27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Aurora
Sunlight spills cautiously through the curtains. The plush pillow presses against my bare chest as I snuggle deeper under the comforter, Sergei’s naked body beside me. One of his legs intertwines with mine, emitting heat like my own personal radiator.
I consider moving, but I doubt I have the physical capacity to do so. If I thought I understood what sex was before last night, I was utterly mistaken. It’s like I’ve spent my life with training wheels, and now they’ve been removed, setting me free.
“We have a saying…” Sergei’s warm breath sends shivers down my spine as his hardness presses against my hip.
“The way you spend New Year’s Eve is how you’ll spend the rest of the year.
” He gently moves my hair aside, his lips grazing my neck—each kiss sparking a new wave of intensity.
“I think this is going to be a very good year,” he murmurs, and I can feel his smile even as he continues to kiss me.
Shifting closer, he draws me into his arms, pressing my back against his chest. A soft chuckle vibrates through my body as he nuzzles his face into my neck, inhaling deeply.
It feels like he can’t get enough of me, and that realization warms my chest. As he starts kissing my shoulder, his hands cup my breasts.
The sight of them uncontained, despite the size of his hands, makes me feel like a goddess.
The way his grip is firm, yet tender, hardens my nipples, spreading goosebumps along my skin.
And when his fingers dip past my belly, down between my legs, I shake with eagerness.
“Mmm,” Sergei whispers into the shell of my ear. “So ready for me…”
He can’t be surprised by it. A mere glance from him, a single syllable uttered in that sexy accent of his, and my body already reacts, going into overdrive.
In one swift motion, he flips me onto my stomach and begins to trail long wet kisses down my back. He kneels behind me, gently lifting my hips to meet his.
“I could get used to this,” he says as he reaches out for another condom, discarding the wrapper onto the floor to join the others.
I freeze at his words, my heart clenching hard as the meaning tattoos itself onto my skin.
He could get used to this. Does this mean he wants to?
He wants this? He wants… me? Or are those just empty promises slipped in between passionate moments?
I’ve had those words spoken to me before.
But this feels real. This feels like he really means it.
His hand presses down my back before I feel him lining himself up with my entrance, and my core clenches with anticipation.
“Breathe,” he reminds me because my lungs had indeed forgotten how to do their most basic function.
The second he slides inside me, stretching me all over again, my head falls forward, hair curtaining my face.
Oh God.
I gasp and dig my nails into the sheets, pressing my face into the pillow to muffle the moan escaping my lips. How can it feel so good?
“Nyet. Nyet. Nyet,” he scolds, fisting my hair and tugging me up on all fours. “I want to hear every single sound that comes out of that sweet mouth of yours.”
My walls clench around him as I do as he says.
“Horoshaya devochka,” he hums behind me as he rolls his hips in a lazy pace, like he could spend all day here in bed with me. Like he doesn’t have any other responsibilities in the world. Like all that matters is me.
The tension between my legs soars yet again, and I wonder how it is that he knows my body so well already. He whispers praises in that dangerous tone of his, and I think I might come just from that.
Last night, when we were together and he purred dirty promises, his accent occasionally slipped, revealing the real Sergei. Our intimacy peeled away the mask he’d worked so hard to maintain. And, God, if I thought he was sexy before—this raw, unfiltered version of him was something else entirely.
Letting go of my hair, he grabs my hips, sinking his fingertips into my flesh.
He moves slowly, allowing me to feel every inch of him.
And there are so many of those to feel, to indulge in, to savor.
In a frenzy of sensations, I bury my face back into the pillow, embarrassed by my uncontrollable sounds.
“Hey.” He pauses, leaning forward, and I groan at the abrupt interruption.
“What did I say about letting me hear you as I fuck you?” Sergei turns my neck to him.
Though the movement is sharp and almost punishing, the emotion shadowing his expression takes my breath away.
We lock eyes, suspended in a moment that is timeless and boundless.
The intensity of his gaze overwhelms me, hitting me like a force that’s too much to bear.
Deciding to break the seriousness of the moment, I buck my ass toward him. Sergei’s eyebrows lift, and his eyes widen in shock, clearly taken aback by the unexpected movement. “I told you I’m not above spanking you if you don’t listen to me,” he growls.
