Chapter 47
Mikhail
The tang of blood fills the air.
It’s on the concrete floor, on that cunt’s clothes, and even on my wife’s pretty face, a few strikes crossing her button nose and right eye.
She’s fucking gorgeous—lethal in the way a wounded predator is when you’ve pushed her too far.
Save for her shaking shoulders, she’s still.
Does she regret it? Was that too much for her?
But when she turns to look at me, I don’t see regret swarming in her bright eyes.
I see hope.
“I want to go home,” she tells me. “Let’s clean up and go home. Please?”
“Absolutely,” I say, smiling down at her. I turn to Rodion and Niko. “Anyone lurking around?”
“Nah. We’re good,” Niko confirms.
Nodding, I walk over to a dead Lucia, her eyes wide in shock. I don’t bother closing them as I haul her limp body up so we can take her outside.
“We’ll stay behind. Clean up. You got that?” Rodion asks, jerking his head to the corpse.
“Yep. Meet you at the airport in an hour,” I say. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go.”
My wife moves a little robotically, like she’s not sure what to do with herself, and I exit the garage with the dead woman in my arms.
Half an hour later, we’re at the lake, a heavy boulder tied around Lucia’s torso.
And it’s my wife—my beautiful, fearless, merciful wife—who rolls the body off the edge of the pontoon alongside me. I halt, watching her, her face tensing from the struggle. But she does it, grunting and whimpering, like a true fucking warrior.
I step back, shoving my hands in my pockets, allowing her the chance to finish what she started. She doesn’t look back, doesn’t seek my help. She just does it.
Eventually, the first splash rings through the quiet corner of the forest, Lucia’s face rolling away from Cecilia for the last time. The second splash follows, the boulder sinking with her.
“Go to hell,” my wife murmurs, her breath shallow, chest heaving from the effort.
When she looks over her shoulder, I’m right here, where I’ll always be.
Wanting her. Needing her to survive like I’ve never needed anything my entire fucking life.
Watching her reclaim her power has been a privilege.
I don’t think she understands how fucking proud I am.
I can’t wait to show her when we get back.
“Lastochka…are you—”
“Thank you, Mikhail,” she says. “For being by my side. For not judging me. For teaching me it’s okay to be myself.”
She blinks, her arms circling my waist as she makes a home at my chest, where she belongs.
My once empty, aching heart pulses with something forceful, stronger than before—love, I realize, in its purest, darkest form.
I only recently understood the true meaning of the word.
Before, it was just another bunch of letters in the alphabet.
Now, when I think of it, I think of her. Of my Cecilia.
I frown, the sentiment overpowering, lowering all my defenses.
For this woman, I’d burn the world, go through every bit of my dreadful past infinite times over just so we can end up here, in this exact spot.
She hurts, I hurt. She dies, I die. I’d blow my fucking brains out if I ever failed to protect her.
She’s mine. Mine. Mine. And I’m never letting her go.
Cecilia
I look up at the man I love, and something makes me want to get down on my knees. Right here, on the pontoon, where we just pushed the corpse of the woman I thought was my family.
The reality of what I’ve done settles deep inside me, sending my adrenaline through the roof. My breathing hastens, my heartbeat matching the pace. I don’t regret it, but this feeling…I don’t know what to do with it. It’s almost as if I’m flying high above the world, where nothing can touch me.
My husband’s eyes blaze a deep green, a contrast to the dead nature around us, the sweep of his dark eyelashes lightly concealing the fire igniting beneath. They follow the movement of my body as my bones make contact with the thick wood underneath.
Blood smears his clothes, hands, and face, some of it now on me. It doesn’t bother me anymore. We’re raw. Messy. Dangerous. A curse on anyone who’ll ever come between us.
As I work the button of his jeans, his hand gently tangles in my hair, a silent invitation to possess him. My core trembles with need, my lips plump and swollen, wanting ruinous things.
Because God, how I want him…
“Lastochka…” he murmurs, caressing the top of my head. Even now, he’s worried about me, worried I might be feeling remorse or guilt. He has no idea how alive I feel, how much I need to show him.
But any words I might want to utter fail me as the button unfastens, and I pull his hard cock out of his briefs.
It stands long and steady, a thick vein throbbing down its length, the head soft and glazed with a bit of pre-cum.
