31. Aj
The cold saltwater air bites at my skin, the sound of waves slapping against the ships and shore echoing in the distance. My body thrums with anxiety as we get closer to the terminal. His hand rests on the small of my back, guiding me as we weave through the crowd.
The customs area comes into view all at once, brightly lit. Rows of officers are stationed behind booths, checking passports, while armed Russian soldiers patrol the lines. I drop my gaze immediately, forcing myself not to look too long at anyone, not to draw attention, not to give myself away.
Joining a line, Wolff’s arm slides around my shoulders, pulling me into his side in one smooth motion that feels natural, but I know it’s just for show.
Acting like a married couple.
“Relax, solnyshko. Keep your head on my chest.”
I hesitate for half a second before doing what he says, letting my forehead rest against his chest, my fingers curling lightly into his coat as I breathe him in—leather, pine soap, and something darker underneath that clings to him, no matter how much time passes.
The line inches forward.
Voices blend together into a low, constant hum, but every time an armed soldier moves too close, every time someone is stopped or questioned, my body tenses all over again.
When a man behind us speaks loudly, I flinch and press closer into Wolff. His arm tightens around me before he leans down, his mouth brushing near my ear.
“Say something to me. Now.”
My mind blanks.
Completely.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Anything.” His breath is warm against my hair. “Keep talking.”
“I don’t know—”
A quiet exhale leaves him, almost impatient. “Since when do you have nothing to say?” he mutters. “Your favorite restaurant. Back home.”
I swallow hard, forcing words through the tightness in my chest. “There’s a place by the lake. In the city. It’s small, kind of tucked away. Nothing fancy, but…I used to go there a lot. The soup is really good.”
He doesn’t respond right away. His fingers stroke my arm in slow, steady movements. “You like a restaurant because of soup?”
I huff out a small, nervous laugh. For a second, the tension in my chest eases just enough to breathe. “What about you? What’s your favorite thing about the city?”
His eyes move constantly, tracking the line, the soldiers, the exits—everything at once—and I almost think he’s going to ignore me completely.
“I don’t like the city,” he says finally. “It’s too loud.” There’s a pause. Long enough that I assume that’s all I’m getting. “But I like the view of the water at sunrise. From my land.”
Something in my chest tightens unexpectedly. It’s the first time he’s said anything personal…that wasn’t about violence.
“Land?” I echo, lifting my head just enough to look at him. “What, like a farm?” A small smile pulls at my mouth despite everything. “Am I married to a farmer, Cody?”
His arm shifts around me, pulling me a fraction closer, and I swear there’s something there again—something faint and fleeting…almost…real.
“If I was, would that be a deal-breaker, Lauren?”
My lips purse as I pretend to think. “Depends. Do you wear flannel?”
“No.”
I sigh. “Pity.”
The line moves again, and we follow, one step, then another.
“What about mini cows?” I ask, the words coming easier just to keep the moment going. “That feels important for a farm.”
He glances down at me briefly, his expression unreadable but not as hardened as it was before.
“No mini cows, solnyshko.”
“This marriage sounds terrible.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
I don’t mean to, but my hand drops, brushing his, and for a second, everything stills.
His body goes rigid.
Then his fingers thread through mine, his grip squeezing once.
I know it’s part of the act. All of this is. But a flutter settles somewhere deep in my belly anyway.
We move forward again, closer to the front now, and the tension creeps back, more threatening this time. More soldiers pass between the lines, stopping people at random, their voices cutting through the noise in short, sharp bursts that make my pulse spike all over again.
My grip on his hand tightens, and I step closer, angling myself into him.
“Keep talking.”
“I—” I try to grab onto something. “I can’t think of anything else.”
“Bullshit,” he mutters. “You never shut up. Tell me one of your stupid stories.”
I almost laugh at that, but it catches somewhere in my throat.
“You tell me a story,” I whisper against his chest. “Why am I having to do all the work in this relationship?”
“I’m not talking about myself.”
“Shame,” I murmur. “No mini cows, no flannel, emotionally unavailable, one-sided conversations… I have to say, Mr. Johnson, I don’t think our marriage is going to last.”
