Chapter Eight
Aleksei
A sudden, intense wave of need washes over me at Stella’s words.
The thought of her naked body, slick with water, her pregnant belly swollen with my child— it hits me with unexpected force. My pupils dilate and my breathing shifts subtly, betraying the surge within me.
Slowly, mudak.
I have to be careful. This isn’t just any woman— this is Stella, carrying my child, vulnerable and stripped of her memories. Wanting her like this, when she doesn’t remember our complicated past, feels wrong. But I can’t seem to resist the pull she has over me.
“Okay,” I say, my voice carefully controlled. “Wait for me here.”
I stride toward her bathroom, my movements purposeful.
This is what I do— control every variable, create the perfect scenario.
The bathroom is a masterpiece of luxury— Italian marble, gold fixtures, a tub large enough for two.
I run the water, testing the temperature until it’s exactly right.
Not too hot for the baby, but warm enough to soothe.
Look at you, zasranets.
All domesticated.
I measure the bubble bath precisely, watching as the water turns milky and fragrant.
The lighting needs adjustment— too bright feels clinical, too dim suggests something Stella might not be ready for.
I settle on a warm glow that softens the edges of things.
Every detail matters. This is how I’ve always operated, whether in business or pleasure.
When everything is perfect, I return to the sitting room. “Bath is ready,” I announce, my tone casual despite the heat building inside me.
Stella looks up, and I catch a moment of hesitation in her eyes— a flicker of vulnerability that both satisfies and troubles me.
I extend my hand to help her rise, establishing physical contact while giving her the illusion of choice.
Her fingers are warm against mine, her touch light but not reluctant.
The bathroom is filled with steam when we enter, creating an otherworldly atmosphere.
Without overthinking, I lean down and kiss her.
Her lips are soft, yielding. I’m searching for any sign that her body remembers what her mind cannot— the times we’ve done this before, the passion that always simmered between us even when she hated me.
“Aleksei,” she sighs against my lips, stiffening against me slightly and then yielding, as if making some silent decision.
I take that as permission to continue, my fingers finding the buttons of her blouse.
I undress her slowly, my touch lingering over the swell of her belly and the heavy curves of her breasts.
Her body is different now, fuller with pregnancy, but no less beautiful.
More so, perhaps, knowing she carries my child.
Our eyes lock as the last of her clothes fall away, and she gnaws on her lip.
“Will… will you join me?” she asks, her voice husky. I pause, considering this. She’s been distant since she got back, but something has changed.
I narrow my eyes on hers for a moment, then nod silently.
I undress myself with efficiency, aware of her eyes on me.
My body is a battlefield of scars and tattoos—each marking telling a story of violence and power that I hope she won’t ask about.
Not yet. The onion domes of St. Petersburg’s skyline across my back.
The dagger wrapped in roses over my heart.
The Bratva stars on my shoulders marking my rank.
We stand facing each other for a moment, taking in the sight of each other. Her nipples are puckered, darker than they were before. I touch one with my fingertip and she sucks in a breath, gooseflesh rippling over her bare skin.
“Get in,” I tell her, reaching for her hand as she steps into the tub.
The water embraces us as we sink in. I position myself behind her, her back against my chest, her head resting on my shoulder.
From here, I can see us both in the ornate mirror on the opposite wall— her pale skin against my darker complexion, her softness against my hardness.
I am surrounding her completely, protective and possessive.
You’re mine, zaychik.
I don’t say the words, but they’re reflected in my touch, my posture, my breath against her ear.
I take the washcloth and begin to clean her, starting with her shoulders and working my way down.
My touch alternates between soothing and claiming.
When I reach the swell of her belly, I pause, my hand splaying across it.
My territory, marked and claimed. My child grows within her.
The thought sends another surge of desire through me.
“ Krasivaya ,” I murmur against her ear. Beautiful.
Water droplets trace paths down her skin, and I follow them with my fingertips.
Her breathing changes, becoming shallower.
I can feel her heart racing where her back presses against my chest. My cock is rock hard, pressing against her lower back, but I exercise restraint.
This isn’t just about physical release— it’s about reclaiming what was almost lost to me.
I let her desire build as I touch her, waiting until she turns in my arms, seeking more intimate contact. Only then do I stand, lifting her from the water. I leave wet footprints across the marble floor as I carry her to the bedroom, water trailing behind us in pools.
In the bedroom, I lay her on the silk sheets, taking a moment to devour the sight before me.
“ Ty samoe dorogoe, chto u menya yest’ ,” I murmur roughly.
She stares at me. “I… I’m precious to you?
” she whispers, echoing my words, then frowns.
“Wait… I speak Russian.” Her eyes are wide when I nod at her.
Of course she does. She was born there. Grew up there before her asshole father fled with his family in tow.
But this is not the time to discuss that.
If I have my way, we will never discuss it.
“Shhhh,” I say, putting a fingertip to her lips.
Water droplets still cling to her skin, catching the dim light like diamonds against her flushed flesh.
Her nipples are tight and swollen, begging for my mouth.
The heaviness of her breasts makes my cock throb painfully against my stomach as I position myself above her.
“ Krasavitsa ,” I breathe. Beautiful one. Mine.
Her eyes are liquid heat, pupils blown wide with desire.
Long lashes flutter against her cheeks when I trace a finger down the valley between her breasts, over her belly.
