Page 82 of Kings of Cruelty

I almost destroyed all this, all because of my pride and this idea that I have to always obey my father.

If anything shows me that I should defy him, it’s moments like these.

Nikolai’s groans are the first to get louder, making it clear he’s on the edge; Yura is next, with Sierra’s sounds too muffled for me to tell if she’s close. The three of them seem to come in rapid succession, with Yura shouting as Sierra does something with her mouth—or maybe it’s the way I’m thrusting into him, or both.

Panting, Nikolai reaches down to play with Sierra’s clit again. “Come for me, zaya,” he tells her breathlessly. “I know you’re close. Let me… ungh, let me feel you around my dick.”

Sierra whimpers, and I can practically hear her swallowing as she drinks every drop of Yura’s cum. It’s enough to push me over the edge, too, as I fuck Yura more urgently until I’m spilling into him as well.

I hold him, panting hard, until my cock slides out of him. Cum trickles down his thigh, and on any other night I might have played with his puffy hole. This all feels too raw and too soon, though, so I direct Yura to lie down, and I follow.

Nikolai ends up grabbing tissues and handing them around for us to clean up. When we’re relatively clean, we pull the sheets up around ourselves. I reach over Yura so I can stroke Sierra’s jaw.

I don’t know what else to say. I feel strange, but in a good way.

I want this. I want the three of them, in my bed, at my side. I don’t want to fight them.

Sierra smiles at me, a genuine smile that makes her eyes look warm. “Thank you,” she says simply before closing them, curling up against Yura and yawning widely. “But now, I’m going tosleep. The three of you…” She pauses, then corrects herself, “The four of you are gonna be the death of me, you know.”

The four of us.

Us… and the baby.

My child, who is going to inherit my brand new legacy.

TWENTY-ONE

Nikolai

I stareacross the table at my father. He’s wearing the nice suit he’d bought the other day, he has a new haircut, his beard is trimmed, and he’s even wearing fucking cologne.

Underneath all of that, I can still smell the alcohol.

“Why did you call me here?” I ask, looking around the small private room of the restaurant. I eye the corners, but I don’t see obvious cameras, and I can’t imagine my father would invite me to any location that’s surveilled.

My father scoffs. “Can’t I want to speak with my son?” he asks in Russian.

“No,” I say, and it’s surprisingly hard to keep my voice steady. “You never do.” I don’t want to sound like a little bitch, but it’s not like him to simply want to talk. “If this has something to do with the girl…”

What? What will I say or do if this does have something to do with Sierra?

“The girl?” My father’s eyes narrow. “Why do you mention her?”

“No reason,” I say quickly. “What do you want?”

“To enjoy a meal of good Russian food with my son!” my father says. Then he sighs and leans back in his chair. “You think I’m a bad father.”

“That would be because youarea bad father,” I retort. “You barely tolerated me growing up. You barely tolerate me now.”

There’s no sense in him even pretending he wants to be near me.

“I treated you better than your whore mother did,” he snaps back. He clutches the napkin tight in his fingers. “She left us, leftyou. I was the one who stayed behind and took care of you.”

“Even though you didn’t abandon me, that doesn’t mean you did a good job raising me,” I mutter, but maybe I’m being childish. Maybe I should be more grateful he didn’t give me up for adoption or leave me out on the street to die. “So yeah. What the fuck do you want, old man?”

“I’m doing right by you,” he answers. He drops the napkin and picks up his beer. After a long swallow, he continues. “Despite everything, you’re my son.”

“Doing right by me how, exactly?” I ask, taking a large gulp of my own beer. “All I’m hearing right now is bullshit.”

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