35. Lacey
35
LACEY
My legs feel like lead as we climb the grand staircase of Pankration. Every step brings fresh memories of Irina flooding back—her smile, her kindness, the way she worked the needle through fabric with such care. The weight of the necklace at my throat feels heavier than ever.
Vadim's hand rests at the small of my back, steadying me as we reach the landing. He turns toward the blue suite, but I catch his wrist.
"No." My voice comes out hoarse. "I want to be with you."
"Lacey..." His gray eyes cloud with conflict. "The marriage was just for show. You don't have to?—”
"We're married now." The words catch in my throat but I force them out. "Real or fake, I'm not sleeping alone tonight. Not after..." The image of Irina's body flashes through my mind and I squeeze my eyes shut.
When I open them again, Vadim is studying my face with an intensity that makes my heart stutter. His thumb brushes across my cheek, wiping away tears I didn't realize had fallen.
"This isn't what you signed up for," he says softly.
A bitter laugh escapes me. "None of this is what I signed up for. But here we are."
His jaw clenches as he wars with himself. I can see the moment his resolve crumbles—the slight softening around his eyes, and the way his shoulders drop just a fraction.
"Here we are," he echoes, and there's something raw in his voice that makes me shiver.
We both know this stopped being fake somewhere between the jewelry store and the cathedral. Maybe it was never fake at all. The realization should terrify me, but after everything that's happened today, it feels like the only real thing I have left to hold onto.
My legs feel shaky as I accompany Vadim into his bedroom. Moonlight streams through tall windows, casting long shadows across a space that feels both elegant and austere. Like him. A massive four-poster bed dominates one wall, dark sheets pulled tight with military precision.
My heart pounds as I turn to face him. His eyes are stormy with barely contained emotion that matches the tempest in my own chest. Without thinking, I rise up on my toes and press my lips to his. He responds instantly, one hand tangling in my hair while the other pulls me flush against him.
The kiss deepens, desperate and hungry. I pour everything I'm feeling into it—the grief, the fear, the overwhelming need to feel connected to something real. His tongue sweeps into my mouth and I moan, clinging to his shoulders.
We stumble toward the bed, shedding clothes along the way. The back of my knees hit the mattress and I fall backward, pulling him with me. The weight of his body pressing me into the sheets anchors me to this moment.
"Please," I whisper against his mouth. "Make me feel something. Anything but this emptiness."
His hand cups my face, thumb stroking my cheek as he studies me with those intense gray eyes. For a moment, I see my own pain reflected there, raw and vulnerable.
His lips trail down my neck, my collarbone, leaving a path of fire in their wake. When he reaches my breasts, I arch into him, my fingers tangling in his hair. But he doesn’t stop there. His mouth moves lower, over my stomach, until he’s kneeling between my legs. My breath hitches as he spreads me open, his gaze dark and possessive.
I should feel exposed, vulnerable, but instead, I feel seen . For the first time, I’m not hiding behind a mask.
I’m just me, raw and unfiltered, and he’s looking at me like I’m everything he’s ever wanted.
His tongue flicks against me, and I gasp, my hands gripping the sheets. The sensation is electric, sending shockwaves through my body. I try to hold on, to keep some semblance of control, but it’s slipping through my fingers like sand.
And I don’t care.
Control has always been an illusion. I’ve spent my life trying to hold everything together—my family, my dreams, my heart— but it’s never worked. I’ve always been at the mercy of forces I couldn’t control. Nathan’s betrayal, Laura’s death, Freddy’s cruelty, even Vadim’s proposal—none of it was in my hands.
But this? Letting go? This is something that no-one can take from me.
This is something that is one-hundred fucking percent mine, even if it might not seem that way.
And it feels right .
His mouth works me with a precision that leaves me trembling. My hips lift off the bed, chasing the pleasure he’s giving me. My thoughts scatter, replaced by a single, all-consuming need.
I’m falling, unraveling, and I don’t want to stop.
When I come, it’s with a cry that echoes through the room. My body shatters against his mouth, waves of pleasure crashing over me. For a moment, everything else fades away—the pain, the fear, the guilt.
As the aftershocks subside, I open my eyes to find him watching me, his expression unreadable.
“It’s not enough,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
He tilts his head, his gaze sharp. “What would be enough?”
I get up on all fours, turn around, brace my hands on the bed, and look back at him over my shoulder.
"Use me," I demand, my voice low and needy. "Fuck me like you mean it."
His eyes darken with lust and something else, something primal. His hands grip my hips, fingers digging into my skin as he pushes into me.
The force of it drives the air from my lungs in a sharp gasp.
It’s the kind of pain that makes me feel alive.
The kind that frees me from all other emotions warring for control inside of me.
And I need more.
"Yes," I moan, pushing back against him as my fingers clutching at the sheets. "Harder."
He hesitates, his rhythm faltering for just a moment, and I can feel the question in him. He won’t hurt me. Not unless I ask him to. But even then, I’m not sure he will. He’s too careful, too controlled, too... good.
And that’s the problem. I don’t want him to be good. Not right now. I want him to be cruel, to make me feel the weight of everything I’ve lost.
“Please,” I whisper, my voice breaking.
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to pull away. But then his hand slides up my thigh, his grip firm, almost bruising. His thrusts become rougher, more erratic, and I can feel him teetering on the edge of control. But it’s not enough. Not yet.
