Page 84 of Vasily the Hammer

“Prick.”

Yep.

Chapter 26

Vasily

When Ana and Ienvisioned our escape six years ago, there were no penthouse apartments or sprawling estates. We knew we would struggle, that we wouldn’t be able to pass off better educations than we had and any fake IDs I managed to score for us were barely going to fly at fast food. We’d never pass anything that needed background checks. Ana would probably have to start as a cashier at a bakery before working up to the kitchen, and I’d be lucky if I could do any better than day laboring out of a hardware store parking lot. I had some cash and Ana had some stuff she could sell. There’d be enough money to get by for a couple months. But we’d need jobs before we could sign a lease, and our home would be modest.

The house we get in Denver— an Airbnb Sasha rents for us because we can’t communicate with anyone back home or use ourown cards without potentially outing ourselves— is what I imagine we would have had. It’s small and rickety, with a kitchen that hasn’t been updated in thirty years, linoleum that’s warped and yellowed, and walls that are stained a similar color, from the bygone era of smoking inside the home. The pipes squeal no matter the shower pressure, and the radiator has to be whacked with a ratchet so frequently that it’s six hours before I’m sending Dima into town to buy a bundle of firewood and an ax. I’ve never taken down a tree before, but I will figure it out if it means I’m not pausing every five minutes to beat the shit out of the heater.

Dima’s pissed that there are only three bedrooms, one of which is just big enough for a bed, but it’ll be fine for the five of us while we get this to work out. We just need long enough for Janson and Benedetti to coordinate meetings with Kostya and Tony so they can both be taken down at the same time— there’s legit concern that if we don’t time it right, someone’s going to get spooked— and they’re both already trying to make moves on my empire.

They’re going to schedule their own executions without Janson or Benedetti lifting a finger.

Kseniya proposes that she and Ana bunk together, as will Alex and I, so Dima has the little room to himself. I immediately shoot that down because my wife is sleeping with me, of course, and we’re still squabbling about it when Alex and Ana arrive.

“I’m going to be sleeping right there,” Alex says, already stretching out on the sofa in the living room, “unless there’s anywhere that’s closer to the fire.”

He makes a good point.

“We can run to the store and buy a pile of blankets for Ana and me,” Kseniya says like it’s a foregone conclusion that Ana will bunk with her.

Ana wants to agree to that. I can see it. She’s looking ragged right now, and although she’s changed into clean clothes, she’s been in the car for half a day and her hair is still matted from the fake blood they used.

“The private bathroom is in my room,” I point out. “That shower works really...” I told myself not to lie to her anymore. “Mediocrely, but it is a shower.”

She’s down for mediocre shower.

Kseniya clicks her tongue. “If Alex is sleeping out here, there’s no reason for you to have the master suite.” Which is a strong word for a ten-by-twelve. “Ana and I can sleep there and you can have the other room, alone.”

Everyone nods like this is logical. I refuse to accept logical, so I pull out the big guns.

And by that, I mean I take off my hoodie and toss it over my shoulder.

Ana’s eyes glaze over. She practically salivates. I know what she wants.

She wants that hoodie.

“Come on, let’s go take a shower together. I’ll wash the fake blood out of your hair.”

To Kseniya, she whispers, “I’m sorry, I’m weak,” before she toddles after me.

Ten minutes later, she’s making the extremely aggressive claim of, “I’m not weak, Vasya!”

But she slipped up. She called me Vasya.

I was scared at first when her memories started to come back— but then it hit me that she already knows my worst. She just needs to start remembering the best. She loves me. She just doesn’t remember it, and no explaining from anyone else will be enough.

And she’s claiming to not be weak because I’ve just made my move and let one of my hands stray from the completely chaste washing of her hair to a casual groping of her chest.

“I didn’t say you were weak,” I tell her as I roll the supple flesh over my fingers.

“No, but you need to give me a chance to decide for myself if I forgive you, and you’re not.”

“Because you don’t need to forgive me right now,” I murmur, focusing my coordination on my hands so I don’t mess up her curls as I massage the soap in as well. It’s the second round, but the water’s still running red. I’m worried she’s dyed it on accident. Not that I mind, but I don’t want her upset if part of her dark chestnut hair gets a permanent red tint.

But also, my dick got hard the second she took her clothes off, and I’m trying to rest it against her back without stimulating it too much.

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