I bite down on my lip just as a shiver of thrill shoots through me while he continues driving himself deep inside me. The exquisite pressure barrels through my body, catching me off guard. I scream his name just as he grunts mine out before we both collapse on the mattress.
As he rolls off, his hand drifts over my cheek, cool against my flushed skin. The drowsy, blissful curve of his smile stalls my heart. I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me like this before.
He leans in and gives me a quick peck on the lips.
It’s one of those kisses I imagine long-term couples exchange between themselves, a don’t-even-need-to-think-about-it kiss.
The type of kiss you wake up to, and the one you fall asleep with.
The kind you sneak before rushing out the door for work, and the one that greets you after a long day.
God, I could get used to this too.
The heater turns on, breaking the silence as warm air flows from the vent, moving the curtains ever so slightly. My eyes follow the hypnotic movement as my vision begins to lose focus.
Sergei’s slow breathing against my neck signals that he’s drifted back to sleep. I know I should do the same, but guilt keeps me awake, pounding in my head like a frantic child demanding attention. What have I done?
I tried to resist Sergei—I really did. But his pull is like quicksand, bottomless and inescapable. Now, with our bond deeper than ever, the realization that I’ve been lying to him gnaws at me. My inner voice mocks me, taunting me for jeopardizing what we might have had.
I have to tell him. There’s no way I can keep meeting his eyes, staring into his beautiful face, letting him touch me without him knowing the full extent of my deceit.
But after I expose my betrayal, it will be over.
We’ll be done before we even begin, because he won’t be able to forgive me.
Sergei will never want to see me again. He won’t be able to trust me.
He won’t let me care for Misha. And why should he?
I’m so disgusted by my own actions that nausea overwhelms me, and my pillow dampens with silent tears rolling down my cheeks.
Why did I agree to help Daniel? Why did I let it drag on so long? I should have stood my ground and refused to let him bully me. Once I realized the potential depth of our connection, I should have told Daniel I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—spy for him anymore.
I slowly turn away from Sergei, trying not to wake him, attempting to distance myself from the lies already occupying the space between us.
But as soon as I move, even in his sleep, he shifts closer, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me into his embrace.
My body shakes with tears threatening to turn hysterical, but I try to calm myself before I completely lose it.
Maybe he’ll understand. Perhaps he’ll see things from my perspective. He’ll realize that I only agreed to work with Daniel because I wanted to clear his name, because I was looking out for Misha’s well-being.
Liar.
I’m not even sure I believe that anymore.
Maybe I was too enthralled by the idea of playing detective—my younger self, who dreamed of Sherlock Holmes or Agatha Christie stories, the teenager who grew up watching SVU with my stepdad, convinced she could solve a mystery and make a difference.
Maybe I got too caught up with the idea that only I could help Sergei.
But will this be a good enough excuse for him? That I violated his trust and privacy in a misguided attempt to be the one to prove his innocence? That I was under the delusion that I could do a better job than the real police did? That I would uncover clues seasoned detectives missed?
A hushed chuckle breaks the monotonous hum of the heater.
I think deep down I realize that part of me agreed to help Daniel not because of some altruistic or benevolent reason, but rather because it made me feel wanted, chosen, important.
How stupid am I? I laugh at my own naivety as I come to terms with the fact that Sergei will likely never forgive me.
But maybe… The word begins to lose its meaning, yet it’s fueled by a single grain of hope still clinging to my heart.
Sergei’s words about hope being the last to die echo too loudly in my ears.
It’s true that as long as we have hope, we have something to hold onto, even if the logical part of us knows it might be futile.
Hope is a dangerous thing to cling to. But maybe, just maybe…
Enveloped in his arms, surrounded by a sense of safety and the comforting feeling of home, I tell myself that everything will be okay. I’ll tell Sergei the truth, and he’ll forgive me. What we have—what we share—will withstand the storm of truth. It has to.
“Aurora?” Sergei calls from the hallway.
I peek my head out from the kitchen, taking a bite from my muffin.
“Have you seen my wallet?” he asks, tapping his pockets.