“Do it,” I urge, my voice trembling. “Do it and don't you fucking stop.”
He hesitates again, his skin hot against mine. I can sense the struggle in his soul, the battle between what I’m asking and what he’s willing to give. And I know, deep down, that he won’t cross that line. Not unless I make him.
“Fuck me like a slut,” I plead. “Fuck me like a whore. Choke me. Pull my hair. Make me hurt so that I can’t think of anything else.”
That’s when I realize what I’m really asking him to do. It’s not just about the pleasure, the connection, the escape.
It’s about the pain.
I want him to hurt me. I want him to punish me, to make me feel like I deserve this—like I deserve the guilt that’s eating me alive. Irina’s blood will always be on my hands, and no amount of scrubbing will ever wash it away.
But maybe, just maybe, if he hurts me, it’ll feel like justice.
Like I’m paying the price for what I couldn’t stop.
I tilt my head back, exposing my throat. “Harder!”
For a moment, I’m scared that he won’t oblige me.
But then, his hand wraps around my throat, tenderly at first, as if he’s not sure that he should.
I rock my hips back, meeting him with a desperation that surprises even me. The bed creaks beneath us, the sound raw and primal, matching the rhythm of our bodies. His breath comes in ragged gasps against my neck, and when I arch my ass back him and squeeze my pussy around his hard throbbing cock, he realizes that I am certain.
That's when his fingers begin to tighten, and my heart blooms in triumph.
My vision starts to blur at the edges, but I don't want him to stop. I want to be consumed by this, by him.
“Yes,” I moan, my inner walls clenching around his cock, my heart aching to escape reality. "Harder!"
Vadim's hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back as he pistons into me. The sharp sting makes me cry out, but I don’t want him to stop. I want him to take everything from me, to leave me raw and broken and remade.
He leans over me, his lips closing around my earlobe. Fresh pain mixes with the pleasure as he fucks me harder, punctuating each syllable with another hard thrust. “Is this enough, zvyozdochka ?”
“No.” I confess.
He releases my throat and hair, pushes my face down into the bed with one hand, and grips my hips with the other—hard enough to bruise—as he pulls himself almost completely out.
Before I can beg for him to return, he buries himself to the hilt, giving me just a moment to cry out before he pulls all the way to my entrance again.
Only to bury himself completely inside of me again.
"You want me to fuck you like a slut?"
“Yes…” Tears of shame and pleasure stream down my face as he thrusts.
"You want me to fuck you like a whore?"
“Yes!” I shout.
"Then say it,” he snarls above me with every thrust, keeping his thrusts deep but measured. “Beg for me to fuck you like the whore that you are. The slut that you want to be.”
“Please!” I beg loudly. “Please fuck me like a greedy slut! Please fuck me like I'm a worthless whore! Your worthless whore! It's what I want, so don't make me wait anymore. Don't make me beg anymore! Please! Please! Please!”
And it’s true.
It is what I want.
I want him to turn me into nothing but a set of holes—a toy for him to use and discard. I love the way he makes me feel small and powerless, like I’m nothing but a vessel for his pleasure.
It’s the only way to erase the waves of guilt lapping at my mind.
I know I’m just chasing a temporary high.
I know that this depravity, this degradation...it's nothing but a band-aid on a gaping wound in my heart. But I don't care.
He sets a brutal pace that has the headboard slamming against the wall. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by my wanton cries.
It's rough, almost painful, but it’s exactly what I need.
I feel a scream of pleasure bubbling in my throat. When it tears out of me, it leaves my throat raw and ragged. Before I can gather the strength to collect myself, another one punches from my throat.
“That’s it, zvyozdochka! ” Vadim grunts as his movements become faster and more erratic. “Scream for me. Come for me and only me!”
“Yes! YES! YES!” I shriek, voice hoarse and breathless.
His hands grip my hips, fingers digging into my skin as he pulls me closer. Then, one hand slides up my body, cupping my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple. The other finds my clit, his touch rough and demanding until I am dizzy with pleasure.
He growls against my neck, body tensing.
He's still holding back.
I cry out, my back arching as pleasure crashes through me and I convulse helplessly against him, hands clutching at the sheets.
It’s a dangerous path to walk, I know.
A slippery slope with no guarantee of a safe landing.
But I don't care anymore.
“Please cum inside of me. Please make me yours,” I beg, my voice trembling. “I need it. I need you!”
I need him to break me completely, to shatter me into a million pieces and put me back together.
Only then will I be alright.
Only then can I even start to forgive myself.
Before I can demand anything more, before I can urge him on, he gives one final powerful thrust. With a guttural roar, he crashes headlong over the edge and flood my depths with his cum, hot and intense.
I moan, my own climax washing over me in waves in response.
He collapses against me, his weight pressing me deeper into the mattress as he continues to empty himself into me. I squeeze back, and milk him clean of every drop.
Vadim's breath is hot against my skin, and I can feel his heart pounding through his cock buried in my weeping cunt.
For a moment, everything else fades for just long enough away that I can pretend to ignore them—the pain, the fear, the guilt. The bedsheets bunch in my trembling fingers, and I fight bitterly to cling to the feeling of him and nothing else.
Because it's the only thing keeping me from falling apart.