Page 11

Katya

I knew this would happen. Blame the blizzard. Blame being stuck in this godforsaken cabin with him. Blame Nikolai for looking at me like I’m some wild animal he needs to tame.

He’d claimed me. And I let him.

The memory’s too fresh, imprinted in my head and playing like a fucking record. I hate how it echoes through me, how his touch is still burning under my skin. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. I’m here to find Irina, not lose myself to some brute with cruel eyes and rough hands.

Except I did.

And now, he won’t let me forget it. The whole damn day, he’s been strutting around like I handed him a trophy. Tossing smug little comments whenever I so much as glance his way. Everything drips with that mocking undertone, as if I proved something to him last night. Like I gave in just like he said I would.

He’s sharpening a knife by the fire, the metal flashing under the dim cabin lights. His shoulders are bare with scars threading along his skin like angry lines scrawled by the world. I wonder how many of those marks are from fights he started, how many from ones he finished.

“What’s with the staring?” His voice cuts through my thoughts. I didn’t even realize I was looking.

“Staring implies interest.” I cross my arms, hating the way he grins.

“We both know you’ve been interested in me for a long time.”

“Interested in the truth,” I snap. “Interested in knowing why my sister is dead and why you’re connected to it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You think last night changes that?”

The worst part is he sounds like he’s genuinely asking. Like he can’t comprehend why I’d still be after answers.

“It doesn’t change anything.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” His grin widens. “The point is you broke, Katya. Couldn’t even hold out a day.”

The way he says my name with a mixture of mockery and hunger, and it makes me want to break something. Preferably his jaw.

“Why do you care so much what I thought it was?” I shoot back. “You had your fun. That’s what this is, right? Your little game?”

“My fun?” He sets the knife down and rises to his feet. But he takes his time like he’s trying to get under my skin. “You think I care what you think about a quick fuck?”

“It’s what you wanted.”

“What I wanted?” He laughs. “If all I wanted was your body, I would’ve taken it the night I was at your house. You threw yourself into a wolf’s den without so much as a plan, sweetheart. Lucky for you, I find stupidity endearing.”

I don’t have a comeback for that. Because he’s right. I came here armed with nothing but desperation and grief. And now, I’m stuck with a man who could crush me without even trying.

“Irina.” I force the word out, cutting through the mess of thoughts clouding my head. “That’s all I care about. So keep your twisted little games to yourself.”

“You say that, but you’re still here.”

“Not by choice.”

“Keep lying, Katya. Maybe one day you’ll believe yourself.”

“You think you know me? You think you can just assume things about me because we fucked?”

“No.” He steps closer, eyes gleaming. “But you want me to. And you hate that you want it.”

I feel helpless. I hate how his words slip under my skin, burning like acid. I shove past him, heading for the corner of the cabin where the meagre supplies are stacked.

“Why are you following me?” I snarl when I feel him approach.

“Making sure you don’t try anything stupid.”

“What could I possibly do?”

“Run. Fight. Stab me in the throat while I’m sleeping.”

“Tempting.”

He chuckles. “You’ve got bite. I like that.”

“I don’t care what you like.”

“Sure you do.”

I grab a can of beans and hurl it at him. He catches it effortlessly, fingers curling around the metal like it’s nothing.

“Was that supposed to hurt me?”

“Only if you’re allergic to beans. It was supposed to shut you up.”

“Good luck with that.”

He tosses the can onto the table, his eyes never leaving me. It’s like he’s waiting for me to snap again, to lose control.

“You keep pushing me.”

“I like watching you get riled up.”

“Why?”

“Because when you do, you’re real. Not the angry little girl playing detective. Just you. And I like the real you better.”

I swallow, my throat dry. His words twist something inside me, something I don’t want to acknowledge.

“That’s not your business to like what personality I take on.”

“I make it my business.”

The words hang between us, but I break away first, grabbing a blanket and wrapping it around my shoulders. The cold seeps in despite the fire.

I try to ignore him. Try to focus on something else. But his presence in this small house keeps pressing against me, taunting and insistent.

He doesn’t leave me alone.

Keeps circling me like a wolf pacing around its prey. Watching. Testing my patience. And when I move somewhere he isn’t, he just laughs like he’s enjoying this.

Finally, he leaves me alone. And I find myself missing him, I clutch the blanket tighter, but its warmth is a poor substitute for the heat still clinging to my skin from last night. It’s like he’s embedded himself into me.

I find him in the storage room. I take that moment to walk to the small, run-down room parallel to it with the creaky bed. He comes in not a minute after, as though he was looking to where I had gone. When he sees me occupying the small bed, he eyes me before sliding under the bed for a toolbox and going back to whatever he’d been doing.

