Chapter 19 Vera
VERA
My hands shake as I push through the feed shed door, the envelope from Sonya crumpled in my grip.
The dim space suffocates me, but it's familiar and safe compared to the concrete tunnel where everything went wrong. I lean against the rough wooden wall, trying to catch my breath, trying to make sense of what happened. Misha was following me, and why wouldn’t he?
He asked me to stay away from her and to stay close to him, and I ignored that request.
The door opens behind me, and I know without turning that it's him. It scared me, the look in his eyes, but he's only trying to keep me safe, and I should've listened.
"Vera."
I don't turn around to face him because shame has contorted my face. I can feel the pinch in my nose, the tension in my shoulders.
"Look at me."
His voice is gentler than it was in the tunnel, but there's still an edge there. The same controlled tension I saw when he cornered me, when his eyes went cold and dangerous.
"I need a minute," I whisper.
"You're shaking."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not." His hand touches my shoulder, and I flinch away. The movement makes him freeze. "Vera, I'm not going to hurt you."
"I know that." The words come out too fast, too sharp. "I know you wouldn't."
"Then why won't you look at me?"
Because when I do, I see what Batya warned me about. The man who answers questions too smoothly, who shows up at exactly the right moments, who handles confrontations with a skill that speaks to experience I don't want to acknowledge.
But I also see the man who stayed with me after Pavel's death, who met my family and answered every one of Batya's questions with patience. The man who promises to protect me and makes me feel safe.
I turn around slowly, and his expression immediately softens when he sees my face.
"There," he says quietly. "That's better."
"Is it?" My voice cracks. "Because I feel terrified, and I don't know if it's because of Sonya or because of what I saw in your eyes back there."
He goes completely still. "What did you see?"
"I don't know. Something cold. Something…" I struggle for the right word. "Dangerous."
He's quiet for a long moment, studying my face. When he speaks, his voice is careful. "I was angry. Not at you—at the situation. At the people who are using you."
"My father thinks you're not who you seem."
"What do you think?"
I should ask him directly—who are you really? What do you want from me? Why does everyone see something in you that I'm missing?
Instead, I say, "I think you're trying to protect me. I think maybe you got angry because you care about what happens to me."
Relief flickers across his features. "Yes." His shoulders lose some of their tension and he reaches for me again, and this time, I don't flinch away.
"But I also think there are things you're not telling me."
"There are things I can't tell you, milyy.
" He steps closer, and his grip on my arm tightens.
"But everything I've said about wanting to keep you safe—that's true.
" Misha's other hand rises and curls a strand of hair around my ear.
It relaxes me completely to know he truly wants to protect me. But my heart still wants reassurance.
"Even when you looked at me in the tunnel and I thought for a second you might…" I trail off, not sure how to finish.
"Might what?"
"I don't know. Hurt me. Not physically, but… make me disappear somehow."
The words come out in a rush, and I immediately wish I could take them back. But Misha doesn't look angry or offended. He looks stricken.
"God, Vera." His grip tightens and then he brushes a thumb over my cheek bone, hand cradling my jawline. "I would never. No matter what happens, no matter what you've done or haven't done, I would never hurt you."
"Promise me."
"I promise." He leans in, pressing his forehead to mine. The sincerity in his tone makes me melt against him. "I promise you're safe with me."
The tenderness in his voice finally snaps the rest of that insecurity away. All the fear and confusion from the past week, all the secrets I've been carrying, all the weight of decisions I never wanted to make—it crashes over me at once.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, and the tears start before I can stop them. "I'm sorry I lied to you. I'm sorry I stayed involved with Sonya. I'm sorry I'm such a mess."
"Hey." His voice is soft, soothing as he pulls me against his body. "You have nothing to apologize for."
"I do. You've been trying to protect me, and I've been lying to your face."
"You were protecting your family. I understand that."
"Do you?" I search his eyes. "Because I feel trapped all the time. Sonya threatens Elvin if I don't cooperate, but staying involved puts him in more danger. You want to help, but I don't know what that help costs. And there are things…" I stop myself before I say too much.
