29. Vera
VERA
We get back to the safe house mid-evening, and Roman hasn’t let me out of his sight ever since.
“Drink?” Lev appears at my elbow, holding out a glass of something amber.
I shake my head. “I shouldn’t.”
Something flickers in his expression, understanding, maybe, and he nods. “I’m not stupid, Vera. It’s non-alcoholic. Roman said you had some of this stuff the other day, and it’s decent.”
“Well then,” I say. “Yes please.”
Roman is across the room, speaking quietly with Artyom about security rotations and perimeter checks. His shoulders are still tense, but some of the edge has worn off since we left Konstantin’s mansion.
Oksana emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray laden with sandwiches and sliced fruit. She sets it on the coffee table and then, to my surprise, pours herself a glass of wine.
I’ve never seen her drink on the job. In all the years I knew her at the mansion, she was always perfectly composed, never a hair out of place. Now she settles onto the couch beside me and takes a long sip, her eyes closing in something that looks almost like relief.
“Today called for it,” she says, catching my look. “Don’t judge.”
“I’m not judging.” I take a sip of my drink. “I’m just surprised.”
“I’m full of surprises.” She takes another sip, then sets the glass down and turns to face me. “How are you feeling, really?”
I consider the question. “Tired,” I admit. “Relieved. Still a little scared, if I’m being honest.”
“That’s normal.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand briefly. “What you went through these last weeks... no one should have to endure that.”
“I’ve endured worse.”
Her expression flickers. “You shouldn’t have had to endure that either.”
There’s something in her voice that makes me look at her more closely. She’s still in her gray dress, but there’s a softness to her tonight that I’ve never seen before. It’s the wine, maybe. Or maybe it’s just the relief of being on the other side of something terrible.
“Can I ask you something personal?” I ask.
She raises an eyebrow. “You can ask. I reserve the right not to answer.”
“Why do you stay? With this family, I mean. You could have left years ago and found a normal job, a normal life.”
She’s quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing the stem of her wine glass.
“I asked myself that same question for years,” she says finally.
“After my husband died, I needed work. Konstantin gave me a job when no one else would. I told myself it was just that, a job. Something to pay the bills until I figured out what came next.”
“What changed?”
She looks at me, her eyes steady. “The boys, Roman and Dmitri. They were just children when I started, you know. Wild things, always getting into trouble. But Roman...” She pauses, something wistful crossing her face.
“Roman had this way of looking at you like you were the only person in the room. Like everything you said mattered.”
I glance across the room at him. He’s talking to Artyom, but as if sensing my gaze, he looks up. Our eyes meet, and something warm blooms in my chest.
“He still does that,” I say softly.
“He does.” Oksana takes another sip of her wine.
“I stayed because I thought I could protect them. Make sure they turned out better than their father. I failed with Dmitri, but Roman...” She shakes her head.
“He surprised me by coming back from Siberia the way he did, holding onto himself when everything around him was trying to tear him apart.”
She looks at me, and for the first time, I see tears glistening in her eyes. She blinks them away quickly, but not before I notice.
“You’re good for him,” she says. “Better than he deserves, probably, but don’t tell him I said that.”
“My lips are sealed.”
She smiles, and it transforms her face. For a moment, she looks almost young, carefree in a way I’ve never seen her.
Lev drops into the chair across from us, his own glass in hand. He’s loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, and there’s a relaxed quality to his posture that I haven’t seen before.
“So,” he says, looking at me. “You’re one of us now. How does it feel?”
“Weird,” I admit. “Good weird, I think, but weird.”
“It’ll take some getting used to.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Roman’s not an easy man to be married to, I’m sure. He’s stubborn and controlling and he doesn’t know how to ask for help even when he needs it.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“But he’s loyal,” Lev continues. “Once he decides you’re his, he’ll move heaven and earth to keep you safe. You’ve seen the evidence.”
I did see it. “I know,” I say.
Lev nods, satisfied. Then he raises his glass. “To new beginnings,” he says. “And to kicking Anton’s ass.”
I laugh, surprising myself. “To new beginnings.”
We drink and for a little while, the weight of the day lifts.
