Chapter 50
“You’ve never brought me here before.”
ROMAN
Ibegin the descent, bringing the puddle jumper down on our private runway.
Valentina’s still sleeping soundly in the passenger seat, wrapped in multiple blankets.
I’d originally planned for the cruiser, cutting through the Arctic sea with a scenic tour of the glaciers.
I would have brought Valentina back to the yacht.
I’d planned champagne with a view of the stars and the Aurora Borealis and the sound of whales singing.
Everything changed the moment she revealed her pregnancy—as only she could have.
She will still have the stars and Auroras tonight. I’ve tracked the patterns for weeks, knowing another display is in store by nightfall. Our island is remote, perfect for views with no artificial light, especially on the far end of the island.
I’ve had my pilot’s license for a long time.
The moment I touch down, the plane shudders, then steadies. The runway is clear, salted, and groomed, just as it always is, no matter how fierce the storms. That’s the advantage of my island. Everything bends to my will.
After we inherited both of our fathers’ empires and our takedown of all opposing networks, we are beyond the definition of filthy rich. Valentina has already chosen the multiple charities dedicated to regular donations, while my investments continue to turn a profit.
She stirs beside me. Eyes fluttering open, she presses her palm to the glass and lets out a soft gasp.
The sight always does it. Dense woods cover the island like a fur mantle, broken only by the clearing at the heart where my estate rises.
Beyond it, the restored chapel gleams, its cross catching the spring evening light.
Once desecrated, it now stands whole again.
We will renew our vows in the new building.
While the sight sends fresh air into my lungs, my chest throbs with the memories of the nightmares.
As much as we needed the time away from the island and knew it would be a clean slate, trauma still leaves scars.
Many rose in the first month. Sometimes, Valentina would wake screaming.
Other times, I’d wake and sit in my chair in the corner of the room, two fingers of vodka, tempted by using my knife blade for my masochistic side…
until she would wake and I’d fuck her slow and deep.
She’d ride me, love me, and we would remember our long night of Russian-style Bonny and Clyde revenge.
Over time, the nightmares faded. The scars remain. But if they ever open, we stitch them up. Together.
We disembark, swathed in long, heavy coats, the wind biting through the wool as our closest family waits to greet us.
The hem of Fleur’s floral dress still peeks through the snow, her black hair braided Gothic-style, red lips prominent against the gray.
My mother, Roksana, regal and sharp in her black attire, waits with Zina—Shalun preening at her shoulder—Mikhail steady at her side.
Fleur holds a bouquet bright against the ice, while Levka grins wildly, a bottle of vodka clutched to his chest.
It does us all good to reunite.
“Welcome home, Roman,” Zina proclaims. And there are no stiff handshakes, only embraces. Valentina beams at the flowers, kisses Fleur’s cheek, and even pulls Roksana into her arms despite my mother’s muttered protests that Russians do not hug.
Mikhail steps forward, his smile easy. “We have some good news, my Lady.”
Disbelief and affection rise in me as Zina lifts her hand, her wedding band catching the pale light.
Valentina squeals, hugging them both, then jabbing her finger between them.
“You got married without me?” Yes, the one who set it all in motion.
But she softens just as quickly, her laughter ringing out. “I’m so happy for you two.”
Levka, already glassy-eyed, raises his bottle. “And with that…we drink!” I chuff a laugh as his words slur, mushrooms still swimming in his veins. Glasses are passed, vodka burns down throats. All except Valentina’s. Levka frowns, eyes more hurt than angry. “You never refuse me, my Lady.”
She only smiles, glances at me, nodding her permission. I lift one hand with pride and announce, “My zhdyom rebyonka!” We’re pregnant.
Gasps. Cheers. Embraces. Even my mother’s stern mouth softens and beams with joy. Her chest lifts, her eyes filled with pride…for both of us.
While they fawn over Valentina, I move to Zina. “The place?”
“As per your order,” she replies, chin tilting toward the waiting car. Valentina’s worthy luxury carriage.
The sun dips low as I lead Valentina to it, her face glowing with joy. “Our honeymoon isn’t over,” I tell them all. “Don’t wait up.”
She waves to all of them, blowing kisses. My Queen. How she can go from sweet to regal and confident at a moment’s notice, I’ll always love. And then, my favorite: spitting fire and curses, humping, and begging like the dirty little slut she is. Just for me.
The road climbs, curling through the pines, my jaw set. Every tree, every stone is mine to command, but for the first time in my life, I feel what it means to protect something more precious than all of it. She notices the tension in me. “Roman, what is it?”
“Nothing,” I murmur, hand tightening on the wheel. “Everything is right.”
And then the trees part. At the island’s peak, glass glitters like a jewel, our retreat. A domed igloo of steel and crystal, glowing with soft golden light.
“Roman! Oh, God, it’s beautiful. You’ve never brought me here before.”
“It has been waiting for us, Maya Valya. Waiting for you to grace it with your presence.”
I park, but before she can step out, I’m at her side, sweeping her into my arms and carrying her across the threshold.
Her eyes sparkle. “Such a gentleman.” She kisses my cheek.
A gentleman and a sick fuck of a sadist-dom.
