Chapter 10 Sofiya
Sofiya
SONG: HIDE AND SEEK BY CLAIRE GUERRESO
Volk's penthouse is everything I expected. Expensive. Minimalist. It’s clear money means nothing to him, not in the usual flagrant way rich people treat money, but in a genuine I’ll be the same person whether this is here or not way.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city skyline with mountains in the background.
Leather furniture that smells new , and art that probably costs more than most people make in a year.
He leads me to his room’s ensuite bathroom and starts the shower. Steam begins to fill the space.
"Get cleaned up," he says. "I'll burn your clothes."
I look down. Blood on my jeans, jacket, and boots. Igor's blood. Evidence that will send me to prison if anyone finds it.
"Okay."
He leaves, closing the door, and gives me privacy I'm not sure I want. I don’t know if being alone is what I need right now.
I strip, dropping the bloody clothes in a pile , and step into the shower. The water runs red to pink, then clear. But I can still feel it. The blood. The violence. I scrub until my skin is raw. I know there won’t be enough soap in the world to get me clean again.
When I finally emerge, wrapped in a towel that's softer than anything I own, Volk is waiting in the bedroom. He's changed too, and his hair is wet. He must have used another shower in the apartment. The bloody evidence of his own violence erased.
"Here." He hands me some clothes, a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt.
Both are comically too big. They smell like him as I put them on after ducking behind the bathroom door for privacy. My hands still shake. The adrenaline crash hits hard as I walk back into the bedroom. Volk watches me, those gray eyes missing nothing.
"Come here," he says softly. This feels like an invitation, not a command.
I should refuse, maintain distance. Remember he's on my list too.
That eventually I'll have to kill him the same way I killed Igor.
But I'm tired. So tired. Tired of being alone.
Tired of carrying this weight by myself.
Tired of pretending I'm strong enough to handle everything revenge demands. I walk to him.
His arms close around me. Solid. Warm. Safe in a way nothing has felt since Momochka died.
I break. Sobs wrack my body as ten years of grief and rage and pain pour out in ugly, gasping sounds. He holds me through it. Doesn't try to quiet me. Doesn't tell me it's okay. Just holds me while I fall apart.
"I killed him," I gasp. "I killed him, and I liked it and that makes me a monster."
"No." His hand strokes my hair. "It makes you human. It makes you someone who survived something terrible and fought back. That's not monstrous, that's just survival."
"I don't feel like I survived. I feel like I'm dying slowly."
"I know."
We stand there, me crying into his chest and him holding me like I'm something precious instead of something broken.
Eventually the tears stop, and the shaking subsides.
I'm left hollow. Exhausted. Empty in a way that has nothing to do with physical tiredness.
I pull back and look up at him. His face is closer than I expected.
Close enough to see the small scar above his left eyebrow.
Close enough to see the flecks of darker gray in his eyes.
Close enough to kiss.
I don't know who moves first. Maybe both of us.
Maybe it's just gravity pulling two damaged people together in a way that has been inevitable since the moment he walked back into my life.
His mouth is on mine, gentle at first, testing, then the kiss grows harder, desperate, like he's trying to breathe life back into me through sheer will.
I kiss him back, pouring everything into it.
The rage. The grief. The guilt. The terrifying relief of not being alone anymore.
His hands find my face, cradling it like I might break, like I'm something worth being careful with. "Sofiya," he whispers against my lips. "I want…” His voice trails off.
"I know."
"This complicates everything."
"I know."
"I'm on your list."
"I know."
He pulls back, just far enough to look at me. Really look. "And you still want this?"
"I don't want anything except not be alone right now. Can you give me that?"
Something shifts in his expression. A flash of something I can’t identify. "Yes." He kisses me again. Slower this time. Thorough , like he's memorizing the taste of me. The shape of my mouth. The way I respond to his touch.
We make our way to the bed, a tangle of limbs and desperate touches and the need to feel something besides the crushing weight of what I've done. The shirt he gave me is gone and the sweatpants pool at my feet a second later. I can feel the length of him, hard and insistent, pushing against me through his own sweats. He grinds against me, moaning low in his throat. I lift his shirt, having to stand on my tiptoes until I simply can’t reach any higher.