Swallowing, I open my mouth and take him, wrapping my tongue around what I can. I’ve never done this before.
He’s so big, my lips stretched to the max as they try accommodating him. A groan rumbles above me, primal and desperate, a responding throb erupting down in my pussy. It’s impossible to ignore.
“Ah, fuck,” he mutters, his fingers tightening in my hair, a painful pull that turns delicious in a heartbeat.
More. I need more.
And when I wrap my hands around that length, another, more painful tug at my scalp sends a moan tumbling out of my chest.
“Just your mouth, sweetheart.”
Obeying, I breathe in through my nose, the air cold and dry but warming around us. And because I can’t hold his cock to steady myself, I pull it into my throat so deep, a gag makes my body quiver.
Again that tug on my hair, again those butterflies in my cunt.
Then, he’s sliding himself out of my mouth.
Have I done something wrong?
But no. It’s not that. It’s just him, watching me with a satisfied smile, waiting to do terrible, delicious things to me.
One moment he looks at me like I’m his whole world, and the next, he maneuvers me like his personal slut.
He tugs me back where I was, my mouth opening as the forceful shove of his cock passes through my parted lips.
It hits the back of my throat, draining me of oxygen, making my eyes sting with tears.
He holds me there, against his pelvis, as my body convulses, his hand becoming a slow caress on my hair that grounds me.
“Relax that throat for me. I know you can take it.”
His tone is dark but endearing. The contradiction sets my body ablaze, making every fiber of my being succumb to his dominance. I set out to thank him on my knees, yet he’s the one in control. Always in control.
Within a few seconds of consciously relaxing my muscles, he hums in agreement, his cock slowly working a little deeper down my throat, chasing his pleasure.
He looks at me with fascination, seeing the contour of his length poking out from beneath my skin.
I can feel how heavy it is inside me, how smooth and hungry.
I’m hungry too—my tongue wraps around what it can, my pussy throbbing as a sense of triumph, of pure delight, courses through me for pleasing him.
“Such a. Good. Fucking. Girl,” he groans, increasing his pace, yanking my hair with those inked, veiny arms as he makes sure to hold my mouth in place.
My throat struggles to contain him, but I hold his thighs, doing my very best. It’s intoxicating, and it should be alarming that I’m enjoying it so much.
He fucks my throat the same way he loves me—guard down, profound, unapologetic.
Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.
I gag, and he holds me still again before he thrusts some more, the feel of my tears on my cheeks and the sounds I make the only things I can focus on. I’m used and praised, and no part of me wants to stop.
Eventually, his eyes flutter closed. He coats my tongue with cum, losing his sense of time and direction, unveiling every vulnerable part of himself.
He tastes like the ocean, salty and foreign, the flavor lodging on my tongue.
For some reason, I don’t swallow it yet.
It’s my prize, my victory, and I want him to see it, to shower me in praise for how good I took him.
His chest heaves with shallow breaths, as if he has just given me something—a part of himself that’s irrecuperable.
He doesn’t regret it. Not an inch of him does, and if he could, he’d give me more.
I can tell just by the way he strokes my chin, by the way his eyes soften then darken when I show him my coated tongue.
He shakes his head softly in disbelief, a smile on his lips.
“Where the hell did you come from, Cecilia?”
I don’t know, but I’ve been waiting for you my entire life.
Bringing his hand to my chin, he gently pushes my mouth closed. “Swallow. You’re getting me hard again, and we need to move.”
When we get back to Alemont City, I first take a long, hot shower, shedding the last bits of the past off me. Once I’m done, I step out into the steamy bathroom, taking in my reflection in the mirror.
I don’t focus on the length of my hair, or the plumpness of my skin, or anything like that.
I focus on my eyes. There’s a newfound sharpness to them, as if I’ve opened a door and crossed a threshold I can’t uncross.
I still expect some measure of regret to hit any second now, but none does.
Instead, I cock my head, liking what I see.
This is who I was meant to be all along: imperfect but brave, unafraid to show up for myself and the people I love. I’m done playing nice when I don’t have to, done waiting for approval from anyone who isn’t either me or my husband. It’s us against the world now.
My mind goes back to the house I grew up in, to the family I thought I had. And suddenly, a thought crosses my mind.
I need to call my father.