With a growl, he releases me from the wall, turns me around, and presses me up against the window before thrusting into me again, ripping a scream of pleasure from my throat.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, his hand on my waist, the other fondling my growing breasts before gripping my ass.
“More,” I cry. “I want more!”
He obliges, thrusting into me over and over, alighting every nerve ending until all I can do is cry out.
“I want you. All of you.” My entire body is clenched, stars dancing in front of my eyes as blood rushes through my ears. I'm so close to the edge, I can barely breathe. “Promise me, Matvei.”
“I promise,moya lyubov.” His voice is rough, full of desire, dominance, and darkness that calls to me, revealing parts of myself I never knew existed, that scare me as much as thrill me. “I promise.”
One more powerful stroke, and the world explodes. For a moment, I'm nowhere and everywhere all at once, floating in a space between light and dark where I could stay forever. When I come back down, I’m shaking, gasping for breath, one hand pressed against the glass, the other digging nails into Matvei's hand as he plunges in, swelling within me and finishing with a groan of pleasure.
Later, as holiday lights from the surrounding houses fill the bedroom with ambient light, we find ourselves entwined on the sheets, the echoes of our confessions and lovemaking still humming in the air. I try to meet Matvei halfway, my words tentative but honest as I lay out the tangled hopes and fears that have always kept us at a distance.
“We don't know what's coming, but I want to face it together. I want us to be more than what the world sees and believes. If this is going to work, I need to be your partner, not just the mother of your children or the woman on your arm. Definitely not a prisoner in your castle.”
The blue of his eyes seems to glow in the darkness as he stares at me, watches me, memorizes me. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, his eyes never leaving mine. As though taking a solemn vow, he murmurs, “My partner, Sonya. I promise.”
He gently pushes me down on the pile of pillows I’m lying on and kisses down my body, lingering where the twins sleep within.
“I promise.”
24
SONYA
Matvei leaves before I wake, leaving only a note in a neat but hurried scrawl:
I'll be back soon.
I stretch and check my phone.
Be ready at ten. I want to show you something.
The words thrum through me as I shower and dress, anticipation and uncertainty winding tighter with every tick of the clock. I wonder if this is another test or something closer to trust—a look behind the curtain I've always been too afraid to tug aside.
I linger over my decaf tea and glance out the window, searching the puffy clouds drifting through the winter blue sky for I don't know what. I look at the bare trees, the cardinals and finches flitting from branch to branch.
When ten finally arrives, I'm dressed in a new pair of maternity jeans that already feel too tight and a soft blue sweater, nerves prickling under my skin when Evgeny tells me Matvei is waiting for me outside.
He leans casually against one of the low-slung sports cars from the garage, wearing dark gray slacks and a black sweater. He looks relaxed, but the set of his mouth betrays a current of nerves I rarely see. When I approach, he opens the door for me, his fingers grazing my elbow, warm and reassuring. I slide into the seat, inhaling the familiar scent of leather and cedar, which grounds me.
He gets in, turns the key, and the engine purrs to life. For a moment, we just sit there, engine idling, silence suspended between us.
“You trust me?” he asks, his voice low and careful.
I meet his gaze. “I'm here, aren't I?”
He smiles, the brief, dimpled grin that always softens the sharp angles of his face. “That's enough.”
The city slides past as we drive—the river glinting with the morning sun, old factories reworked into glossy condos, little corner cafes with customers enjoying their morning brew on the other side of large windows.
I watch the world pass by, but I'm more aware of Matvei beside me—the way his hand drifts to rest on my knee at stoplights, the way he hums along to old Russian rock songs I've never heard before. He's different away from the mansion and the shadowed borders of his empire. More open. Or maybe I'm simply seeing him differently now that I'm choosing to look.
We pull up to a brick building with cheerful flower boxes under the windows and a line of customers stretching down the block despite the frosty air.The sign saysMedovikabove the door, painted in looping script. The air outside smells like cinnamon and sugar, the kind of comfort that seeps into your bones.
Matvei walks me inside, past the line, greeting the older woman behind the counter in Russian before leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. She beams at him, her eyes crinkling with affection, then gives me a friendly nod before rejoining the cheerful chaos behind the busy counter.