Matilda
I wake to darkness and silence.
For a moment, disorientation clouds everything. This isn't my bed. This isn't my room. The weight of an arm draped over my waist is unfamiliar, the solid warmth of a body pressed against my back too foreign to process.
Then memory crashes back.
Gennady. Marriage. Wedding night.
I blink at the clock on the nightstand, the red digital numbers glowing in the darkness. 2:47 AM.
Twenty-four hours.
The realization hits me like a physical blow.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was being dragged from my bed by armed men. Twenty-four hours ago, I was kneeling on my father's living room floor, watching my world implode. Twenty-four hours ago, I gave up my brother to save myself.
And now I'm lying in the Pakhan's bed, wearing his ring, his cum still inside me, still leaking from me.
His wife.
The word still feels strange. Foreign. Like a costume I'm wearing that shouldn't quite fit.
Except, it does fit, which is exhilarating and terrifying all at once.
I shift slightly, feeling the ache between my legs, a reminder of everything that happened tonight. The way he touched me. The way I touched him. The way I took him in my mouth and felt powerful when he fell apart because of me.
The way I begged him to fill me.
Heat floods through me at the memory. What was I thinking? I don't know anything about being a mother. About raising children in this world of violence and power and careful hierarchies.
But when Gennady's hand had rested on my stomach, when he'd talked about watching my body change and grow round with his child, something inside me had wanted it. Had craved it with an intensity that scared me.
I want to give him children. Want to see his eyes light up when I tell him I'm pregnant. Want to watch him hold our baby and know that I created something good out of all this darkness.
I carefully turn in his arms, moving slowly so I don't wake him.
The firelight has died down to embers, but there's enough glow to see his face.
He looks younger in sleep, the harsh lines of command softened.
His dark hair is mussed, falling across his forehead, and I resist the urge to brush it back.
This man killed my brother.
This man married me.
This man made me scream his name three times in one night.
Who am I now?
Not Matilda Lazovskia. That girl died when she gave up her brother and walked out of her father's house. Not the uncertain woman who stood in the orangery a few hours ago, unsure if she was making the biggest mistake of her life.
I'm Matilda Petrova.
The Pakhan's wife.
The thought settles over me with surprising weight. Like something solid and real that I can stand on instead of sinking through.
I have power now. Real power. Not the borrowed, conditional kind my father doled out in carefully measured amounts. Not the kind that came with endless restrictions and expectations.
The kind that comes from standing beside the most dangerous man in the city and knowing he chose me. Knowing that anyone who wants to touch me has to go through him first.
Knowing that I chose him back.
Some men whispered today. Called me a traitor. Questioned my loyalty. But they'll learn. They'll see that I'm not some temporary distraction, some girl who got lucky. I'm his wife. And I'm going to make damn sure everyone knows exactly what that means.
Including me.
The thought crystallizes into something sharp and determined. I don't want to just be the Pakhan's wife in name. I want to be his partner. His equal. The woman who stands beside him when things get hard instead of cowering behind him.
The woman who knows how to wield power instead of just benefiting from his.
And it starts with owning what I want.
My hand slides down between us, finding him soft against his thigh. He's spent, but I want to wake him up the way he promised to wake me.
I want to take control again.
I wrap my fingers around him gently, stroking slowly. He doesn't stir at first, but after a few moments, I feel him start to harden in my hand. His breathing changes, deepening, and I know he's waking up.
"Matilda?" His voice is rough with sleep.
"Shh." I continue stroking him, feeling him grow fully hard. "I want you."
"You're supposed to be sleeping." But his hips rock into my touch, betraying him.
"I woke up." I lean in and kiss him, slow and deep. "And I realized something."
"What's that?" His hand comes up to tangle in my hair.
"I've spent my whole life letting other people make decisions for me. Letting them tell me who I should be, what I should want." I release him and push him onto his back, straddling his hips. "But not anymore."
I flick on the bedside light. I want to see him, want him to see me.
His eyes are dark and hungry as he looks up at me. "No?"
"No." I position myself over him, feeling the head of his cock press against my entrance. "I know what I want now."
"Tell me." His hands grip my hips, holding me steady.
"I want you." I sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch despite the soreness. The stretch burns but in a way that feels good, feels right. "I want this. I want your baby growing inside me."
He groans, his fingers digging into my flesh. "Matilda—"
"I want to be pregnant with your child." I'm fully seated now, and I roll my hips experimentally. "I want everyone to see me carrying proof of who I belong to. I want my father to know that I chose this. That I chose you."
"Fuck." His head falls back against the pillow. "You're going to kill me."
"No." I start to move, finding a rhythm that makes us both gasp. "I'm going to make you fill me up until I'm pregnant. And then I'm going to do it again. And again. As many times as you'll give me."
His hands slide up from my hips to my breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over my nipples. "You're sure?"
"Yes." I lean forward, changing the angle, and we both groan. "I'm sure. I want your babies, Gennady. I want to build a family with you. A real family. Not like the one I came from."
Something shifts in his expression. "Then take what you want. Ride me until I give it to you."
I do.
I move faster, harder, chasing the pleasure building low in my stomach. His hands guide me, showing me angles that make me see stars, but he lets me control the pace. Lets me take what I need.
This is power. This is what it means to be his equal, not because he's weak, but because he's strong enough to let me be strong too.
"Touch yourself," he commands, and I obey without hesitation, my hand sliding between us to find the same spot he found earlier.
When I find it, I cry out. I'm close, so close, and he knows it.
"Come inside me, Gennady," I pant, barely able to hold back the onslaught that’s trying to drag me under.
He thrusts up one final time and I feel him pulse inside me, filling me just like I asked.
Just like I demanded.
I come hard, my body shattering around him, the sensation making him cry out through gritted teeth as he watches the space where we are joined.
I collapse forward onto his chest, both of us breathing hard. His arms come around me immediately, holding me close.
"Twenty-four hours," I murmur against his skin.
"What?"
"It's been twenty-four hours since you came to my father's house." I press a kiss to his chest. "Since everything changed."
His hand strokes down my spine. "Do you regret it?"
"No." I lift my head to look at him. "I don't regret a single thing. Not giving up Sergei. Not leaving with you. Not marrying you. Not this."
"Good." He pulls me up for a kiss. "Because I'm never letting you go."
"I know." I relax fully against his chest, feeling his cum leak out of me as he slides out. "I'm counting on it."
We lie in silence for a moment, our breathing gradually slowing. The clock now reads 3:15 AM. Barely more than a day, and my entire world has been remade.
But this time, I'm the one doing the remaking.
"Gennady?"
"Mm?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For seeing me." I close my eyes, exhaustion finally pulling me under. "For choosing me when no one else ever did."
His arms tighten around me. "Always," he murmurs into my hair. "I'll always choose you."