The question is so simple and mundane that it sends me into a daydream, picturing a future where this is a normal occurrence.
I imagine myself years from now, playfully planting a kiss on his cheek before handing him his wallet.
“What would you do without me?” I’d tease, and he’d smile, telling me he’d be lost without me.
“Well…” I slip into a tone I often use with Misha, “where did you see it last?” I rest one hand on my waist while cradling the pastry in the other.
Sergei gives me a quick glance that holds a promise of consequences for taking that inflection with him. But because I know there might not be a later, I try to commit that look to memory as if it’s a photograph, cataloging every nuance of his expression I’ve been fortunate enough to witness.
After we woke up in the early afternoon, Sergei brought Misha back home from Nadia’s.
Although the idea of leaving the apartment to go anywhere sounded unappealing, Sergei wanted to take Misha to the movies.
I supported this, not just because I love seeing him spend time with Misha, but also because, selfishly, I need time alone to gather my thoughts and figure out how to tell him the truth.
“Maybe my office?” he suggests, starting to remove his shoes.
“I’ll check,” I reply, already headed in that direction. With the muffin clamped in my teeth, I push the laptop aside and stack the documents on it. Plucking it out of my mouth, I call back, “Do you remember where you last saw it?”
“The cleaning staff was here yesterday morning, so they might have moved things around while they cleaned,” Sergei calls from the hallway.
I take another bite as I sift through the papers on his desk, lifting a few to glance beneath them.
I open the top drawer, hoping to find the wallet, but it’s filled with more documents.
The second drawer yields the same result.
When I pull open the last drawer, my grip loosens, and the muffin drops onto the desk.
My brain struggles to catch up with my eyes because there, tangled in the mess of paperwork, is a phone. Not just any phone. I’ve seen this one before. Daniel showed me photos of it.
“It wasn’t on her person or in the alley, so the working assumption is that the killer took it.” Daniel’s voice echoes in my mind, and a cold shiver runs down my spine. I slam the drawer shut and straighten up.
“Did you find it?” Sergei peers inside the room.
“Nope, not here,” I say quickly, my pulse racing. “Maybe it’s in the kitchen?” I hurry past him.
He grabs my wrist. “Rora, everything okay?” His brow furrows as his eyes scan my face.
Why do you have your dead wife’s phone in your desk? I want to shout in his face. But I don’t. Instead, I shake his hold off me. “Yes, just super excited for you two to go to the movie!” I clap my hands together, forcing a bright smile as I try not to let tears well up.
“Papa! Papa!” Misha barrels toward us, holding Sergei’s wallet triumphantly.
“Ah! There it is!” Sergei scoops Misha up and spins him around. “Spasibo,” he thanks him.
“Come on, come on, you don’t want to be late!” I shuffle my feet, clapping low and quick, as if stoking an imaginary fire beneath them.
Misha laughs, wiggling out of Sergei’s arms, and hurries to press the elevator button.
“Are you sure you don’t want to join us?” Sergei’s eyes soften as they meet mine, a quiet warmth curving his lips.
I must be exhausted. My eyes are clearly fatigued. Surely I didn’t see what I think I saw. Right? Because if I did… it would mean… No. It can’t be. There must be another explanation. There is some other reason to explain the fact that… that… Sergei has his…
The pressure in my chest threatens to crush me, as if my ribs are closing in on my heart.
Dead wife’s phone.
Dead wife’s phone.
Dead wife’s phone.
“No.” I force myself to look away, afraid that if I keep staring into his eyes, my emotions will burst forth like a megaphone in a tiny room. I press the elevator button repeatedly, even though it’s already called.
“Aurora?” Sergei steps closer, and I do my best not to flinch.
The working assumption is that the killer took it.
The soft ding of the elevator is a welcome distraction, saving me from having to answer. “Off you go!” I call out as Misha dashes into the elevator, Sergei following.
Still, his gaze lingers on me, questioning, trying to decipher my thoughts. Misha excitedly presses the button as Sergei picks him up and cradles him against his side.
“We’ll see you later,” Sergei says, a glimmer of hope shining in his eyes.
“Goodbye, Sergei,” I manage to choke out.
Hope dies last.