Chapter 12 Ivy
IVY
Ican only keep the door locked and shut for so long before it becomes suspicious.
A few hours, maybe, just enough to pretend I was resting or trying to process seeing that photo of Mikhail’s fiancée, but once dinner time rolls around, the excuse wears thin… Well, that’s when the walls around me begin to press in.
The guilt for betraying Maksim, the paranoia of Mikhail finding out they know about his fiancée.
It gnaws at me until I’m so stressed, I’m nearly pulling my hair out at the roots.
So I do the only thing I can manage. I open the door and wait for Maksim to come back.
I’m surprised to find the hallway empty. No one’s hovering outside, waiting for me to open the door in order to bust in and demand answers. That makes it worse, somehow—the kindness, their granting me space in order to let me fall apart privately.
I try not to let that get to me, to make the guilt inside me worse.
Maksim finds me about an hour after that. He holds a plate of food in one hand, the other clutching a bottle of water with condensation rolling down the sides. He smiles at me before shutting the door gently behind him.
There’s no probing for answers, no demands. Just a quiet insistence when he tugs me gently toward him, the plate momentarily set down onto the table and forgotten when he wraps his arms around me.
I don’t even resist.
My forehead presses to his chest as his hand rubs a slow, grounding line along my spine. I breathe him in and try to let the shudder crawling up my back dissipate while I listen to the steady thrum of his heartbeat.
But it’s hard…
My thoughts race in unending loops. Maksim doesn’t speak for a long while. He just holds me like he knows I’m on the verge of shattering and he's the only thing keeping me stitched together.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough for his eyes to find mine. There’s a smile on his lips, soft and patient, but concern weaves its way beneath the surface. I try to pretend I don’t see it, looking anywhere but at him, but he doesn’t let me go far when I try to pull away.
One arm stays hooked around my waist, keeping me in place.
“You alright?” he murmurs.
“Yeah. I just…” I try to find words that won’t sound like excuses. Everything coming out of my mouth sounds like confessions to me, every word a lie he’ll soon unearth. “Everything got really overwhelming back there. Sorry for making a scene.”
His gaze softens further, and he nods like he’s been waiting for me to say that. “I understand.”
Maksim’s hand lifts, brushing along the edge of my cheekbone. His fingers trace a slow line, a barely-there whisper of contact that steals the tension right out of my shoulders. My breath hitches despite myself, and I lean into his palm before I can think better of it.
I let my eyes fall shut. For a moment, I let myself feel it. I missed this. Missed the way he always knew how to quiet the chaos. The way his touch softens the edges of my panic like it’s nothing.
But then guilt slams into me like a freight train. Because how dare I?
How can I enjoy a peaceful moment this when our son is still out there? How dare I feel anything close to happiness when Leo is alone, likely scared, wondering why we haven’t come for him yet?
My throat tightens as I try to swallow it down. “I feel like I’m losing it.”
“I’ll find him. I swear to you, Ivy. I will get our son back. Whatever it takes,” he murmurs against the crown of my head.
It’s almost impossible for me to breathe. “I know.”
He pulls back only enough to press a kiss to my forehead, slow and steady. It lingers, like he’s trying to seal the vow there, brand it into my skin. The tears come then. Quiet, stupid ones. I blink them back before they can fall.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to shut you out. I just—”
“I know,” he says again, his hand sliding down to tangle with mine. “You don’t ever have to apologize for surviving.”
He pulls me in for a kiss then, his lips moving against mine in a slow and gentle motion.
My fingers clutch at the front of his shirt, fisting the fabric as if that alone will keep me from unraveling.
The soft press of his lips moves against mine with aching precision, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me all over again.
I can feel the heat of him beneath his clothes, the tension in his frame just barely held in check.
I pull him closer, pressing our bodies together like I could maybe stitch myself into his skin if I just tried hard enough. His arms wrap around me instantly, tightening with something fierce and tender all at once, reminding me how afraid he had been to let me go the first time he held me again.
Then, without warning, he lifts me off the floor.
A quiet sound escapes my throat as he carries me effortlessly across the room, his mouth never leaving mine. His lips keep working against mine with slow insistence, stealing every rational thought, every worry, out of my head one by one.
