Chapter 31 – Valeria
Days later, the Petrov estate no longer feels like a battlefield.
It feels like a throne room that has finally remembered its purpose.
The grand hall has been restored. Chandeliers hang above like silent witnesses, their light spilling across polished stone floors marked with history that refuses to be erased. Long oak panels line the walls, darkened by age and power rather than decoration.
The air itself carries weight—expensive cologne, cigar smoke, restraint, and the quiet tension of men who are used to controlling rooms rather than being controlled by them.
At the center stands a long table carved from a single slab of wood, wide enough to seat kings and criminals without distinction.
Every seat is filled. With decision-makers.
Men who have shaped wars without ever stepping onto a battlefield.
Women who have survived them. Figures whose names are spoken carefully in certain parts of the world.
And yet none of them speak now.
Because I’m at the head of the table.
I don’t sit.
I stand.
Still. Composed. Unmoving.
Let them look. Let them measure. Let them remember.
This room has seen my father command it. It’s seen Anton twist it into something else. Now it sees me. And it adjusts accordingly, whether it wants to or not.
I let the silence settle until it becomes uncomfortable enough to hold attention.
Then I speak.
“Anton Petrov is dead.”
No reaction follows immediately. I expect nothing less. People like this don’t relax. These men don’t waste emotion on confirmations they already suspect. They wait for what comes next.
I place a single document on the table. Clean. Official. Final.
“My claim is no longer disputed,” I continue. “The Petrov empire is under my authority.”
A shift moves through the room—subtle, but undeniable.
I meet each gaze without flinching.
“And it will remain so.”
Another pause.
Longer this time. Heavier.
No one interrupts. No one questions. Not because they’re afraid—but because they understand what stands behind me. What made this moment possible. What ends resistance before it begins.
The Rusnaks.
That name doesn’t need to be spoken aloud by anyone else. It already exists in the space between us.
Finally, I continue.
“There will be order changes. Structures will be reviewed. Those loyal to the empire will remain protected. Those who built their strength on betrayal will not.”
Then I place a second document beside the first.
A marriage record.
“My alliance with the Rusnak family isn’t informal,” I say. “It’s established. I’m married to Timofey Rusnak.”
That lands differently.
For the first time, a few of them look away. Because now the equation has changed. Not just power. Not just territory. But unity between two forces no one in this room would ever choose to oppose separately—let alone together.
I remain still at the head of the table, letting them sit with it.
“Over the next few months,” I continue, my voice steady, carrying clearly through the hall, “my husband, Timofey Rusnak, and I will remain in Moscow, putting structures in place.”
A pause.
“Betrayal will be met with an iron hand—and consequences will extend beyond the individual. But I believe,” my gaze sweeps the room, “we can build something that endures. Something that benefits all of us.”
A beat of silence follows.
Then movement.
A few hands lift first. Then more. The shift spreads through the room like a decision being made collectively rather than asked for. Glasses rise. Heads dip in acknowledgment. Approval, cautious but real.
Applause breaks out.
I reach for my glass.
Lemon water. Clear. Simple. Nothing like what they assume. But they don’t need to know that. In this room, perception carries as much weight as truth.
“To loyalty,” I say.
The room echoes it back with lifted glasses and low voices, the word folding into the architecture of the estate like it’s always belonged there.
“To loyalty.”
I drink.
And as I lower the glass, my eyes drift upward. To the staircase.
Timofey is there. Leaning lightly against the banister, watching everything unfold below. He told me he would let me own the room without his interference, and he’s doing exactly that.
Our eyes meet.
And for the first time in days, something in my chest settles completely.
I smile.
He smiles back, and something snaps in my chest.
I set my glass down and clap my hands. Right on cue, maids come out of the side rooms with trays of food. As the guests turn their attention to the meal and the talking starts up again, I find my opening. I slip away, drifting up the stairs and straight into Timofey’s waiting arms.
He pulls me in close, his voice a low growl against my mouth.
“You look so fucking hot,” he murmurs, his hands heavy on my waist. “I want you so bad.”
“I’m yours,” I whisper as he kisses me. “You can have me.”
He groans, pressing me back against the banister. “Fuck.”
From here, I can see everyone downstairs. They’re talking, laughing, and eating, completely unaware of us. My eyes flutter shut when Timofey’s hand slips under my dress, sliding higher up my thigh.
“I want to take you right here,” he says, his breath hot against my ear. “While you look down at your subjects.”
I gasp when his fingers find me, sliding inside easily.
“You’re so wet and needy for me.”
I let out a low moan and bite my lip to keep from crying out.
The rhythm of his fingers is steady and cruel, pushing deep and then slowing down just to hear me catch my breath. I grip the wood of the banister, my knuckles turning white as I watch the crowd below. They have no idea that their queen is being undone just a few feet above their heads.
“Look at them,” Timofey commands, his voice vibrating through my spine. “Watch them while I do this.”
I try to keep my eyes open, watching the blur of the party, but the sensation is too much. Every slide of his hand makes my knees weak. I’m leaning heavily against him, my head falling back against his shoulder as the heat builds into a tight, aching knot.
Just as I’m about to break, he suddenly pulls his hand away.
The loss of contact makes me whimper, my body leaning back into him, searching for the warmth. I turn my head, my breath coming in short, jagged gasps, only to see him reaching for the belt of his trousers.