He grunts softly, the corner of his mouth twitching just enough to make me think he might actually find this amusing.
My smile fades the second a soldier stops the couple in front of us, barking for their papers in Russian. My stomach drops like a stone to my feet. Wolff’s body shifts instantly, turning me so I’m almost fully hidden against his chest.
I dart my eyes around, but another armed soldier’s gaze flicks toward us. I bite down hard on my lip, squeezing Wolff’s hand until my nails dig into his skin.
The soldier approaches.
I hold my breath.
“Passports.”
Wolff’s arm never leaves me. His other hand reaches into his jacket and hands over both passports.
I keep my head down as every second stretches like it could end us.
The officer flips through them slowly, checking stamps, my photo, Wolff’s face. He whistles for another soldier. I flinch so hard my body jerks against Wolff.
His thumb strokes the back of my hand.
I don’t hear the questions the officer asks Wolff. My blood is roaring too loudly in my ears.
Then we’re moving.
Following the two soldiers away from the main crowd, down a narrow hallway.
“What’s happening?” I whisper.
“Roving check,” Wolff mutters. “Keep your head down. We’ll be back in line in a second.”
We’re led into a smaller room with a metal table. The door slams shut behind us with a heavy metallic click that makes my pulse spike.
“Do. Not. Scream.”
The words barely leave Wolff’s mouth before he explodes into motion.
One second, he’s standing beside me.
The next, he’s on the bigger soldier.
A brutal crack echoes through the room as Wolff drives him headfirst into the wall, hard enough to dent the metal paneling. The man grunts, stunned, and Wolff’s hand clamps around his jaw.
Twist.
The snap of bone is wet and vicious.
The body collapses instantly.
The second soldier reacts fast, hand flying for his gun, but Wolff is already moving.
He kicks the metal table.
It slams across the room with a deafening screech, smashing into the soldier and sending him crashing backward into the wall. In the next breath, Wolff is on him—large hands wrapping around the soldier’s head. One sickening twist. Another neck snaps.
Silence crashes down so hard my ears ring.
I can’t breathe.
Two bodies sprawl across the floor while blood spreads fast over the concrete, creeping toward Wolff’s boots.
He doesn’t even look winded.
Mouth agape, my stomach twists as he grabs one corpse by the tactical vest and drags it behind the table, muscles flexing under his coat. The dead weight thuds across the floor. Then the second.
Effortless.
Like he’s done this a thousand times.
Maybe ten thousand.
He turns toward me, green eyes cold under the harsh light.
“Wolff…”
His head snaps toward the door at the sound of Russian voices.
He doesn’t waste a second. He grabs my wrist and yanks me forward. We bolt into the hallway, boots pounding against concrete while more voices echo somewhere ahead, growing louder.
“Fuck.” Wolff jerks me sideways, and I slam into his chest as he shoves us into a narrow utility closet. The door shuts quietly behind us.
Darkness swallows us.
The space is tiny. Shelves packed with chemicals and rusted tools digging into me while the smells of bleach and damp metal cling to the air.
My blood runs cold.
I can still hear the bodies hitting the floor.
Still hear the necks breaking.
My hands start shaking; I can’t stop them. My breathing turns ragged, a whole new panic consuming my senses.
Wolff’s hand lands on my shoulder.
I nearly scream.
He spins me fast and pins me against the wall, his body crowding mine, one arm braced beside my head while the other grips my jaw with enough force to keep my focus on him.
“We’re going to be here for a minute. You need to calm the fuck down. Breathe. Now.”
My chest heaves.
I can’t.
I fucking can’t.
Outside the closet, boots and Russian voices pound past.
Wolff presses in tighter, shielding me completely with his body as his forehead drops against mine, breath hot on my lips. My fingers clutch at his coat desperately, trying to hold on to something solid.
“Good,” he says when I drag in a broken breath. “Again.”
Another set of footsteps passes outside.
Closer this time.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Wolff’s hand slides from my jaw to the side of my face, rough fingers brushing a strand of hair behind my ear with a gentleness so out of place it shocks me.
