7. Wren
WREN
I bolt toward the kitchen like I can outrun what just happened on that boat, which is ridiculous because my legs are still shaking and I'm pretty sure everyone within a mile radius heard me scream Maxim's name.
The kitchen smells like someone actually cooked—garlic, herbs, something that might be chicken. My stomach growls despite everything, which feels like a betrayal of my dignity, but I guess orgasms make you hungry. Who knew.
I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with water, draining half of it in one go. The cold helps. A little. Not enough to erase the fact that I just had sex with my third stepbrother, but enough that I can probably look them in the eye without combusting.
Probably.
Footsteps behind me. I don't turn around because I know that tread—Maxim's is lighter than his brothers', less like an approaching tank and more like a predator who doesn't need to stomp to be dangerous.
"You good, solnyshko?"
"Yep. Great. Fantastic. Living the dream."
He laughs, low and warm, and his hand finds the small of my back. Just rests there, easy and possessive at the same time. "That's what I like to hear."
Lev and Kostya join us a few minutes later, and somehow we end up at the dining table with plates of food that Lev apparently made while Maxim and I were... occupied. The chicken's good—seasoned perfectly, not dry. There's roasted vegetables and bread that's still warm.
"You cook?" I say to Lev, because apparently I've lost all sense of self-preservation and my mouth just says things now.
"Someone has to." He cuts into his chicken with surgical precision, each slice exactly the same thickness. "Kostya burns water."
"One time," Kostya says without looking up from his plate. "And it was your fault for distracting me."
"You were supposed to be watching it."
"I was watching you kick Dmitri's ass in the driveway. Priorities."
I bite back a smile and focus on my food. The banter's familiar now—comfortable, even. Yesterday, I only knew them by name. Now I'm sitting at a table with them after having sex with all three, and it feels... normal. Ish.
We eat in silence for a while, but it's not the peaceful kind.
There's tension simmering just under the surface, thick enough that I could cut it with my fork.
Lev's jaw does that thing where it tightens every few seconds.
Kostya's knuckles are white around his knife.
Maxim's smile is still in place but it doesn't reach his eyes.
I keep darting my gaze between them, trying to read the room, but it's like trying to read a book in a language I don't speak.
Finally, Lev sets down his fork. "The Gambinos reached out. So did the O'Rourkes and the Antonovs."
Maxim leans back in his chair. "And?"
"They're denying involvement."
"Of course they are," Kostya says. "Who admits to killing a pakhan at his own wedding?"
"Only a fool would do what they did at the wedding."
I swallow a bite of chicken that suddenly tastes like sawdust. "So you don't believe them."
"I don't believe anyone." Lev picks up his fork again, but he doesn't eat. Just holds it like he's deciding whether to use it as a weapon. "Not until we find the rat."
The plan they discussed this morning—the one I suggested, the TV show trick—is already in motion.
They've fed different information to different people, waiting to see what comes back.
It's smart. It's also terrifying, because if it works, someone they trust is about to get outed as a traitor, and I have a feeling that doesn't end with a stern talking-to.
"What time are we leaving tomorrow?" I ask, because someone needs to say something and it might as well be me.
"Early," Lev says. "Five AM."
"Why so early?"
"Because I want to be back in the city before anyone knows we've left here."
Right. Because we're in hiding. Because someone wants us—wants them—dead, and this beautiful house on the lake is the only place that's safe. Except tomorrow we're going back, and Lev's father's funeral is in two days, and after that Lev becomes pakhan and everything changes.
I try to distract them with talk—ask Maxim about the legitimate businesses he runs, ask Kostya about his knives, ask Lev about the logistics of a funeral in this world.
But it doesn't work. Maxim answers in half-sentences.
Kostya grunts. Lev just looks at me like he's cataloging every word for later analysis.
They're worried. All three of them. And I get it—I'd be worried too if I were about to walk into a viper's nest with a target on my back. But watching them sit here, tense and silent and bracing for the worst, makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with grief or fear.
I want to distract them. Even for a little while.
I'm about to cross another line, and honestly, I don't really care anymore.
Lev makes a move to stand after finishing his lunch, pushing his chair back with a scrape that sounds too loud in the quiet kitchen.
