Chapter 31 - Sofia
The Langham concierge maintains his professional smile despite the half-naked man beside me. Alexei’s black card speaks louder than his bare chest ever could.
"The presidential suite," Alexei says, voice steady despite standing in a hotel lobby wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a sneer. "Immediately."
The concierge's fingers fly across his keyboard, not a single question about the blood still visible on Alexei's hands, or my hollow eyes, or the general disaster we both present. Money talks. Black cards scream.
"Of course, Mr. Volkov. Right this way."
The elevator ride stretches forever. Alexei's hand finds mine, warm and steady, the only solid thing in a world that's tilting off its axis.
I'm running on nothing but adrenaline fumes now, the crash coming fast. My reflection in the elevator's gold mirrors shows a ghost: tangled hair, wrinkled dress from the warehouse, eyes that have seen too much truth too fast. I've never been out in public looking like this before. I hate it.
But I also see him watching me in that mirror, and of course, my body responds.
The suite door closes behind us with a soft click that sounds like finality.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame Chicago's skyline, afternoon sun painting everything gold. The space is obscenely luxurious, marble and silk and a bed that looks like clouds. I stand in the middle of it all, not knowing what to do with my hands, with my body, with this freedom he's given me.
Alexei leans against the door, watching me with those pale eyes that see everything. I can see the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his boxers. My mouth goes dry.
Neither of us speaks. The weight of everything sits between us: Viktor's calculated evil, Mikhail's innocence, my father's death that was always going to happen regardless of my silence. Eleven years of wrong belief, shattered in minutes by documents he found in his father's study.
"You need clothes," I say finally, the mundane observation easier than addressing everything else.
His lips twitch. "I need a lot of things. Clothes are low on the list."
"What's at the top?"
He pushes off from the door, crosses to me, stops a foot away. Not touching. Waiting. Always waiting for me to choose now. But I can feel the heat radiating from his bare chest, smell his skin, amber and male.
"You. Safe. Here. That's the whole list."
The laugh that escapes me comes out broken, half-sob. My legs give out, too long running on nothing but adrenaline and guilt, and now that he's freed me, I can't even stand.
He catches me before I hit the marble, scooping me up like I weigh nothing, and suddenly he's pressed against me, all that bare skin making my body sing.
"I've got you," he murmurs against my hair as he carries me to the couch. "I've got you, kotyonok."
He holds me while I shake. Not crying, just trembling, my body finally letting go of the tension it's been carrying for years.
His hands stroke my back, my hair, patient and gentle in a way that would have been impossible weeks ago.
But I feel him hardening against my hip, his body's inevitable response to our proximity, and it makes me press closer instead of pulling away.
"What do you need?" he asks when the tremors finally slow, his voice rough.
"I don't know." My voice sounds strange, hollow. "I don't know anything anymore."
"Then we'll figure it out. Together."
“Together,” I agree.
"When I hunted you all those years, I told myself I was honoring Mikhail. Avenging my family. But the truth is…" He stops, jaw working like the words are being pulled from him by force. "The truth is I was running from my father. From becoming him. And I became him anyway."
"You stopped."
"Only because of you." He finally looks at me, and the rawness there makes my chest tight and my pussy wet. "Because you looked at me like I could be more than a monster."
"You are more."
"Am I?" His laugh is bitter. "I kept you in a basement. Made you bleed. Made you…"
"You also sobbed in my arms about your mother. Taught me about forgiveness. Burned your father's legacy to free me from guilt that wasn't mine." I curl closer into him, and his eyes darken.
"Literally. And he doesn't deserve a legacy. He deserves to be forgotten."
"Your family…"
"You're my family now." The words hang between us, heavy with meaning. "If you'll have me."
My breath catches. The offer there, the vulnerability of it from this man who used to take everything by force. My nipples are so hard they hurt, and I know he can see them through the thin cotton dress.
I move first. My hand rises to his face, tracing the exhaustion there, the bruise on his jaw from the warehouse fight still purple-dark.
"You killed for me."
"I'd do it again."
"You gave up everything."
"I'd give up more."
"Why?"
He catches my hand, presses his lips to my palm. The gesture is so tender I feel something crack in my chest, and wetness floods between my thighs.
"Because I love you."
