54. Evelyn
Three Months Later
Evelyn Blake never existed, but now she did. It was strange to reclaim a name I had such animosity towards, stranger still for my husband to take my surname. But Szász, as beautiful as that name was, had ties not just to the past, but to people.
People like his parents. Like his sister.
All we had left of our past were some jewellery, the uncut gems, and a few untraceable bank accounts.
Well, that and the black hoodie I’d stolen from Laszlo. It was becoming frayed, holes dug into the cuffs by my thumbs, but I couldn’t part with it.
I’d destroyed my mother’s diary and anything that would link the house to the cult. The house was Roxy’s now, and as much as I would miss her, at least I knew her life would be prosperous and happy.
I’d run away from the past, hoping to find independence and autonomy. Instead, I found a man who would burn the entire world down if anyone hurt me. His love for me was pure and ran deeper than a river.
We could reforge continents with the depths of our passion.
The penthouse was in a trust for Zach and Clara, and Laszlo left them behind enough money so neither would have to work again for the rest of their lives. Our guards, the employees at Silver Belle’s, and countless charities would benefit from our deaths, and that gave me peace.
It was the middle of winter in the Swiss Alps, and I sat on Laszlo’s lap.
Cock keeping me in place, of course.
I might have done a whole lotta healing since leaving the cult, but I couldn’t deny that the guilt of killing so many people—even evil people—derailed a lot of progress I made.
The memories of the aftermath of my wrath on Jimmy, how I had peeled his face off and felt his guts in my hands brought in new trauma I had to deal with.
And it wasn’t like we could go to therapy for what we did.
Cock therapy would have to be enough.
He was dressed in a cornflower blue silk shirt, with a thick black reading jacket over it.
His pants were pulled open at the hips, where I sat, but I was naked, vulnerable.
His arm wrapped around my waist, his fingers teasing my bare skin as we luxuriated in the sensation of each other. I liked the contrast between us.
As he promised, the fire was warm, keeping the cold of the snowy alps at bay outside the chalet window.
We were both reading. He’d picked up a spy novel, and I had a romance, but we both got bored and traded.
“Damn, you should have stuck with it,” he said, his chin on my shoulder as he throbbed inside me.
“Oh? Why?”
“She’s been trying to get his attention and praise, but he keeps pushing her away.”
“Sounds familiar.”
He bit my shoulder playfully. “Be good. Anyway, she baked a bunch of pastries and put them in a box, and when he came home, he ate one of them, and then wondered where she bought them because they were delicious.”
I smiled, my book dropping from my hand as I turned to look at him. I took his free hand, bringing it to my lips. Staring into his silver eyes, I kissed his thumb, and he smiled.
This was the man I would spend the rest of my life loving.
“That does sound sweet. Have you gotten to the sex yet?”
He pumped his hips, and I bucked forward with a giggle.
“Yup, got to the sex. Luckily, I have a very strange little wife who likes using my body while casually reading.”
I had gotten quite good at turning around to face him without letting his cock go, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, knees next to his hips. I kissed his cheek, nuzzling his dimple with my nose.
“Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Lyn. You know, the book reminded me… I don’t think I ever thanked you for that pot pie.”
“Pot pie?”
“Mhm. The first thing anyone ever cooked for me out of kindness.”
I had forgotten all about it. The memory of those early days, of us learning to navigate our strange relationship, filtered back into my mind.
“I love you, Laszlo.”
He nuzzled his nose against mine. Everything about him felt more fluid, lighter, happier. He was at peace, and it was amazing to watch him transform into someone new. I wondered if this was how he felt when we first met. I’d been so shy and insecure back then, utterly hopeless.
“I love you too, Lyn.” I pressed my lips to his, squeezing my bare torso to his heavy jacket.
My hair was cut shorter, just past my chin, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it yet. We were trying to be incognito, though, and my Rapunzel length locks always drew attention.
His long hair was likewise shaved, and I ran my palm over the short, soft hair.
He lifted his hips, pumping into me again, and I purred.
“Mm, you do fill me up nicely, husband.”
“You take me nicely, wife. My dirty girl.”
I started to rise up, riding him with all the slow intention that brought us close to the edge, but didn’t tip us over. He kissed my collarbone, my breast, his tongue tracing around my stiff nipple.
His firm hand trailed down my centre, his thumb finding the core of heat at the nexus of my thighs.
“Hey, don’t rush me,” I pouted, even as I rolled my head back with a sigh.
“You’ve been on my cock for an hour, Lyn. I’m only a man. I have my limits.”
My eyes flashed at him, excitement coiling inside me. I loved it when I pushed him to those limits. Maybe it was because our first time had been so rough and messed up. I couldn’t deny that it took me a while to cope with it, and maybe my methods weren’t healthy, but I called it a reclamation.
I slapped his hand away, and he feigned hurt for a second before that same hand rose, his thumb delving between my willing lips. My tongue swiped along his fingerprint before I sucked the digit, hard.
“You are in a mood.”
I nodded, and he grinned, showing those deeper dimples. He had put on some weight, and it suited him.
But, after an hour of me sitting on his lap, he was eager to unload.
He spun me back around, standing in a fluid motion as I buckled in half, my forearms hitting the velvet sofa. I glanced over my shoulder at him, and there was no Jimmy, no Rurik, no Bodrov or Gorky or Caleb or Henry or anyone else.
No spectres of my past haunted me.
It was just us, blissfully alone on an extended honeymoon while renovations were done to our new home.
He pulled his hips back and then pushed in hard, deep, so deep that I yelped. His hand was in my shorter hair, tugging my face to his, giving me a crushing kiss that fluttered down to my stomach. I flicked his tongue with mine, sharing a moan with him.
He righted himself, holding onto my hair, my shoulder, as he started to take me. His strokes were firm, each one quaking me as his sac struck my clit, teasing me but never releasing me.
“Good girl! My good girl. My little angel,” he growled, punctuating each word with a harder thrust.
His clothed front was on my naked back as he spent his seed in me, powerful hands keeping me locked against him. Even as he ground into me, torturing me without letting me go.
Oh God.
“Beg.”
“My beautiful serebryanyye glaza… please, I’m so close.”
“That’s not what you said when I touched here,” he demonstrated by gliding a finger along my clit. “You told me not to rush you.”
“I lied.” My lips pouted, begging him in every way I could, until finally he relented. Still plugging me with his cock, he rubbed me, chased those nerve endings, and I squeezed around him, singing sweet bliss.
My scream reverberated off the glass windows, and it was a good thing we were high up, secluded from the world, because we were exposed to the dark night. All my tension flooded out of me, heating Laszlo’s cock, and his knuckle ran lovingly down my spine.