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I move up her body deliberately, savoring each inch of contact between us. Her thighs part for me instinctively, welcoming me home. Her pussy is already slick and swollen, ready for me— her body remembering what her mind cannot.

“Blyad.You’re so wet,” I growl against her throat, nipping at the tender skin there as my fingers explore her folds. “Always so ready for me.”

Her back arches when I gently slip two fingers inside her. She’s tight, hot, gripping my digits like she never wants to let go. I curl my fingers forward, finding that spot that makes her gasp and clutch at my shoulders, her nails digging half-moons into my skin.

“Please,” she begs, grinding against my hand.

I take her with a mixture of passion and restraint, replacing my fingers with the blunt head of my cock. I push in slowly, inch by inch, watching her face contort with pleasure. Her tight cunt stretches around me, accommodating my size with a resistance that makes my jaw clench. I’m careful of her condition, yet unable to fully restrain the possessive hunger that drives me.

“Fuck,zaychik,” I groan when I’m fully seated inside her. “So fucking tight. So perfect.”

I establish a rhythm— deep, measured thrusts that have her mewling beneath me. One hand is braced beside her head, the other cupping her breast, thumb flicking over her nipple until she’s whimpering. Her legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my ass, urging me deeper.

Her body responds to mine as it always has— perfectly, instinctively— even if her mind doesn’t remember. There’s a rightness to this that goes beyond memory, a connection that exists on a level deeper than conscious thought. I know exactly how to touch her, where to kiss her, when to slow down, and when to give her everything.

I grip her hips, angling them slightly to hit the spot that makes her eyes roll back. Her walls clench around me, and I feel her climbing toward release. My teeth find her shoulder, marking her as mine while my cock claims her from within.

“Come for me,” I command, my voice rough as gravel. “Let me feel that sweet cunt squeeze my dick,malyshka.”

Her orgasm crashes through her in waves I can feel around my cock— pulsing, gripping, milking me. I fuck her through it, holding back my own release until her aftershocks subside. Only then do I allow myself to follow, emptying myself deep inside her with a guttural groan.

I collapse beside her, careful not to crush her or the baby, pulling her against me. My hand splays possessively across her belly as our breathing gradually slows. In this moment, I allow myself to feel something beyond desire or calculation— something dangerously close to tenderness. The mask of thePakhanslips, just slightly, revealing the man beneath.

Time trickles by as we lie there in silence, until I wonder if she’s fallen asleep.

“Tell me about yourself,” Stella suddenly asks, her voice soft in the dim light. “I want to know about you. Where is your family? Your parents?”

The question catches me off guard. My body tenses slightly, the brief moment of vulnerability evaporating as I consider how to answer. The truth is complicated, ugly. But a complete lie might backfire later.

“I don’t really know,” I say finally. “I think they’re dead.”

“You think?”

“Yes.” I pause, deciding how much to reveal. “My father was an asshole to our mother all his life. I watched their fights all through my childhood. I had a brother who protected us in the early days, but he was sent off to school.”

“You have siblings?” She glances up at me.

I nod. “Vasya is my older brother, and Diana is my twin sister. She is ten minutes younger than me.”

“And… you’re close?” she asks.

“Yes,” I acknowledge, realizing how true this is. My brother and sister play key roles in my life.

“But your parents…?” she trails off.

My voice hardens as I continue, memories surfacing that I usually keep buried. “Our mother disappeared one day. My father said she had to travel far away, and that she would never be back. From then on, if any of us asked a single question, we were beaten. So, we tried not to speak. Now my father is gone too.”

I realize my hand has formed a fist, and I consciously relax it. These are not the controlled half-truths I usually dispense— there’s too much real emotion bleeding through. But perhaps this honesty, limited as it is, will help build the foundation I want with her.

Stella listens carefully, her expression thoughtful. “So, we are both orphans,” she says eventually. The observation hits me hard enough to leave me speechless for a moment. “You told me my parents died.” She pauses, and I brace myself for questions I can’t answer truthfully. But instead, she says, “At least we have each other.”

Bozhe moy.

What the fuck do I say to that?

Her hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining. The simple gesture, the trust it represents, makes something twist painfully in my chest. Here she is, offering comfort for a loss that’s real, while I am the very reason for her own loss— a truth she can never know.

I watch as her eyes grow heavy, sleep claiming her quickly. Pregnancy and recovery from her injury have left her easily exhausted. In the shadows of the room, I allow my expression to show what I could never reveal to her waking eyes— self-loathing, guilt, and the terrible knowledge that everything between us is built on blood.