Wolff doesn’t touch like this.
“You’re okay.” His mouth is close enough that the words brush my lips. “We’re almost out. You’ve done good. So fucking good, solnyshko.”
My throat burns. Tears blur my vision as my breathing matches his—slow in, slow out. He adjusts his stance, his hips pinning me completely against the wall.
My body starts to respond to the closeness, the weight of him, the way his scent fills this tiny space.
His mouth is so close to mine.
Every inch of me feels like it’s caught between panic and wanting.
His hand stays where it is, thumb grazing the underside of my jaw, while his chest presses into me with each breath.
The footsteps outside fade.
It’s quiet again.
I tilt my head back just slightly, and his eyes meet mine in the dark. They’re hungry.
He shifts.
His thigh presses between my legs, and I bite back a gasp as it brushes against me exactly where I’m aching. My hips move, grinding against him, and a low sound rips from my chest before I can stop it.
His palm flies up, covering my mouth.
“Don’t make a fucking sound,” he orders, voice rough.
I nod frantically, my body trembling with need, with fear, with everything I can’t control. He shifts again, his thigh grinding up into me, sending a jolt of pleasure that makes my whole body arch against him.
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to stay quiet, but I can’t stop the way my hips roll against his thigh, chasing friction.
His chest presses closer, harder, his heartbeat racing.
“Goddamnit,” he mutters against my ear, his breaths ragged. “Stop moving.”
But I can’t.
I need more.
I need him to keep touching me. His hand tightens on my mouth as his thigh flexes, driving up again, and I moan into his palm.
He shoves me harder against the wall, his mouth brushing my ear. “Even when we’re about to get killed, your greedy little cunt is dripping for me.”
His words make me whimper into his palm. Shame burns through me, but I can’t stop rolling my hips, chasing the pleasure like a desperate animal. My thighs clench around his leg, and his own breathing stutters.
He lowers his head to my neck, his stubble rough against my skin.
“Fuck.”
He bites me, his teeth sinking in as he ruts his thigh against me, pulling a strangled gasp from my throat. Then he drags his tongue over the bite mark, licking a slow, hot, possessive stripe up my skin.
He does it again, sucking a mark into my throat while his thigh grinds up into me at a steady, punishing rhythm.
“Solnyshko…”
My hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in as I feel him everywhere—hard, unyielding, the only thing keeping me from shattering.
Every roll of my hips sends sparks through me, my clit throbbing, but it’s not enough. I need more. I need him inside me.
I moan against his hand.
“Fuck,” he growls against my neck, teeth scraping my skin. “This is what you do to me. This is what you fucking do.”
He shoves me harder against the wall, then suddenly lifts me. My back hits the cold surface as my legs wrap around his waist. He yanks my jeans and underwear down just enough and frees his cock with his other hand.
No warning.
He lines up and slams into me with one brutal thrust.
His palm covers my mouth again, cutting off my cry. He’s so deep, so sudden, stretching me open while my back scrapes against the wall. He fucks me hard and fast, hips snapping up into me. Every thrust knocks the breath from my lungs.
His mouth finds my neck again, licking and sucking, marking me, claiming me in a way he’s never done before. I’m shaking, clinging to his shoulders, legs locked around him as he pounds into me, using the wall to drive deeper.
He doesn’t kiss my mouth.
He just fucks me like he’s trying to erase everything else.
I feel it building, my body tightening around him, pleasure so intense it hurts. His growl vibrates against my neck as his pace turns erratic.
“Come for me,” he grunts against my skin. “Now.”
I shatter.
I come hard, sobbing into his hand, my pussy clenching and pulsing around him as I nearly black out. He slams in deep, grinding into my clit, drawing out every pulse.
“Fuck!”
His whole body tenses. Then his hips stutter, and he drives in one last time, groaning as he spills inside me.
I shudder, still shaking from the aftermath, panting against his palm.
He doesn’t pull out right away. He stays buried deep, his breaths slowing, forehead pressed to mine, still holding me up against the wall. My legs wrapped tight around his waist.