What was he saying to you?” I ask Sabrina. “The Chancellor, I mean.”
“Don’t try to change the subject.”
“I’m not—I saw him talking to you. What did he want?”
“He was just congratulating me,” Sabrina says carelessly.
“You should be careful around him. I don’t trust him.”
“No shit,” Sabrina says, snapping her lip gloss closed. “I know what he did to Ozzy’s mom, and to Dean. I have no intention of getting on his bad side.”
“I’m not sure his good side is a great place to be either,” I persist.
Sabrina won’t be distracted from her own initial point.
“You should dress up tonight. Really make Ares stop and stare.”
“If he likes me, then he likes me looking like this,” I say, gesturing to my usual attire.
Sabrina sighs. “Look, I’m not trying to Princess Diaries you. I’m just telling you, I know men . . . and it’s never a bad thing to surprise them.”
I narrow my eyes at her, sizing up the glamorous vision of Sabrina Gallo, wondering what a ten-percent dose of her moxie might look like on me.
“Well . . .” I say slowly. “If you promise not to go overboard . . .”
17
Ivan Petrov
St. Petersburg
Nineteen Years Ago
Gangsta — Kehlani
Spotify → geni.us/spy-spotify
Apple Music → geni.us/spy-apple
It’s late on a snowy December evening.
I’m fucking my wife on a bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire.
I can’t imagine a more perfect activity for a winter’s night. And she has never looked more stunning.
I’ve never known a woman more beautiful or ferocious. She bites the side of my neck, her teeth digging into the flesh. I have to pin her down hard in the rough, black fur, still smelling of bear oil and Siberian snow.
We wrestle together, twisting and swapping positions, our naked bodies entwined in the blazing heat of the fire.
This never fails to remind me of the night I met her. The night she tried to kill me.
Never have I fought harder for my life. Not knowing what I was really fighting for—not to save my life, but to live it more fully than I could ever have imagined.
Her flesh glows with an inner fire, not just the reflected light. Her eyes glitter like gems. Her mouth tastes richer than chocolate.
I’m ravenous for her. I trace the mounds of her breasts with my tongue. I lap at the hollow of her throat. I can’t stop inhaling her scent, thrusting my face against her neck, and even raising her arms overhead to smell beneath.
“What perfume is this?” I growl.
“No perfume,” she says. “Just me.”
No scent is more enticing. My mouth is watering, my cock raging to ram inside of her.
“I’m ovulating,” Sloane says.
My heart pumps harder, each throb sending a gallon of blood rocketing through my veins.
She licks the rim of my ear, thrusting her tongue inside and then whispering, “If you can hold me down and cum in me, I’ll carry another baby for you.”
I would never mix my seed with a lesser woman. I want children from her, and no one else.
Sloane has already born me a son, a strong and handsome child, as intelligent as his mother and as disciplined as myself.
Now I want a daughter as beautiful and vicious as Sloane.
We struggle with new intensity, all her skill and trickery in opposition to my superior strength and size.
My wife did not enjoy pregnancy. She hated how it weakened her with nausea. I know this offer is not given without conditions, and it may not be repeated. If she manages to slip my grip, there will be no baby.
She tries to twist away from me. I seize a handful of her hair, yanking her back again. She vaults over my shoulder, throwing her arm around my neck, trying to choke me from behind.
I get my forearm in the crook of her elbow and muscle her arm away, grabbing her wrist with my opposite hand and twisting it.
Now I have her arm up behind her back and I throw her down on the bearskin, forcing her legs apart with my knees.
She’s still struggling, fighting like the wild little fox that she is—never submitting.
I see the gleam of wetness between her thighs and I smell that rich, musky scent that inveigles me, promising that if I cum deep inside of her tonight, my seed will take hold.
My cock is raging, standing out from my body like a weapon.
I put one hand on her back, shoving her down. With my other hand, I grip the base of my cock.
I thrust it in.
Her pussy is hotter than the fire, tight and liquid and clenching.
She lets out a shriek that is part fury and part helpless pleasure.
I pump into her, my knees pinning down her legs, my cock driving into her from behind, my hips smacking against the firm globes of her ass.
She begins to moan, rocking her hips, spreading her thighs wider to invite me in deeper. Her hands splay in front of her, fingers gripping the thick black fur.
I want her to moan like that in my ear. I want to feel her breasts against my chest.
I withdraw so I can flip her over to face me.
The moment I do, she leaps up from the rug, ready to sprint away from me. She can’t help herself—as good as it feels, she can’t resist her impulse to trick me with her supposed cooperation, to escape, and to win.