Page 36 of The Pakhan's Bride
She cries out, voice gone hoarse. I reach up, grab her hair, pull her head back so she has to look me in the eye. I slow down, let her feel every inch. "Say my name," I command.
She shakes her head, tears on her cheeks. I fuck her harder, relentlessly, until she can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but obey.
"Konstantin," she says, a whisper at first, then louder. "Konstantin, please."
I come inside her, holding her tight, biting her shoulder to stifle my own noise. When I pull out, she slumps to the sheets, hair covering her face, body slick with sweat and semen. I lie beside her, both of us breathing hard, the silence thick as snow.
She rolls onto her back, stares at the ceiling.
"I hate you," she says.
I kiss her, gentle this time, on her mouth, her cheek, her closed eyelids.
"I know," I say.
She's asleep in minutes. I watch her, counting the seconds between breaths, the twitch of her fingers, the way her mouth curls even in dreams.
I close my eyes, and for once, the darkness is enough. When I wake, it is to silence. Not the fragile hush of lovers tangled in sheets, but the hard, metallic quiet of too many secrets between them. The pillow next to me is cold. Zoya stands at the window, backlit by the deep night. She's wrapped in a robe, hair wild,the blue shadows of bruises painting her collarbones. From here, she looks like an angel, if angels carried switchblades and made you beg for mercy.
She doesn't look at me. She never does when she's putting herself back together. Instead, she traces circles in the frost on the glass. I sit up, stretch, watch her watch the city. My back hurts. My chest is sticky with sweat and her claw marks.
After a long time, she says, "You should go."
Her voice is flat, not angry. It tells me what I need to know. I find my shirt, slip it on, button it with fingers that still shake a little. I watch her in the reflection of the mirror, shoulders squared, jaw clenched, eyes like the sky after a car bomb. She glances over her shoulder, measuring the distance between us. "Don't get comfortable," she says.
I button the shirt, find my pants, pull them on. "You keep saying that, but you never follow through."
She snorts, soft, almost a laugh. "I will."
I cross the room, close enough to touch her, but I don't. I know how this dance ends. She pulls the sheet tighter, backs away. "You're afraid."
She shakes her head. "Not of you."
She's lying, but it's a good lie. I respect the craft. At the door, I turn back. She's already looking past me, eyes fixed on the horizon. The world out there is cold, but nothing compared to this room.
"If I want to, no lock in the world can keep me out," I say.
She meets my eyes, then. For a split second, I see something achingly raw. It's gone as quickly as it came. "The lock isn't your worst enemy, Konstantin," she whispers before turning her back to me.
14
ZOYA
Iwake with a start and drag air into my lungs and let the ceiling come into focus. The other side of the bed is empty. I sent him away last night—insisted on it, more for the theater than for my own pride. But his scent remains, warm and heady like the memory of the sun in a land that has known winter for too long. Under that, me. I stretch and feel the ache along the insides of my thighs, the familiar soreness that comes after we fight and fuck and collapse together. It's not pain. It's proof I'm still a body.
The clock tells me the time is early yet. Two hours until the city stirs. I could lie here, pretend I'm asleep, let the staff tiptoe around my perimeter. Or I could move. I move.
I get into the shower, lather, scrub, rinse. No luxuries, just the basics. I towel off, push wet hair back, and dress in front of the mirror. Navy slacks, tailored. High-neck silk blouse, clean lines, buttoned at the throat. Not a uniform, exactly, but I want the first eyes that land on me today to see control, not aftermath.
The hallway is empty, but the cameras are alive. Two guards stand at the landing, posture perfect, hands folded at the waist. They nod in sync, eyes on my feet, never my face. I wonder ifthey draw straws to see who gets this detail, or if it's an honor. I pass without a word and a perfunctory smile plastered on my face, and their relief is almost audible.
Downstairs, the house is awake in that pre-dawn way. staff moving in choreographed silence, slippers on marble, the distant hiss of water boiling. I cross to the main breakfast room, since my family—Lev and Galina— no longer dine upstairs and prefer the windowed main kitchen instead. Lev is already at the table, legs swinging, hair sticking up like a failed experiment. Galina sits beside him, turtleneck and pearls, face carved from disappointment. She pours milk, adds honey, and slides the mug to him with a gesture that says nothing is negotiable.
Lev sees me, and his whole face lights up. "Mama, there was a hawk outside my window," he says, mouth still full of buttered toast and jam. "I think it was hunting."
I take the chair opposite and smooth my blouse. "Did you see it catch anything?"
He nods. "A mouse. It just—" He makes a fist, then opens it in slow motion. "Gone."
