Roaring, I fling myself after her, wrapping her up in my arms and bringing her to the ground once more.
Now there will be no mercy and no hesitation.
I pin her arms over her head. I drive into her with full force. And I fuck her ruthlessly, her breasts bouncing on her chest, her head thrown back to expose the long, beautiful lines of her throat.
I suck that throat like I could drink her blood through the skin. I bite her neck and her breasts, marking her with bruises to remind her that she’s married to an animal, to an equal, to the one man in the world who will never let her escape.
She may be a fox, but I’m a wolf. The wolf takes the fox whenever he likes.
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 beat her.
I take down a copy of Hiroshima, 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 coups of 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.
He looks like a Siberian bear standing on hind legs. His fur coat reaches to the floor, his boots dropping melting puddles of slush on the flagstones.
“Ivan!” he cries, holding his arms wide.
I step into them, though I’d rather not, and we embrace.
When he releases me, he turns to Sloane with the look of shock and wonder that no man can hide when he catches sight of her.
“By god,” he says. “I heard you were a beauty, but for once the rumors cannot exaggerate. Now I understand how my friend Ivan went from vicious Vor to family man.”
Sloane holds out her hand to be kissed, a deft maneuver that prevents Marko from attempting to embrace her as well. Her dark eyes size Marko up, cataloging his every word and gesture.
“Would you like a drink?” she says. “This cold will steal your soul.”
“I never turn down a drink,” Marko says, following us deeper into the house.
Several of our men are occupying the billiards room where the full bar resides. Sloane leads us back to the sitting room, swiftly plucking up the book from the sofa cushion before Marko can sit on it.
“What’s your fancy?” she says to Marko.
It’s not like her to play housewife—I’m guessing she wants to stay on her feet, free to cross behind us, and free to access the bevy of weapons stashed all over the monastery, including behind a false panel of books on the shelf.
“Surprise me,” Marko says with a grin.
Sloane mixes the drinks at the smaller bar. I know she’ll make mine weak and Marko’s strong.
Marko looks around the room at floor level.
“Where’s your son?” he says.
“Asleep. It’s past midnight,” I remind him.
“Oh, of course, of course,” he says. “I won’t keep you long . . . wouldn’t want your wife to miss her beauty sleep.”
I can almost feel Sloane’s irritation like a furnace behind me. She despises when men try to make her looks her defining characteristic—as if beauty is the only and highest achievement a woman can reach.
She hands Marko his drink, deliberately spilling a few drops on the thigh of his cargo pants. He doesn’t seem to notice.
“Thank you,” Marko says, allowing his eyes to rest on her a little too long.
This is a deliberate provocation. If he does it again, I’ll cut his fucking eyes out of his head.
Marko turns to me, smiling more widely than ever. “I want to invite you to my wedding,” he says. “Though I wasn’t invited to yours.”
“It was a small and private ceremony,” I say. “Dominik and Lara were married at the same time.”
“Two brothers wedded on the same day,” Marko says, that old jealousy creeping back into his voice. “What a bond you share.”
“Congratulations,” I say, ignoring that. “Who’s the lucky woman?”
“Her name is Daryah Tataryn,” Marko replies proudly.
I can tell he’s genuinely excited for the match. There’s no reason for him to marry otherwise—more than ever these days, Marko answers to no one.