The words stop everything. My breath, my heart, time itself. He's never said it. Neither have I. We've circled it, implied it, shown it in a thousand violent and tender ways. But the actual words…
"Say it again."
"I love you, Sofia." His grip on my hand tightens, like he's anchoring himself to this moment. "I love you with every part of my wretched soul."
I kiss him then. Soft, trembling, nothing like our desperate claiming before. Against his lips, I whisper, "I love you too."
He makes a sound like I've punched him, fingers tangling in my ratty hair, pulling just hard enough to make me gasp.
"I tried not to," I continue between kisses. "I tried so hard not to."
"I know."
"You kidnapped me. Tortured me. Made me bleed."
"I know."
"And I’m here anyway,” I say. “I’ll always come back to you."
He unties my wrap dress like he's unwrapping something sacred. His fingers shake slightly as they work the knot, and that small sign of nervousness from this dangerous man makes me even wetter. The cloth parts, falls away, pools around me on the leather couch.
I'm completely naked beneath, and his sharp intake of breath makes my skin flush. His eyes travel my body slowly, reverently, but also with that familiar hunger that makes me press my thighs together.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're so fucking beautiful."
I press my hand to his bare chest, needing to feel him, all of him.
My fingers trace the scars I've memorized: the one on his ribs from Chechnya, the thin line on his shoulder from his father.
Then I work the band of his boxers, pushing it down.
His cock springs free, already hard and leaking, and my mouth waters at the sight.
"I know where every one of these came from now," I say, tracing a scar on his hip.
"Some of them you gave me."
My fingers find the scratches I left on his back just days ago, still healing. "Good."
He laughs, surprised. "Good?"
"You deserved them."
"I deserved worse."
"Probably." I lean forward, press my lips to the scar over his heart, then lower, trailing kisses down his chest. "But I'm done punishing you."
He groans when I wrap my hand around his cock, stroking slowly. "Sofia…"
"Let me," I whisper, then take him in my mouth.
He tastes like salt and need, and the sound he makes when I swallow him deep makes my pussy throb. I work him with my tongue, my hand, until he's gripping my hair and cursing in Russian.
"Stop," he gasps, pulling me up. "I need to be inside you when I come."
He lifts me, carrying me to the bed that dominates the suite. The sheets are satin, cool against my heated skin as he lays me down with infinite care. He hovers over me, weight on his elbows, just looking.
"I've taken so much from you," he says, voice rough with emotion. "Tonight I want to give."
"Then give."
He starts at my forehead, lips barely brushing skin. Kisses each eyelid, making them flutter closed. My cheeks, the tears that have started leaking without my permission.
"Why are you crying?"
"Because I never thought I'd have this." My voice cracks. "Someone who knows everything and stays anyway."
"I'm not going anywhere. Ever." Another kiss, this one on my nose, making me almost smile. "You're stuck with me."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
His mouth trails lower, finding that spot where my pulse races in my throat. Not biting or claiming like before, just feeling my heartbeat against his lips. His hands map my body with reverence, like he's memorizing me by touch alone.
When his mouth finds my breast, I arch off the bed. He sucks my nipple into his mouth, tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp. His hand finds my other breast, thumb and finger rolling my nipple until I'm writhing beneath him.
"Please," I whimper. "Alexei, please…"
"Shh," he murmurs against my skin, kissing down my stomach. "Let me worship you."
He spreads my thighs, and I'm already so wet I can feel it dripping down to the satin sheets. He groans at the sight.
"Perfect," he breathes. "So fucking perfect."
The first touch of his tongue makes me cry out. He eats me like a man starving. His tongue traces lazy circles around my most sensitive flesh as he pushes two fingers deep inside, finding that hidden ridge that sends electric currents racing up my spine and makes my vision blur at the edges.
"I love how wet you get for me," he says against my pussy, the vibration making me clench around his fingers. "Love how you taste, how you sound when you're about to come."
He adds another finger, stretching me, fucking me with them while his tongue works my clit. The pressure builds fast, too fast.
"I'm going to…"
"Come for me," he commands, and I shatter.
My orgasm rips through me, back arching, his name on my lips. He works me through it, drawing it out until I'm shaking and oversensitive.
He crawls back up my body, kissing me deep so I can taste myself on his tongue. His cock presses against my entrance, and we both groan at the contact.