Chapter 15 - Katya #2
Seconds later, he explodes inside of my. I can feel his cock stiffen more before his release. When he's done, he pulls me closer so he can nuzzle into my neck. I bury my face into his neck as our heart rates slow down.
We stay tangled together, breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync.
When he finally pulls out, the emptiness feels like a wound. He tucks himself away and helps me off the table. My legs shake. He holds me steady, hands gentle now.
We don’t talk while we clean up—wiping my thighs, straightening clothes, fixing hair. The room smells like sex, his cologne, my perfume—all proof we can’t erase.
I look at him—lips swollen, shirt wrinkled, eyes dark and soft.
“I don’t regret it,” I say, voice low.
He lets out a breath. “Good.”
“But…” I swallow. “This doesn’t change anything. Our marriage is still just for show.”
He studies me for a long moment. “If that’s what you need.”
“It is.”
He nods, slow and careful. But I see that flicker—the hope he tries to hide.
I’m the first to turn away. Smooth my dress, check my reflection in the window. My cheeks are flushed, lips red, hair a mess. I look like someone who’s just been wrecked and cherished.
I still want him—body humming, skin sensitive, already aching for more. Wanting him again.
But I made a promise. In name only. No more.
I won’t break it again.
I need to push aside the image of Tikhon as he gazed at me all the while plunging deep into my core. I need to forget how his green eyes appeared to dance with delight as his fingers pinched my clit, causing such a euphoria that my stomach tingled.
I have to stop my thoughts from reliving how good he felt in my arms as his hard member captured me. I must be strong.
I walk to the door and unlock it.
“Katya.”
I pause.
He’s still by the table, hands in his pockets, watching me like I’m the only thing that matters.
“If you ever change your mind…” he says, voice soft. “I’m here.”
I don’t answer.
I open the door and step into the hallway.
The noise of the gala rushes in—music, laughter, the clink of glasses.
I breathe in deep.
Square my shoulders.
And walk back into the part I always play.
Perfect. Poised. Untouched.
Every step I take reminds me just how deeply he’s gotten under my skin. And honestly, I can’t stop wanting him all over again.
Arina finds me by the bar about twenty minutes later. Her hair’s swept up, neat and elegant, and her blue-green eyes are sharp as she weaves through the crowd. She’s wearing this deep blue dress that fits her perfectly—she looks every bit the polished Sokolov-turned-Letvin wife.
We’ve gotten closer since the wedding, both of us navigating this mess together—sisters-in-law, bound by the absurdity of it all.
“You okay?” she asks, linking her arm through mine. “You vanished.”
“Just needed a breather.” I take a sip of champagne, bubbles prickling my tongue. “How do you do it? The whole married-into-this circus?”
She glances around, making sure no one’s paying attention, then leans in. “It isn’t easy. Ilariy’s way too protective. Sees threats everywhere. But marriage? That part’s a choice, every single day.
Not just the arranged part—the loving part. I fought it at first. I thought it was only duty. But he proved it could be more. Trust, partnership, even in this world. I used to think love couldn’t survive here—too much blood, too many secrets.
Turns out, it can. It’s just harder. You have to keep choosing it, even when you’re scared.”
I can’t stop thinking about Tikhon—his hands, the way he looks at me like I’m something fragile and important.
The pull between us is impossible to ignore.
Walking away doesn’t help. But if I give in, I’m not just accepting him; I’m accepting everything that comes with him.
“What if it’s not really a choice? What if it’s just… heat?”
She gives me this knowing smile. “Heat’s where it starts. The rest follows if you let it. I still remember the first time Ilariy kissed me—not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Scared me half to death. But it also felt like coming home. Like I wasn’t alone in the fight anymore.”
Her words hit hard. I start thinking about Mom—her quiet strength, how she’d hum while rolling out dough, turning the kitchen into a safe haven. And Tikhon’s hands—gentle, but fierce when he needs to be. Is that what love is here? Not shackles, but anchors?
I don’t answer. Suddenly, I’m back in the kitchen with Mom, her hands guiding mine, showing me how not to break the pastry. “Gentle, Katyusha. Too much force ruins it.”
Dad would stand in the doorway sometimes, watching with a soft smile before business pulled him away again. Those moments always felt so delicate, easy to lose. Is that what Tikhon’s offering? A bit of fragile peace in the middle of all this chaos?
I promise myself, again: never again. But my body isn’t listening. Everything about him lingers on my skin, buzzing with memory and want. It’s hard to resist. Impossible to ignore.
We head back to the crowd. I put on my best smile, play my part.
But inside?
That promise feels shaky. As delicate as pastry, ready to fall apart.