Page 88 of Ivory Ashes

VIVIANA

He didn’t use a condom.

The realization should have hit me sooner. Preferably in the moment before I pulled my panties to the side and practically begged Mikhail to fuck me in a cramped car parked in some random, dirty alley.

But no. I never even considered the consequences.

This is what happens when you spend six years getting orgasms from various battery-operated devices. Toys don’t have sperm. Toys can’t get you pregnant. Toys can’t seduce you with their gravelly voices and calloused hands until your brain is mush and your body is on fire.

But Mikhail can.

Case in point: the five-year-old boy sleeping across the hall.

The last thing I need in my life right now is another Bratva baby. No siree. I scrub my loofah between my legs a little harder, like that might undo what we’ve done.

When I get out of the shower, I’m sore both inside and out. I debate leaving this one to chance. Surely I won’t get pregnant after one time, right? Then I once again remember the five-year-old boy sleeping across the hall, pull on my big girl panties, and text Stella. I have a feeling she’ll be more discreet about it than Anatoly or Raoul would be.

This is no big deal at all, but if you could pick me up some Plan B if you’re out, that would be great. No pressure. Thanks!

No problem, she texts back a minute later.

No follow-up questions. No nosing into my personal life.

I knew I liked her.

Thirty minutes later, there’s a soft knock at my door. I answer it, expecting to find Stella on the other side with a nondescript paper bag. We’ll exchange it without a word like we’re making an illicit drug deal and then never speak of this again.

Instead, I find an entirely-too-amused Anatoly leaning against the door frame.

“Someone had some fun after I left today, huh?” He waves the box under my nose. I snatch it out of his hand and try to close the door, but he wedges it open with his foot. “Sorry, but the delivery boy needs a tip.”

“Here’s a tip: remove your foot from my door before I chop it off.”

He snorts and pushes his way into the room. I’m still standing by the door as he flops onto his side on my bed, his head propped up on his beefy arm like a gossiping girl at a sleepover. “Tell me everything.”

“Or I tell you nothing and you leave.”

He pouts out his lower lip. “If you keep treating me like this, I’ll start thinking you don’t want me around.”

“I’m glad you’re finally picking up all my subliminal messaging.”

It’s not true. Anatoly is the closest thing to a friend that I have in this house.

Unfortunately, he’s also Mikhail’s brother. Which is wild to think about. Anatoly’s mother must have been a real fun-loving gal, because he certainly didn’t get his temperament from his father.

“You and Mikhail are perfect for each other,” he complains, rolling onto his back. “Neither of you want to tell me anything.”

Curiosity gets the best of me and I softly close the door. “You talked to Mikhail?”

“I tried when you guys got back. He wasn’t in a chatty mood.”

The drive home was silent. Mikhail didn’t say a word. Just like the last time we kissed, he shut down and pulled away.

The difference was, I didn’t have anything to say, either.

“Has Mikhail ever been chatty?”

“No,” he grumbles. “Especially not after he’s been with you.”

---