The sound of his zipper moving down is loud in the quiet of the landing. It’s a sharp, heavy sound that cuts through the distant music from downstairs. He doesn’t take his eyes off me—those dark, hungry eyes that promise to finish exactly what he started.
“Turn around,” he mutters, his hands moving to my hips to guide me. “Keep your hands on that rail. I want you looking at everything you’ve won while I take what’s mine.”
I obey, my hands trembling as I grip the cold wood of the banister. Below, the party continues—the clinking of silverware and the low hum of voices—a world away from the heat radiating off Timofey behind me.
I hear the rustle of his clothes and the rhythmic sound of him stroking himself.
The anticipation is a sharp ache, making me shift restlessly against the rail.
I can feel his gaze on the back of my neck, possessive and heavy, before he steps closer, crowding my space until his heat blankets me completely.
His hands settle firmly on my hips, his fingers digging into my skin to hold me in place. Then, with a slow, deliberate pressure, he sinks into me.
I gasp, my head dropping forward as he fills me completely. The sensation is overwhelming—a blunt, heavy fullness that makes my breath hitch in my throat. I squeeze the banister so hard the wood bites into my palms, trying to stay quiet as he begins to move.
“There you go,” he grunts, his chest heaving against my back. He leans forward, his lips brushing my ear. “Don’t look away now. Watch them. Stay right here with me.”
He finds a steady, driving rhythm, each thrust pushing me further against the rail.
From this height, the people below look small and insignificant, while up here, every inch of me is focused on the way he claims me.
I bite my lip, trying to swallow the moans that threaten to spill out and alert the entire room to what their leader is doing in the shadows.
He doesn’t give me time to adjust. He catches my hair in one hand, pulling my head back so I’m forced to look down at the guests while he drives into me with a sudden, brutal force.
There’s no finesse to it now—just raw, hungry power. Every thrust is hard and fast, slamming my hips against the banister. The wood creaks under the pressure, and I have to bury my face in the crook of my arm to muffle the jagged sounds tearing out of my throat.
It’s frantic and desperate. It’s the kind of passion that leaves bruises and burns.
Timofey is a storm behind me, his breath coming in sharp, ragged growls. He isn’t just taking me; he’s marking me. His hands leave my hips to grip my shoulders, his nails digging in as he picks up the pace. The friction is intense, a blurring heat that pushes me toward the edge in seconds.
The contrast is dizzying—the polite, quiet dinner happening just feet below us and the primal, sweating reality of him breaking me apart up here.
“Look at them,” he hisses, his voice thick and strained. “Know they belong to you…and you belong to me.”
He hits a final, deep rhythm, his body tensing into granite.
I feel the snap of his climax, a violent surge that sends a white-hot wave of pleasure through me.
I arch my back, my toes curling against the floor, as he groans my name into the nape of my neck, his grip tightening until it’s almost painful.
For a long moment, the only sound is our labored breathing and the distant, mocking sound of a guest laughing in the dining room below. Timofey stays buried in me, his forehead resting against the back of my head, his heart thudding like a war drum against my spine.
He pulls out with a sharp breath, the sudden cold making me shiver as he disappears from my back. Before I can even catch my breath, he drops to his knees behind me.
His hands slide down to my thighs, his grip firm as he pulls me back toward him, forcing me to arch against the rail. Then, his tongue finds me—hot, wet, and hungry.
The transition is a shock to my system. After the hard, fast rhythm of before, this is a different kind of intensity. He’s relentless, his tongue swirling and flicking with a focus that makes my knees buckle. I have to lean all my weight on the banister just to stay upright.
Below, someone makes a toast. I hear the sound of glasses clinking and a round of light applause. It’s so normal, so civilized, while up here, I’m coming undone.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. He uses his thumbs to open me up, his breath hot against my skin as he works. The sensation builds like a fever, tight and unbearable. I try to hold it in, but my head falls back, and a low, broken moan escapes my throat.
The world starts to blur. The lights of the chandeliers below turn into streaks of gold.
“Timofey,” I gasp, my fingers clawing at the wood.
He doesn’t stop. He pushes harder, his tongue mimicking the fast pace from before until I hit the edge.
My vision goes white as the orgasm crashes over me—a violent, shaking release that leaves me trembling.
I can’t hide it anymore; I let out a sharp, breathless cry that hangs in the air for a second before being swallowed by the noise of the party.
I slump forward against the railing, completely spent. Behind me, I feel Timofey stand up, his presence warm and steady as he leans over me, pressing a soft, possessive kiss to my sweat-damp shoulder.
He kisses my forehead, his touch lingering and soft against my skin. “Return to your party, Queen Valeria,” he says, his voice now a smooth, steady caress. “When it’s over, I’ll worship you all night.”
I let out a shaky chuckle, my body still humming from his touch. “Now I can’t wait for it to be over.”
His expression softens, a deep, genuine warmth reaching his eyes. “I love you so much,” he says, pulling me in for one last brief, grounding embrace. “I’m proud of you. And I’m sure your father is, too.”
The mention of my father hits me like a physical weight, grounding the high of the last few minutes with a sharp, emotional sting. It’s the one thing I needed to hear, the one thing that makes all the performance and the blood and the power worth it.
By the time I turn away to head back down the stairs, there are tears in my eyes. I blink them back, smoothing my dress and lifting my chin. By the time I reach the bottom step and re-enter the light of the dining room, the queen’s mask is back in place.