I grab his arm.
He stops. Looks down at my hand on his forearm, then up at my face. "What is it?"
I swallow hard and address the whole table. "You haven't had your dessert yet."
Maxim's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. Kostya's gaze snaps to me, sharp and interested. Lev doesn't move, but something shifts in his expression—subtle, like a door opening just a crack.
"I don't want one," Lev says.
"But I'm your dessert." I stand, keeping my hand on his arm, and meet his eyes. "Still refusing?"
For a second, nobody moves. The air goes thick and hot, and I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Then Lev's hand comes up and cups the back of my neck, and he kisses me.
It's not gentle. Not soft. His mouth claims mine like he's been holding himself back all day and finally snapped. His tongue sweeps in, demanding, and I open for him because there's no other option—this is Lev, and when Lev wants something, he takes it.
He lifts me, the raw power in those corded arms sending a shiver racing down my spine as my feet leave the floor.
The moment my ass hits the edge of the dining table, dishes scatter with a chaotic clatter—forks and knives skittering across wood, a half-empty glass tipping over and spilling cool water that trickles onto my thigh like icy fingers.
I don't give a damn. The sharp scent of pine from outside mixes with the warm, savory remnants of our lunch and the growing musk of arousal thickening the air.
I wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into the firm curve of his ass, pulling him flush against me until I feel the unmistakable heat of his cock straining against his pants.
His hands shove under my shirt, rough palms scraping over my ribs, possessive and demanding, calluses catching on my skin and leaving trails of fire in their wake.
"Ty takaya zhadnaya," he mutters against my mouth, the low growl vibrating through my lips, his breath hot and tasting faintly of the black coffee he drank with his meal. "You are so greedy."
"Your fault," I manage, the words half-lost in the frantic beat of my pulse hammering in my throat. God, why does his voice do this to me? Like he's peeling back every layer I've got and staring straight into the filthy want I've been trying to hide.
"Da." Yes. His hand slides between my thighs without warning, thick fingers pressing against my soaked folds, and I gasp sharply because I'm still so fucking sensitive from earlier—my pussy swollen, slick, and throbbing like it's been bruised in the best way.
The touch sends electric jolts straight up my core, making my inner walls clench around nothing, desperate for more. "All my fault, moya."
His belt buckle clinks open, the metallic sound echoing obscenely in the suddenly too-quiet kitchen, and then comes the harsh rasp of his zipper, each tooth separating like a promise of what's about to wreck me.
My heart slams against my ribs so hard I'm sure he can feel it.
This is insane. I'm about to get fucked on the dining table by my stepbrother while the others watch, and all I can think is how badly I need him to split me open.
Then he's pushing into me—thick, hard, and utterly relentless.
The blunt head of his cock stretches my entrance with a burning pressure that makes my breath hitch, forcing my walls to yield around his massive girth.
I choke on a moan because it's too much, the stretch bordering on pain, yet not nearly enough to satisfy the aching void inside me.
"Fuck," I gasp, my nails digging into his tattooed shoulders through his shirt, the fabric damp with the heat rolling off his body.
"That's the idea." His voice is rougher now, darker than I've ever heard it, laced with that clipped control fraying at the edges.
His hips snap forward in one brutal thrust that buries him to the hilt, his heavy balls slapping against my ass as he bottoms out so deep I swear I feel him in my throat.
The sudden fullness rips a cry from my lungs—raw, helpless.
He's everywhere, stretching me so wide my clit throbs in protest and pleasure, my slick walls fluttering wildly around the invading thickness.
I cry out again, louder this time, the sound bouncing off the wooden beams. Lev, fuck, you're going to ruin me and I want you to.
Can't help it. He's so deep, pulsing hot and rigid inside me, that my body's still frantically trying to adjust, nerves screaming with overstimulation, when he pulls back—dragging every veined inch along my sensitive walls—only to slam back in with a wet, filthy smack.
"Lev—"
"Take it." He grips my hips. The sting only makes me wetter, my pussy gushing around him as he sets a merciless rhythm. "You wanted this, kotyonok. Wanted to be fucked on the table like a good little distraction."
Kostya's voice cuts through the haze. "Greedy girl."