Epilogue
SIENNA
“Put your hands on the window and don’t move.”
Viktor says it from behind me, low and rough, and my whole body answers before my mind catches up.
Outside, the mountains are dark and endless.
The cabin sits high above the valley, tucked between pine trees and snow-covered slopes.
Far from hospitals, weddings, gunfire, family, police statements, and every nightmare that tried to swallow us whole.
The world beyond the glass is quiet. Moonlight lies over the snow.
The fireplace burns behind us, throwing heat across the room, but the window is cold under my palms.
Viktor stands behind me, still dressed from dinner, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, belt already open. I can see his reflection in the dark glass. Bigger than life. Older. Dangerous. Mine.
His hands slide over my hips, then up my waist, slow and possessive. “You’ve been teasing me all night,” he says.
“I was eating dinner.”
“You were wearing this dress.”
I try not to smile. “That’s not teasing.”
His mouth brushes the side of my neck. “On you, it is.”
The dress is black, soft, and loose enough to hide the parts of my body I’m still learning to make peace with after having a baby.
But Viktor has never looked at me like I’m something that needs hiding.
Not once. Even now, months after everything, when my body is different and softer and marked by birth and survival, he looks at me like he wants to take his time ruining himself on it. That still gets to me.
His hand slips under the hem of the dress and moves up my thigh, and I breathe in sharply.
“There,” he says. “Already.” I close my eyes, but he catches my chin and turns my face just enough that I can see him in the reflection. “No. Watch.”
My pulse stumbles.
His fingers reach the edge of my underwear. He touches me through the fabric first, just enough pressure to make me lean forward against the glass.
“Viktor.”
“That’s not what I told you to do.”
I press my palms harder to the window.
He smiles against my throat. Then he pulls my underwear aside and slides two fingers through me.
The sound I make is embarrassing, but he likes it. I can feel that in the way his grip tightens on my hip.
“Fuck,” he says, almost to himself. “You’re soaked.”
I try to answer, but he pushes one finger inside me, and the words disappear.
He takes his time at first. Slow strokes, deep enough to make my knees soften, his thumb finding my clit with a certainty that makes me bite my lip.
I watch us in the glass because he told me to, and because there’s something filthy and intimate about seeing his body behind mine, his hand under my dress, my own face falling apart while the mountains stare back at us.
“You like this,” he says.
I shake my head once, uselessly.
His laugh is quiet and mean in the best way. “Liar.”
He adds another finger.
I gasp and push back against his hand.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “My greedy girl.”
The words go straight through me.
I used to think I would hate being talked to like that. Maybe with anyone else, I would. But with Viktor it doesn’t make me feel small. It makes me feel seen in some dark, private corner of myself I don’t have to explain to him.
He knows.
He knows I want him rough sometimes. Knows I want him gentle after. Knows I want to be held down and adored in the same breath.
His fingers curl inside me, and I moan.
“That’s it,” he says. “Let me hear you.”
“We’ll wake her.”
“She’s asleep.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I checked the monitor.”
Our daughter is asleep upstairs, warm and safe in the room across from ours, all soft breaths and curled fists and the fierce little frown she inherited from him.
That thought should cool me down.
It doesn’t. It makes this stranger somehow. Sweeter and dirtier at the same time. We are parents now. We’re exhausted half the time. We talk about feeding schedules and pediatric appointments and whether the cabin is too cold at night.
And then he gets me alone against a window and fingers me like he has all the time in the world.
His thumb circles my clit harder. My legs start to shake.
“Viktor, I’m going to—”
“I know.”
He keeps me there, right on the edge, his mouth on my neck, his hand working between my thighs, his body solid behind mine.
“Come,” he says. “Now.”
I do.
It hits hard enough that my forehead drops against the glass. My body tightens around his fingers, pleasure rolling through me in hot, helpless waves. He holds me through all of it, one arm wrapped around my waist, keeping me up when my legs stop being useful.
When I finally start to come down, he pulls his fingers out slowly and turns me around. His eyes are dark. He brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean while looking at me.
My breath catches all over again. “You’re obscene,” I whisper.
“No.” He steps closer. “You make me obscene.”
Then he kisses me.