"What things?"
I shake my head. The pregnancy is too much, too complicated. Not when he's seventeen years older than me, not when I don't fully understand what kind of man he really is or what I want from life.
"Just… things I can't explain right now."
He pulls back and studies my face for a long moment, then nods. "All right. But when you're ready to tell me whatever you're holding back, I'll listen. And I won't judge you for it."
The promise makes my chest ache. I want to believe him. I want to trust that his protection doesn't come with strings attached, that his feelings for me are real and not part of some larger game.
"I'm scared," I admit.
"Of me?"
"Sometimes. Not because I think you'll hurt me, but because I don't understand why you want to help me. Men your age, with your money and your connections—they don't usually care about stable workers with sick brothers and too many problems."
His jaw tightens. "Maybe most men my age don't. But I'm not most men."
"What are you, then?"
"Someone who sees how brave you are. How loyal. How much you're willing to sacrifice for the people you love." His hands frame my face more firmly. "Someone who wants to make sure you don't have to sacrifice any more."
He leans down and kisses me, soft at first, then deeper when I respond. There's still tension in his body, the coiled energy from our confrontation in the tunnel, but his touch is gentle. Patient.
I let myself pretend that his promises are simple and true, that there's no complexity behind his protection, no agenda I can't see.
His hands slide down to my waist, pulling me closer, and suddenly the gentleness shifts into something more urgent. The fear and adrenaline from the past hour transform into need, into the desperate desire to feel safe and wanted and real.
When he tries to pull away, I draw his mouth back to mine. The kiss is hungry now, demanding, and he responds with the same intensity. His hands tangle in my hair, and mine fist in his shirt, pulling him closer.
We stumble backward until I'm pressed against the wall, hay bales stacked beside us. His mouth moves to my neck, and I arch into him, wanting to lose myself in sensation instead of thought.
“Let me take care of you,” he murmurs against my throat.
His hand slides beneath my shirt, fingers spreading wide over my ribs as though he needs to feel every part of me.
His voice is rough, but his touch is slow, reverent.
He pushes the fabric higher, baring me inch by inch, then lowers his mouth to my collarbone.
His mouth lingers at my collarbone, teeth grazing lightly as his hands bunch my shirt higher.
He pulls it over my head in one quick motion, tossing it aside.
His palms return to my skin immediately, sliding over my ribs, holding me still as his mouth closes over the swell of my breast through my bra.
“Perfect,” he mutters, voice low, almost a growl. He tugs the lace down and takes me into his mouth, sucking until I gasp and clutch at his shoulders.
The heat coils sharp and fast, my hips shifting against him.
“More,” I whisper.
He releases me only to capture my mouth again, hard and deep, while his hands drop lower. His fingers work at the button of my jeans, forcing it open, tugging until the zipper gives.
He drags the zipper down, his knuckles brushing my stomach, then grips the waistband and shoves the denim over my hips.
The fabric clings stubbornly, and I have to wriggle against the wall to help him push them lower.
His growl vibrates against my mouth, equal parts frustration and hunger, before he finally gets them down far enough.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his hand sliding over the curve of my thigh, his thumb stroking where the fabric still clings. “I could look at you like this forever.”
He turns me and pushes me over the feed barrel. My palms hit the wood and his hand presses firm at my back, holding me there. He nudges my knees apart, the denim binding me just enough to keep me trapped.
He drops to his knees. His hands grip my hips and he buries his face between my thighs. His tongue drags over me and I cry out, my nails scraping the wood of the barrel. He sucks hard, steady, forcing me open.
The sound of his belt breaks through the rush in my ears. The buckle snaps. The zipper comes down. He frees himself with one hand and keeps his mouth on me, holding me pinned with the other hand.
He stands behind me, one hand gripping my hip as the other pulls my panties aside. The blunt head of his cock pushes against me and he groans. “So tight for me. You know I can’t stay out of you.”
I clutch the barrel, bracing myself as he drives forward. The stretch is sharp and I cry out, my body straining to take him. He forces deeper until he’s buried in me, his grip unrelenting on my hip.