The night deepens outside the windows. At some point, Oksana refills her glass and starts telling stories about Roman as a boy, how he cried for three days when his dog died, despite claiming his whole childhood that he hated animals.
“He was twelve,” she says, her voice slightly slurred. “Tried to pretend he wasn’t upset, but I could hear him through the door. Sobbing like his heart would break.”
Roman appears at my shoulder, having finally finished his conversation with Artyom. “I thought we agreed never to speak of that,” he says, but there’s no real heat in his voice.
“It’s a good story,” Lev says. “Shows you have a heart under all that brooding.”
“Brooding is my brand.” Roman settles onto the couch beside me, his hand finding my knee. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” I say. “Oksana’s been telling so many embarrassing stories about you.”
“Traitor,” he says to Oksana, but he’s smiling.
She raises her glass in a mock toast. “Someone has to keep you humble.”
The conversation continues, but I’m only half-listening. My attention keeps drifting to Roman. He sits, and I can feel his hand warm on my knee.
Eventually, the evening begins to wind down. Oksana is yawning behind her hand, and Lev has migrated from whiskey to coffee, a sure sign he’s done drinking for the night.
Even Artyom, who has barely spoken all evening, seems more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.
“I think we’re done for the night,” Lev says, glancing around at the group. “We should all get some sleep.”
There’s a murmur of agreement. Oksana rises and collects the empty glasses, refusing my offer to help. “You don’t clean,” she says firmly. “Go. Rest.”
I let Roman lead me down the hallway to the bedroom at the back of the house. It’s small but cozy, with a queen bed covered in a soft quilt and windows that look out over the garden.
He closes the door behind us, and suddenly the room feels very quiet.
“Are you okay?” he asks. His voice is soft, almost tentative. “Really okay?”
I turn to face him. “I think so. I’m still processing everything, but... I think so.”
He nods, but there’s something in his eyes that tells me he’s not satisfied with that answer. He crosses the room and cups my face in his hands, tilting my head back so I’m looking up at him.
“When Konstantin called our child a bastard,” he says, his voice low, “the only thing that stopped me from putting him through his own desk was knowing I had somewhere better to be.”
My breath catches. “Where’s that?”
“Here.” His hands slide from my face to my neck, fingers wrapping around the sides of my throat. “With you. Making sure you understand exactly what you are to me.”
“I already know what I am to you.”
“Do you?” He steps closer, eliminating the distance between us until my back hits the wall. His body pins me there, solid and unyielding. “You still seem to think that Konstantin or Anton or anyone else can take you away from me.”
His grip tightens slightly on my throat. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to make my pulse spike.
“They can’t.”
“Roman—”
He cuts me off by shifting his grip, one hand moving to fist in my hair while the other braces against the wall beside my head. The position forces me to look up at him and meet the dark intensity in his eyes.
“Is that clear?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.” The words spill out before I can stop them.
Something dark and satisfied flickers in his eyes. “That’s right. You are.”
He kisses me then, hard and claiming. There’s nothing gentle about it; his teeth catch my lower lip, tugging until I gasp, and then his tongue is in my mouth.
I kiss him back with equal fervor, gripping the front of his shirt. He lowers me onto the bed, following me down. His weight above me steals the breath from my lungs, but I barely notice because he’s already undressing me.
“Roman,” I gasp against his mouth. “The baby.”
“The baby is fine.” His lips drag down my throat, teeth scraping over my pulse point. “I’m not going to break you. I’m just going to remind you who you belong to.”
His hands find my breasts, cupping them through my bra. I arch into his touch, a moan slipping free. He responds by yanking the cups down, exposing my nipples to the cool air of the bedroom.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my chest. “Already desperate for it.”
I want to argue, but he’s right. My nipples are peaked, straining toward him, and there’s an ache building between my thighs that has nothing to do with tenderness and everything to do with need.
He pinches one nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. The sensation shoots straight to my core, and I whimper.
“More,” I demand.
His laugh is dark. “You don’t get to make demands.”
Then he drops to his knees in front of me.
I stare down at him, my breath catching. Roman Volkonsky, on his knees. The sight is enough to make my head spin.