The mattress dips beneath my back when he sets me down on top of it. Still kissing me, Maksim hovers above me, bracing himself on either side of my body on his hands, careful not to crush me beneath the weight of him.
But I want him to. I want all of it—the warmth of his bare body against mine, the pressure of his touch, the feeling of his mouth dragging down my neck and to the rest of my body until the noise in my head quiets and the only thing I can feel is him.
He pulls back just enough for his eyes to flick over my face like he’s trying to reassure himself I’m really here. My hand cups the back of his neck, fingers weaving into his hair.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper.
His forehead lowers to press against mine, his breath mixing with mine. “Neither am I, Milaya.”
Then he kisses me again, and this time it’s deeper, hungrier, the promise we just made sealed between us that neither of us can walk away from now.
And truthfully? I don’t want to. I never do.
Not even when I’m forced to betray him.
His hands roam down my sides, gripping my hips, sliding beneath the hem of my shirt until his palms meet bare skin. The warmth of his touch sears into me, and I shiver against him, arching up to meet every caress.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs against my lips, the word half-groan, half a confession.
He pulls my shirt up and over my head, tossing it aside before kissing me again. I do the same to him, desperate to feel his skin against mine as I strip him. The first brush of chest to chest makes my breath catch, the heat of him sinking into me, leaving me dizzy.
When his mouth trails down my throat to the hollow of my collarbone, I thread my fingers through his hair again and hold on tight, gasping his name when his teeth graze lightly over sensitive skin.
He shifts, bracing himself on one arm while the other slides down to my thigh, coaxing it around his hip. I obey instantly, pulling him closer, anchoring us together until there’s no space left between us.
The rhythm of his kisses, the rough glide of his hands, the weight of his body—it all blurs into something all-consuming. Every piece of me aches for him, every thought dissolves until only one thing matters: us.
When he’s done marking me, he finally pulls back, his lips swollen, his teeth having left their trail of heat and ownership along my skin. He parts from me only long enough to rid us both of the rest of our clothes.
I shiver despite the air between us feeling molten. Every second stretched thin until my chest aches with anticipation.
Then his hands are on me again, unyielding in their demands to touch every inch of me.
He presses my thighs apart with a patience that makes me tremble, spreading me wide until there’s nowhere left to hide.
His gaze drops down between my legs, hungry and reverent all at once when he finally sees how wet I am. .
Heat shoots straight through me.
“Moya krasavitsa,” he mutters under his breath. His fingertips trace a featherlight path down the inside of my thigh, teasing closer until every nerve in my body is screaming for more.
“Tell me what that means. What everything you call me means,” I beg.
“Moya krasavitsa,” He says, repeating the words. His fingers circle around my entrance, not yet dipping inside. “My beauty. Moya lyubimaya, my love. Moya milaya, my sweetheart. Moya solnyshko, my little sun.”
His slow moving fingers make the pressure building up inside of me almost unbearable. My hips jerk and my body shudders, the desperation for him to give me some for of relief, any, is overwhelming.
Finally, when his fingers slip against me it’s with an aching slowness, sliding through my wetness before moving deep. The stretch and the pace slow are almost cruel. My body jolts again, a gasp tumbling from my lips before I can catch it.
He watches me intently, every reaction, every flutter of my lashes, every arch of my back cataloged like I’m his favorite scripture. His eyes don’t waver from me or my core, his chest rising and falling with ragged control.
The fingers pump in and out of me steadily. Each thrust pulls another sound from me, another desperate whimper that I can’t seem to silence. I breathe his name, broken and breathless, over and over again like a chant as if he’s the only thing tethering me to this earth.
The rhythm builds, dragging my hips into motion, rocking in time with his hand. The world narrows to nothing but the slide of his hand and the curling of his fingers inside me.
But just when the pressure builds enough to send me spiraling, he pulls back, leaving me achingly empty. I whimper at the loss, my head tossing against the pillow.
He chuckles at me, his hands tighten on my thighs to spread me even wider. Before I can breathe his name again, to beg him to show me mercy, his mouth replaces his fingers.