“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice low and strained. “You take me better than anyone ever has.”
He pulls back and slams into me again, harder this time. The barrel shudders under my hands, and his breath comes rough and ragged above me. “That’s it. Take every inch.”
He drags my hips back and pushes into me, his cock driving deep on the first thrust. The stretch makes me gasp and claw at the barrel, my body struggling to hold against the force.
He sets a brutal rhythm, pulling almost all the way out and slamming back in.
His grip locks around my waist and keeps me braced as he pounds into me, harder each time, his voice rough as he groans.
I push back into him, desperate to take him deeper, my breath ragged and broken.
“You feel unbelievable,” he mutters, his hands dragging me harder onto his cock. “You take me so well every damn time.”
The words send a shiver through me. My body clamps down, squeezing around him as the pressure builds.
The barrel wobbles beneath my weight as his thrusts become harder, the friction tearing cries from my throat.
I can’t hold myself up, not when he keeps driving into me like this, hitting so deep I see stars.
“Come for me,” he growls, his voice breaking with strain. “I want to feel you come on my cock.”
The command rips me open. My release slams through me in violent waves, my body clenching so hard it drags another groan from him.
I sob against the wood as every nerve lights up, my thighs trembling, my nails carving grooves in the barrel.
He keeps fucking me through it relentlessly, his pace rough and unyielding.
My orgasm pulls him closer, his cock jerking inside me as his own control breaks.
“Christ, Vera,” he snarls. “I’m going to fill you so deep you’ll never forget it.”
His thrusts falter, then he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside me with a raw groan.
Heat floods me as he empties in hard surges, holding me locked against him while his release takes over.
I collapse over the barrel, my body shaking, every part of me wrung out and raw.
He stays inside me, his hips pressed tight to mine, his breath rough and ragged above me.
At last he pulls back, his hands softening on my waist, his voice low and hoarse when he leans close to me. “You undo me every time.”
Somewhere between gasps and trying to catch my breath, the words slip out before I can stop them. "I love you."
The admission shocks me more than it seems to shock him. I freeze, horrified at my own honesty, but his hands immediately pull me up and frame my face, forcing me to look at him.
"Vera…" His eyes search my face desperately. "I love you too." I don't care what Batya says or how Elvin worries about me. The man looking me in the eye right now means the words he's saying.
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by a different kind of fear. Love makes everything more complicated, more dangerous. Love means there's more to lose.
"I want to protect you from all of this," he continues, his thumbs brushing across my cheekbones. "You're innocent in all of this mess. You don't deserve to be caught up in their games."
"I'm not that innocent, Misha…" The sex slides down my inner thigh, but I ignore the sensation as he continues speaking.
"You are. You're good, and you're honest, and you're trying to do right by your family. The people using you—they're the problem, not you."
I want to tell him about the baby. Want to confess that I'm carrying his child and terrified about what that means for both of us.
But the words won't come. Not when he's looking at me with such certainty, such protective tenderness.
He doesn't realize how much this could mess everything up, how much more risk there is surrounding me now.
Sonya is the type of person my father accuses Misha of being, and she won't hesitate to do the very things Batya is afraid of happening to me.
But I can't tell Misha now. Instead, I kiss him again, pouring all my fear and love and desperation into the contact.
He responds immediately, holding me close, and for a moment I let myself believe that love is enough.
That his protection is real and unconditional, that we can find a way through the web of lies and threats that surrounds us.
God, I want to trust him completely. But as we straighten our clothes and prepare to leave the feed shed, Batya's warnings echo in my mind. No one is that perfect. No one handles pressure that well.
The man holding my hand, promising to protect me from everything, might not be who he seems. But he's also the man who just told me he loves me, who made me feel cherished and safe in a world that's been nothing but dangerous.
Whatever secrets Misha is keeping, whatever agenda might be hidden behind his protection, I'm going to trust him. Because the alternative—facing Sonya and her threats alone—is more terrifying than any deception he might be hiding.
I just hope I'm making the right decision.
For both of us.
And for the baby I'm still not ready to tell him about.