His hands find the hem of my skirt, pushing it up around my waist. Cool air hits my thighs, followed immediately by the heat of his breath as he leans in and presses his mouth to the damp fabric of my underwear.
“Roman!” I jerk against the bed, my fingers tangling in his hair.
He doesn’t answer. He just hooks two fingers into my underwear and drags it down, slow enough that I feel every inch of cotton peel away, and then his mouth is on me with no warning at all.
The sound that comes out of me isn’t a word.
My hips buck up and his forearm slams across them, pinning me flat while his tongue drags one long, filthy stroke right through the center of me.
He does it again. Slower. Like he’s tasting how wet he’s made me and wants me to know it.
My hands scrabble for something and I find his hair.
I pull, and he groans against me until the vibration alone nearly finishes me.
“Right there. God, don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He pulls back just enough to push two fingers into me, curling them up hard while his tongue works my clit, and the noise it makes is obscene, wet and greedy, and I can’t decide if I want to sink into the mattress or grind myself against his face until I break.
“That’s it,” he says, wrecked, his mouth glistening when he looks up at me. “Come on my tongue. Let me feel it. You’re fucking mine.”
I shatter.
My whole body convulses as the orgasm crashes through me. Roman doesn’t stop; he keeps his fingers moving, drawing out every last tremor until I’m limp against the bed, legs hanging uselessly off the side.
He stands, and I can see the evidence of his arousal straining against his pants. I reach for him, but he catches my wrist.
“Not yet.” His voice is strained. “Turn around.”
I blink at him, still hazy from the orgasm. “What?”
“Turn around.” This time it’s not a request. “Hands on the mattress.”
I hesitate for just a moment. Then I turn, pressing my palms flat against the cool surface. My skirt is still bunched around my waist, my ass exposed.
I hear the sound of his belt, followed by the rustle of fabric. Then his hands are on my hips, positioning me, and I feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance.
He pushes inside me in one long, slow thrust.
I moan, my fingers scrabbling against the sheets. He’s so deep like this, so impossibly full, that I can feel every inch of him. My body is still sensitive from the first orgasm, and the sensation borders on too much.
“Fuck,” he groans, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. “You feel incredible.”
He starts to move, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back in. Each stroke is slow, controlled, as if he’s determined to make me feel every inch of him.
“More,” I gasp. “Harder.”
“No.” His hand slides around to my front, settling low on my belly. Right over where our child is growing. “I’ll give you what you need, but I’m not going to hurt either of you.”
His restraint only makes me want him more. I push back against him, trying to take him deeper, and he responds by pinning me down with his hands.
“Stay still,” he orders.
Then he starts moving faster.
The change in pace steals my breath. He’s still not pounding into me the way he might have before, but there’s a new intensity to his movements.
“You’re mine,” he says, his voice rough. “Say it again.”
“I’m yours.” The words come out broken, punctuated by his thrusts. “Only yours.”
His hand slides lower, his fingers finding my clit. He circles it in time with his thrusts, and I feel another orgasm building.
“That’s it,” he says. “I want to feel you come on my cock.”
I do.
My whole body shakes as I clench around him. He follows me over the edge a moment later, his hips stuttering as he spills inside me with a groan.
We stay like that for a long moment, both of us trying to catch our breath. His forehead is resting on my shoulder, and I can feel his heart pounding against my back.
Finally, he pulls out. I feel the loss of him immediately, an emptiness that makes me want to pull him back. Except he’s already turning me around, pulling me into his arms.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice still rough.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
His gaze lingers on my face for a moment, as if checking for himself. Then he presses a kiss to my forehead.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says. “We both need to sleep.”
I let him lead me to the bathroom, my legs still shaky. He turns on the shower and helps me step inside, then follows me in.
The water is warm, and I let it wash over me as I try to process what just happened. I think that was the hottest sex of my entire life.
I watch him as he washes. “Roman,” I say.
He looks at me, water streaming down his face. “Yes?”
I want to say something about what just happened. He’s different now than he was before, more careful even when he’s being demanding.
The words won’t come. So instead, I just shake my head. “Nothing.”
He doesn’t respond, but something in his expression softens. He reaches out and tucks a wet strand of hair behind my ear, and I smile.