It’s not soft. There’s nothing polite in it. He kisses me like he’s been holding back all day, like the dinner, the fire, the quiet conversation, even the tenderness were all leading to this. His tongue pushes into my mouth, and I taste myself on him.
I whimper.
He hears it and smiles against my mouth.
Then he lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist automatically, and he carries me from the window to the thick rug in front of the fire. Not the bed. Not even the couch. The floor, because apparently he has decided I’m not making it that far.
He lays me down carefully, but the care doesn’t last. His hands are under my dress again, pushing it up, exposing my thighs, my hips, my stomach. I tense for half a second when the fabric catches above my belly.
He notices. He always notices.
His expression changes, just enough. “Don’t,” he says.
I swallow. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He lowers himself over me and kisses the soft skin below my ribs, then lower, over the faint marks pregnancy left behind, over the place where my body still feels unfamiliar to me some days.
“You think I don’t want this?” he asks.
His mouth moves lower.
“This body gave me my daughter.”
Another kiss.
“And it gives me you.”
His hands spread over my hips.
“I want every inch of it.”
The ache in my chest is almost as bad as the throbbing between my legs.
Then he yanks my panties down my thighs and throws them somewhere behind him, and the tenderness turns hot again so fast I can barely breathe.
He gets on his knees between my legs and looks down at me. “Open wider.”
I do.
His gaze drops, and something in his face goes almost savage. “Perfect.”
Then his mouth is on me.
I cry out before I can stop it. He eats me like he’s angry about how much he wants me. Flat tongue, hard suction, hands holding my thighs open when I try to close them around his head. I twist under him, fingers in his hair, pulling too hard, but he only groans and presses closer.
“Viktor.”
He doesn’t stop.
If anything, he gets worse. Slower where I need him faster. Rougher when I’m already too sensitive. His tongue pushes into me, then drags back up to my clit, and I almost sob because I’m still swollen from the first orgasm and he knows exactly how much I can take.
“Please,” I say.
He lifts his head just enough to speak. “Please what?”
I glare at him, or try to. It probably looks pathetic.
He smiles. “Use your words.”
“I need you.”
“Where?”
I hate him.
I love him so much I can barely stand it.
“Inside me,” I say. “Please.”
That does it.
He stands only long enough to shove his trousers down and free himself. I barely get a look before he’s back over me, one hand braced beside my head, the other guiding himself to me.
He doesn’t push in right away. He drags the head of his cock through the wet mess he made of me, slow and cruel, watching my face every second.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he says.
My heart twists.
Because even now, even like this, even when he’s hard and impatient and practically shaking with restraint, he’s careful with the part of me that still needs care.
“It won’t,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens. “Tell me anyway.”
“I will.”
Only then does he push inside.
My back arches. He fills me slowly at first, inch by inch, giving my body time to take him. It’s intense, almost too much, that first deep stretch after already coming twice, but then he’s fully inside me and everything settles into a pleasure so thick it makes my eyes close.
He stays still, breathing hard above me. “Look at me.”
I do.
His face is tight with control. “You feel too good,” he says.
I wrap my legs around his hips. “Then move.”
His eyes flash.
He pulls out almost all the way and drives back in, and I moan, loud enough that he covers my mouth with his.
The pace turns rough quickly. Deep, hard thrusts that push me up the rug, his body heavy over mine, his mouth at my throat, one hand gripping my thigh to hold me open. It’s not gentle anymore, and I don’t want it to be.
I want the weight of him. I want the force.
I want to feel him everywhere and think of nothing else.
The fire cracks beside us. The rug burns softly against my bare back. The cabin creaks in the wind. Outside, the mountains are still and cold, and inside Viktor is fucking me like I’m the only warm thing left in the world.
“You’re mine,” he says against my mouth.
I should make some smart reply.
Instead I nod.
His hand slides between us and finds my clit again, and I almost come apart immediately.
“Say it,” he says.
“I’m yours.”
He groans and thrusts harder.
“And you’re mine,” I say, because I need him to hear that too.
Something changes in his face. The roughness stays, but the emotion comes through it, deep and unguarded.
“Yes,” he says. “Always.”
That pushes me over. I come with his name in my mouth, my body clenching around him, nails digging into his shoulders. He keeps fucking me through it, each thrust rougher than the last until his rhythm breaks.