Page 20 of Porcelain Vows

My hand moves to stroke her hair gently, the tenderness of the gesture at odds with the darkness of my thoughts. This woman trusts me, depends on me, might even come to love me— all while not knowing what I’m capable of.

I am the worst fucking criminal ever born.

Chapter Nine

Stella

I wake up alone, in a bed that isn’t mine yet smells of me.

Morning light filters through heavy curtains, casting golden patterns across rumpled silk sheets still warm from another body.

Aleksei’s body.

My hand reaches across the empty space beside me, fingers spreading wide as if to capture the lingering warmth. For a heartbeat, panic flutters in my chest—

Where am I?

Where is he?

Then I inhale deeply, and something settles inside me. Sandalwood, expensive cologne, and something distinctly male— Aleksei’s scent. My body relaxes before my mind understands why, responding to some deep-rooted memory my consciousness can’t access.

It’s instinctive, this recognition, like my cells themselves remember the weight of his body against mine, the heat of his skin. The tension in my shoulders melts away, replaced by a humming awareness that spreads through my limbs like warm honey. Even as my mind struggles to make sense of where I am, where he’s gone, my traitorous body already knows— already craves— his return, as if we’ve been dancing this dance for lifetimes instead of days.

I sit up slowly, wincing at the slight soreness between my thighs— a pleasant reminder of last night’s lovemaking.The ache is delicious, my body’s way of preserving the memory of him in my flesh when my mind still struggles to process everything.

God, Stella…

I don’t know what made me do it, but yesterday, something drove me to delve deeper with him. As if the uncertainty that had been plaguing me had to be exorcised somehow. And the only way I knew how to do it was with sex. Not just sex— but that raw, desperate kind that strips away pretenses and leaves you vulnerable. I needed answers my rational mind couldn’t provide, so I sought them with my body instead, hoping the physical connection might bridge the emotional gap between us.

What I learned has left me more confused than ever.

My fingers drift to my lips, still tender from his kisses. Images flash through my mind like photographs from someone else’s album: Aleksei’s hands gripping my hips, his mouth at my breast, Russian endearments growled against my neck.

Zaychik.

Krasivaya.

He said that I am precious to him. And I understood him because I speak Russian. The intimacy of the moment had stirred up something that felt instinctively familiar. I get flashes of family meals around a dinner table, happy chatter in my mother tongue.

I’m Russian?

Strange. I don’tfeelRussian. But then again, what would that feel like anyway? Perhaps I should be wearing it the wayhe does. Aleksei’s national pride is unmistakable in his rolling vowels and gruff mannerisms. The hard edges to him.

Me? I just feel lost.

Although now, my body remembers his touch with such clarity that the cognitive blankness surrounding it feels like a cruel joke. How can I remember the exact pressure of his fingers against my skin but not how we met? How can I recall the precise sensation of him moving inside me, but not when we first made love?

Maybe it doesn’t matter?

Maybe we can just… be?

Maybe I should just stop thinking about it. It’s giving me a headache. I squeeze my eyes shut, then exhale slowly, urging the tension to ease from my neck and shoulders. The pressure builds behind my temples, a dull throb that matches my heartbeat. I’ve always carried stress this way— locked in my body, turning questions into physical pain.

What good is obsessing over lost memories anyway? The harder I chase them, the more they seem to evade me.

Another deep breath.

I roll my shoulders back, trying to release the knots. Sometimes the body remembers what the mind forgets. Right now, my body is screaming for relief from questions I can’t answer.

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