Inside, warmth greets us, glass walls opening to the horizon. The sea crashes far below. Above, the last streaks of sunset bleed into indigo, stars pricking the dark. Soon, the Auroras will come. And tonight, this kingdom of ice and fire belongs to no one but us.
Once she’s on the bed, I don’t give her time to admire the view. That will come soon. We have another matter of business and pleasure here, another surprise to come—one I spent months planning.
Her breath hitches as I remove the heavy coat, shrugging it off her shoulders.
My movements are almost robotic as I remove her clothing one by one.
Her lips part, her eyes filled with soft questions, but I know she’s noting my hardened jaw, the sharpness in my eyes, and the tension in my muscles.
She doesn’t protest when I rid her of everything.
She still takes my breath away every damn time.
So exquisite. More so with the crown brand, the soft silver lines of old scars on her breasts, belly, and thighs.
A tapestry of them on her back, both silver and faded red.
Her nipples stiffen, and I know it’s from more than the cold.
But I don’t touch her. Not yet. Instead, I drape the heavy faux fur coat around her body.
The white of the fur accentuates the loveliness of her skin, pale and flushed with a rosy pink, those sweet buds turning more erect.
Subtle wetness glistens on her upper thighs, so close to her cleft.
“Roman?” she asks softly, lowering her brows, not needing to finish. She’s simply confused, not hurt.
“Not a word, Valya. Patience,” I warn, take her hands, and bring her to a stand.
She gasps, eyes lighting up with wonder. I turn, approving of the ribbons of ethereal light cutting through the sky. Nature has perfect timing.
Valentina clutches the edges of the coat as I lead her to a side door in the igloo and down a short staircase leading into a tunnel. A tunnel of pure ice.
“Oh, Roman! It’s like a dream,” she swoons so beautifully, it takes all my willpower not to thrust her up against the nearest ice wall and pound into her.
Frost shimmers along the tunnel walls, a soft, bluish glow from the Northern Lights seeping through cracks in the ice overhead.
My boots crunch against the packed snow floor as I lead her deeper inside, our breaths pluming into silver wisps.
They curl like phantoms, vanishing in a moment.
The air smells faintly of clean ice and salt from the distant sea.
She shivers, and I don’t mind her slipping her arms into the coat.
As long as she is prepared, full access whenever I desire.
The edges cover most of her breasts, but not the swells.
More slickness grows along her pussy. I kept the wool leg warmers with their slippers on her calves and feet. Red. Like a sexy flare upon her legs.
The passage opens, and I hear her soft gasp before I see it reflected in her face—the little castle of ice.
The frozen walls glitter as though diamonds have crusted them.
Ice arches stretch above our heads like a vaulted cathedral.
And in the center, on a dais of crystalline frost, awaits my throne.
A throne sculpted from solid ice. Its edges catch the light, throwing back splinters of green and violet, as if the Aurora itself had been captured within it.
I built it to be cold, unyielding, a reminder of the empire I’ve shaped here in the silence of the Bering Sea.
I guide her closer. Then I sit, my body sinking against the unrelenting chill, and pull her onto my lap. She trembles, but it’s not from the cold—it’s from me, from the way I hold her as though she belongs on this throne as much as I do.
Her gaze lifts, meeting mine, and in the reflection of her wide violet eyes, I see everything—the glass igloo above us, the sea crashing against the island cliffs, the stars burning holes through the night. But here, in this frozen hall, it’s only us.
Only my kingdom of ice. And my queen in my lap.
And without hesitation, no words, I pull my raging hardness out of my pants, lift her hips, and stab my cock straight up into her pussy.
“Oh!” she moans, tipping her head back against my shoulder because she did not expect this. At least not so soon. Just as I’d planned. Fucking love the scent of her perfume. While she has many loves—and excels at them all—I’ve learned perfume-making is one of her top favorites.
I breathe in the floral notes for the impending spring. Wisteria, white sandalwood, Damascus rose, and frankincense.
Then, she squeezes, her fleshy walls so hot, so wet, so tight for me every damn time.
“Stop.” I slap her thigh. “No wiggling.”
“Ugh, it’s too hard, Romy!”
“Da, it is indeed.”
She tosses her hair back and rolls her eyes. “Ha. Ha.”
I let that sass go. I will never forbid her voice. Only discipline her accordingly. No, punish. Sick fuck that I am. Followed by deep aftercare.
“And here…Moya Koroleva, on my throne, you will refer to me as my korona or my Lord, is that understood?”
When she doesn’t respond, I take her by the throat and squeeze. A light constriction, far milder compared to other times.
She digs her nails into my thighs, penetrating even through the fabric, nods, and shrieks, “Understood! My Lord.”
“Horosho devochka.”
“Aren’t you going to move?!” When I tense, she softens her tone and says, “My Lord.”
“Not quite yet, Valya. We must discuss some business first.”
“Business?!” She still gasps when I throb inside her, cock jerking. “Are you upset?”
“Quite the opposite.”
“Then, why have you been…?”
“What, Valya?”
“Tense?”
I shrug the fur coat down below her shoulders, exposing her to the cold air before taking her nipples between my thumb and fingers. Her response is instant. She softens, whimpers, and begs in little whispers for more. Trained so beautifully. Rebirthed so beautifully. At my hand. But…
When she is carrying my heir, that hand has no choice but to adapt. Not necessarily to soften, but to adapt.