Tall as I am, I can’t match his long legs. I need to get just a little higher.
I step into the squat rack, my feet resting on the crossbars. I lean forward, bracing myself against the rack with my hands. Now Ares can stand behind me, my ass raised up to the perfect height for his cock, my legs spread wide. He thrusts into me, pounding me hard, making the whole rack shake.
I can see Ares in the mirror, ripped like a Renaissance sculpture, like Michelangelo’s most fevered dreams brought to life. Every muscle stands out on his long, lean frame, his fingers digging into my hips, his head thrown back, jaw clenched, teeth bared.
I’ve never seen anything so sexy.
I’m starting to cum, his cock pounding relentlessly against that sensitive spot on my inner wall, his thick shaft rubbing the base of my clit.
“Harder,” I beg. “Fuck me harder.”
“I’ll fucking destroy you with this cock,” Ares snarls.
He pounds into me with all his force.
The orgasm detonates inside of me. It blasts through my body, destructive and hot, incinerating my bones, sizzling through my cells.
Ares is cumming too, roaring out loud and pounding me with all his might. His hands twitch, his whole body shakes as he pours cum inside of me, driving it deep with every thrust.
I’m only vaguely aware of this because I’ve lost control of my body, I can’t think or speak or hold myself up, all I can do is feel this climax to end all climaxes, an orgasm that ought to be named like a hurricane.
If I didn’t have the rack to hold me up, I’d fall on my face.
Instead, I collapse backward onto Ares, both of us sweating and shaking on a pile of mats with no clear idea of how we got over there.
“I’d spend a lot more time in the gym if that was the workout,” Ares groans.
“Don’t forget to wipe down that bench,” I tell him.
We both start laughing, helpless and slightly hysterical, clutching abs that are much too sore for any more activity.
23
Ivan Petrov
Present Day
I push up from the floor of my cell, the grit of the bare rock digging into my palms. Those palms are harder than iron by now. They’ve endured one thousand push-ups per day for three and a half long years.
When I want to do pull-ups, I flip my bed on its end and use the steel crossbar of the headboard.
One thousand push-ups. Five hundred pull-ups. One thousand air squats. Five hundred sit-ups. Broken into intervals like the hours of an invisible clock. That is how I divide my day.
The rest of the time, I read.
Marko provides me with books because he doesn’t want me to go mad.
Then I wouldn’t be able to provide the monthly check-ins that keep the ransom money flowing. Also, it would spoil his fun.
He’s due for a visit any day now. I keep track of how many days have passed, scoring the stone walls with an old nail. Marko’s visits aren’t regular enough to predict accurately. He does that intentionally. Routine is dangerous, he knows that.
I always knew he was intelligent.
It was the qualities I failed to see that came back to bite me.
I hear Borys and Ihor rotating positions out in the corridor. Borys shined his boots this morning—a sure sign that Marko is indeed about to visit. I know the Malina’s routines better than they do, though my cell has no windows, and only a small slit in the door through which my meals pass.
I haven’t seen the sky or felt wind on my face since I came to this place.
But I would pass the rest of my days in darkness if I could see my wife one last time.
I’ve been torn in half. The other part of me is wandering, searching . . . longing for me as I’m longing for her.
I know she’s looking for me. I know it as well as I know my own thoughts.
Sloane will never give up on me.
And I will never stop trying to come home to her.
I made a promise to her. And I always keep my promises.
I miss my children almost as badly. My only comfort is that they have their mother with them and Dominik to help protect them.
It’s Sloane I worry about. She’ll drive herself to death looking for me. She’ll take any risk. I worry about her survival more than my own.
I can’t bear being locked up in here when she might need me out there.
I’ve never met anyone more capable than my wife. But no one is invincible, no matter what she and I might have believed about ourselves in the hubris of youth. She needs me, and I need her.
We draw life from each other. In the time we’ve been apart, we’ve both been slowly dying.
I listen for the sounds of Marko’s approach.
I’m buried deep in the earth, in a vast stone tomb, like a pharaoh interred before his time.
I don’t know if I’m in a castle or prison, or even in which country we reside. I was shot four times by the Malina, covering my wife and children so they could escape. I woke in this cell, with tubes running in and out of me, with IV bags and monitors, and a doctor called Lyaksandro who tended to me while always ensuring that I was shackled hand and foot to the cot.
The Malina are careful with their most valuable prisoner.
After all, I’m worth $6 million a month, not to mention the priceless satisfaction I provide to Marko Moroz.
He’s bleeding my family dry, raking in over $252 million so far. Still, I think he would trade every penny for the pleasure of rubbing his revenge in my face.
That’s why he comes for these monthly ransom calls. So he can witness my pain.
I know when his convoy arrives, because I hear the crackle of the radio out in the hallway, and the shifting sound as Borys stands at attention. I don’t know if Marko comes by boat, helicopter, or car. I don’t know if we’re on an island or in the middle of the wilderness.
But I do pick up clues—small, significant clues. And I pass them along in the only way I can.
I’m sitting on my cot, back against the wall, reading The Devil In The White City for the third time.
I hear the clanking of electronic locks and the groan of heavy doors creaking open. Then the tramping tread of Marko and his men approaching.
“Dobroho ranku, ser,” Borys greets him with an audible salute. Good morning, sir.
I already knew some Ukrainian, similar as it is to Russian. Now I know more from listening to Borys and Ihor shoot the shit outside my cell. I know far more than I ever cared to learn about Borys’ rotten luck with the ponies, and Ihor’s persistent foot rash.
Marko’s men are not permitted to marry or even maintain long-term relationships. They have no children, and he deliberately recruits those without close family. He is a jealous god who tolerates no other loyalties.
It does create a cult-like bond between him and his men. They depend on him entirely. But they also squabble bitterly amongst themselves, vying for his approval in petty, backstabbing ways.
Marko thrives on this. He loves to pit them against each other, doling out compliments and mockery in arbitrary and capricious ways.
I can feel Marko’s bulk standing outside the door to my cell. I hear the grit of gravel as he leans forward, pressing his eye against the retinal scanner.
Only Marko and his lieutenant Kuzmo can enter my cell. Marko doesn’t trust his other soldiers, not with his favorite prisoner. They might be vulnerable to threats or bribes.