He helps me by reaching behind him and jerking the shirt over his head , then he lays me down on the bed, slowly covering my body with this.
He's careful with me, gentle in a way I didn't expect.
His hands trace the X on my back—the scar that matches his tattoo. His fingers are reverent. "I'm sorry," he whispers against my skin. "I'm so sorry for what they did to you."
I don't have words, so I simply reach up and stroke the matching scar on his face. Something passes between us at that moment. Something I don’t have the strength to deal with, so I just pull him closer.
“I don’t want to talk about that,” I say, kissing him with all the desperation in my body.
He surges over me, kissing his way down my body, kissing every inch of skin he finds. He flicks my nipple with his tongue, hands caressing down my body, leaving no part of me untouched. It’s like he can’t believe I’m really here, underneath him.
He lowers his body down the bed, using his wide shoulders to push my legs farther apart.
He wastes no time, pushing a thick finger in me before pulling it out and adding a second finger.
I hiss with pleasure and pain as his mouth latches on my clit without mercy.
I don’t know if it's the adrenaline or him but I’m dangerously close to coming in mere seconds.
Volk pauses for a minute, raising his head to look at me. “Ready to come?” he asks, his eyes teasing. I take him in, the evidence of my arousal glistening on his face, the way he’s slowly grinding his hard cock into the mattress.
I nod, and before my head is done moving, he’s latched his mouth on me again, pausing every few moments to lick me from top to bottom before sucking my clit again, causing my legs to shake wildly.
Then I feel a finger push into my lower entrance, and the slight burn sends me over the edge.
My mouth opens in a silent cry, and he is forced to hold my jerking hips down.
He groans as I come, pushing his mouth harder against me, like he can’t stand to miss a drop of me.
When I’m shaking with aftershocks, he slowly raises himself over my body.
I watch, mesmerized, as he reaches down and strokes himself once, twice. At some point he put a condom on. I missed that, but who can blame me.
“I want you to know that when I fuck you, that’s it. There is no going back. You will be mine for however long I have left,” he says, and we both know he really means until you kill me. “Do you understand?”
I nod.
“No, Yelena, I want to hear it,” he says, his voice leaving no room for compromise.
I gasp at his use of my real name, trying to get away from him.
“No! You’re mine, and that means the real you. Not this performance. Save that for men like Aleksandr who are too stupid to realize you’re worth hundred women, not a piece of arm candy.”
I stop, looking into his eyes, and he takes that moment to thrust inside of me.
I gasp at the intrusion. There is a shock of pain, and a brief moment when I have to force my mind not to flash back to that awful night.
But opening my eyes I see the possession in his.
He said I was his now, but I don’t think I really understood what he meant until now.
It’s almost terrifying the way his eyes stare into mine as he begins to thrust.
He holds my hands, pressing them above my head, resting against the mattress. My body is completely at his mercy, and I don’t care. His cock is magic, hitting spots inside of me I never knew existed, his pelvis hitting my clit with each thrust.
This is not perfect. Not the romantic ideal from movies. It's messy and desperate and tinged with grief and guilt and the knowledge this probably ends in blood. But it's real.
Soon I’m coming again, clenching around him so tightly he grunts in pain. I send him over the edge with me, feeling his body tense with pleasure as he releases a groan so delicious I already can’t wait to hear it again.
Afterward, he disposes of the condom, and we lie tangled together, the bed a mess around us. I lay with his arm under my head and stare at the ceiling, trying to pretend like the entire world hasn’t just shifted.
Deciding to rip the Band-Aid off, I ask, "Will they connect it to me?" We both know I’m referring to Igor.
"No. I’m the only one who knows who you are. There is no reason anyone would suspect a dancer from Lush.”
I should ask more questions, demand details, but exhaustion pulls at me. Igor's death. The emotional breakdown. The orgasms with the man I'm supposed to kill. It's too much.
"Sleep," Volk says. "We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."
"I can't stay here.”
You are.” His voice is hard as steel. His arms tighten around me. Protective. Possessive. Dangerous.
I should argue with him, put distance between us, and remember he's an obstacle between me and my revenge. But I'm so tired. Just for tonight, I’ll let myself have this. Let myself pretend that maybe, just maybe, revenge doesn't have to cost me everything.
And hope that tomorrow I'll be strong enough to face the consequences.