Her chestnut hair fans around her face, still damp from our bath.
Seeing her here, in my bed, carrying my child— it’s a conquest more satisfying than any business deal I’ve ever closed.
The curve of her pregnant belly rises between us, a reminder of what we’ve created together, of what belongs to me.
I run my palm over the taut skin, feeling a flutter beneath— our child responding to my touch.
Something possessive roars inside me. I bend to press my lips against that sacred mound, tasting the water still clinging to her skin, inhaling her scent.
“Aleksei…” she whispers, her voice thick with need, hands reaching for me.
I move up her body deliberately, savoring each inch of contact between us. Her thighs part for me instinctively, welcoming me home. Her pussy is already slick and swollen, ready for me— her body remembering what her mind cannot.
“ Blyad. You’re so wet,” I growl against her throat, nipping at the tender skin there as my fingers explore her folds. “Always so ready for me.”
Her back arches when I gently slip two fingers inside her. She’s tight, hot, gripping my digits like she never wants to let go. I curl my fingers forward, finding that spot that makes her gasp and clutch at my shoulders, her nails digging half-moons into my skin.
“Please,” she begs, grinding against my hand.
I take her with a mixture of passion and restraint, replacing my fingers with the blunt head of my cock.
I push in slowly, inch by inch, watching her face contort with pleasure.
Her tight cunt stretches around me, accommodating my size with a resistance that makes my jaw clench.
I’m careful of her condition, yet unable to fully restrain the possessive hunger that drives me.
“Fuck, zaychik ,” I groan when I’m fully seated inside her. “So fucking tight. So perfect.”
I establish a rhythm— deep, measured thrusts that have her mewling beneath me. One hand is braced beside her head, the other cupping her breast, thumb flicking over her nipple until she’s whimpering. Her legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my ass, urging me deeper.
Her body responds to mine as it always has— perfectly, instinctively— even if her mind doesn’t remember.
There’s a rightness to this that goes beyond memory, a connection that exists on a level deeper than conscious thought.
I know exactly how to touch her, where to kiss her, when to slow down, and when to give her everything.
I grip her hips, angling them slightly to hit the spot that makes her eyes roll back. Her walls clench around me, and I feel her climbing toward release. My teeth find her shoulder, marking her as mine while my cock claims her from within.
“Come for me,” I command, my voice rough as gravel. “Let me feel that sweet cunt squeeze my dick, malyshka .”
Her orgasm crashes through her in waves I can feel around my cock— pulsing, gripping, milking me. I fuck her through it, holding back my own release until her aftershocks subside. Only then do I allow myself to follow, emptying myself deep inside her with a guttural groan.
I collapse beside her, careful not to crush her or the baby, pulling her against me.
My hand splays possessively across her belly as our breathing gradually slows.
In this moment, I allow myself to feel something beyond desire or calculation— something dangerously close to tenderness.
The mask of the Pakhan slips, just slightly, revealing the man beneath.
Time trickles by as we lie there in silence, until I wonder if she’s fallen asleep.
“Tell me about yourself,” Stella suddenly asks, her voice soft in the dim light. “I want to know about you. Where is your family? Your parents?”
The question catches me off guard. My body tenses slightly, the brief moment of vulnerability evaporating as I consider how to answer. The truth is complicated, ugly. But a complete lie might backfire later.
“I don’t really know,” I say finally. “I think they’re dead.”
“You think?”
“Yes.” I pause, deciding how much to reveal. “My father was an asshole to our mother all his life. I watched their fights all through my childhood. I had a brother who protected us in the early days, but he was sent off to school.”
“You have siblings?” She glances up at me.
I nod. “Vasya is my older brother, and Diana is my twin sister. She is ten minutes younger than me.”
“And… you’re close?” she asks.
“Yes,” I acknowledge, realizing how true this is. My brother and sister play key roles in my life.
“But your parents…?” she trails off.
My voice hardens as I continue, memories surfacing that I usually keep buried.
“Our mother disappeared one day. My father said she had to travel far away, and that she would never be back. From then on, if any of us asked a single question, we were beaten. So, we tried not to speak. Now my father is gone too.”
I realize my hand has formed a fist, and I consciously relax it. These are not the controlled half-truths I usually dispense— there’s too much real emotion bleeding through. But perhaps this honesty, limited as it is, will help build the foundation I want with her.
Stella listens carefully, her expression thoughtful.
“So, we are both orphans,” she says eventually.
The observation hits me hard enough to leave me speechless for a moment.
“You told me my parents died.” She pauses, and I brace myself for questions I can’t answer truthfully.
But instead, she says, “At least we have each other.”
Bozhe moy.
What the fuck do I say to that?
Her hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining. The simple gesture, the trust it represents, makes something twist painfully in my chest. Here she is, offering comfort for a loss that’s real, while I am the very reason for her own loss— a truth she can never know.
I watch as her eyes grow heavy, sleep claiming her quickly.
Pregnancy and recovery from her injury have left her easily exhausted.
In the shadows of the room, I allow my expression to show what I could never reveal to her waking eyes— self-loathing, guilt, and the terrible knowledge that everything between us is built on blood.
My hand moves to stroke her hair gently, the tenderness of the gesture at odds with the darkness of my thoughts. This woman trusts me, depends on me, might even come to love me— all while not knowing what I’m capable of.
I am the worst fucking criminal ever born.