From the slightly ajar door, I can see he is crouched and working on something along the pipes.

I sigh deeply, looking for a conversation starter. Why am I vying for his attention now, anyway? I take on my false confidence. “Take me home, Nikolai—”

He yells out, from the next room: “Again, the door is right there.”

“How can you just expect me to go out in this snow? I’m your responsibility. You should be nicer.”

He chortles. “You are not my responsibility, Krasivaya. Far from it, actually. If you’d rather be out there in this God-forsaken weather than be in the same room as me, be my guest. Go right ahead. But you know what I think? I think that you can’t stop thinking about how much you liked it yesterday. That’s why my presence seems to annoy you.”

I roll my eyes so hard they nearly fall out of my skull. “Yeah, because being trapped in a cabin with a man-child who thinks he’s God’s gift to women is every girl’s fantasy.”

He scoffs, his voice dripping with smugness. “Oh, really? You were so touched by my gentlemanliness that you started screaming and moaning?”

My cheeks burn, heat flushing up my neck. I hate that he can make me react like this. I hate it even more that he knows it.

“Do you ever say the right things?”

“You didn’t seem to mind my mouth last night.”

“Was that supposed to be clever?”

“No. Just the truth.”

“Then here’s some truth for you.” I drop the blanket, letting it fall to the floor like dead weight. “Last night meant nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.” He singsongs.

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I said, I don’t care.” My voice is a snarl. But the silence on his end says he knows better.

I huff and lean back against the bed. He just resumes his work. All I can hear from him is the sound of a hammer hitting wood.

“Are you not going to tell me what that noise is about?”

“Putting some finishing touches to the house, in case the snow gets worse. And I’m making sure you can’t sneak out. Barricading the windows, securing the doors!” His gruff reply comes from somewhere just out of sight, and I know that he’s joking. “Maybe toss in a few bear traps for good measure.”

“You really think I’m stupid enough to try and run in this weather?”

“Stupidity comes in many forms. Desperation’s the worst of them.”

“Good to know that you still don’t trust me.”

“Why should I? The sex was spectacular, but I guess it wasn’t enough to erase the fact that you followed me up to this cabin, convinced I am the one who killed your sister.”

“So you don’t care about me?” It’s a rhetorical question. I’m only teasing him. That’s the reason I asked but with his silence, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I mean it. It’s the damn weather and the fact that we’re stuck here. That’s it. Otherwise, why would I be concerned about what this neanderthal thought of me?

The sound of a hammer hitting a nail continues for quite some time before stopping. I wait and wait, but his head doesn’t come out again. It’s almost as though he isn’t even in the house anymore, and I’d have believed so if I didn’t hear the small, weightless sounds of his buttons releasing. My brain somersaults with a daunting realization: he’s taking off his shirt.

I was too caught up in the madness to notice then, but now... Now my mind turns everything over, trying to piece together every glimpse of him I’ve caught so far. Strong shoulders. Toned chest. Scars lining his arms and back.

It starts from my belly, like a stubborn ache. Then, without warning, it begins to progress, expertly to the dip of my chest, just between my breasts. I reach up with one hand and silently brush a finger or two against my nipples through my shirt.

He put me in his clothes yesterday. After fucking me in mine.

I feel a zing almost immediately, the kind you feel when you’re on the verge of a mindblowing orgasm. I snap my hands back, biting down the moan about to escape.

Why do I react to this man like this?

I should hate him. And I do—God—I do, but my body doesn’t seem to know this. It feels decidedly oblivious to the hate, borrowing itself to lust. In all honesty, I don’t think there’s a woman on earth who’d not be thrilled or captivated by Nikolai Ramensky. He’s all that and more. Well, physically, alright. Emotionally, he’s got the heart of a jellyfish, and jellyfish don’t even have hearts.

And there’s that thing he does with his hair that just makes my insides tingly. He puts it in a man bun, but lets a strand or two fall across his forehead. He has a perpetually stoic expression, but on the days he smiles or laughs, I come undone.

Finally, he emerges from the room, shirtless. He’s still in those dark slacks from yesterday, but nothing else. I take in his body. Those rippled abs like waves across his stomach, and tattoos sleeving both arms and stretching across his back. A few tattoos dot his belly, too.

I swallow hard at the scars. When he turns, I see a tattoo of a human skull wearing a hat, stretched over his pale skin. Just beneath the skull’s thin nose—if I can even call it that—a long, awkward scar cuts across, like an afterthought. More scars are scattered over his back and belly.

“How many times have people tried to kill you, Nikolai?” I blurt out, too stunned to stop myself.

He breezes past to the kitchen, and returns with a dish. “Including you? Not enough.”

“Your scars disagree. And I only tried. Doesn’t count until I actually succeed.”

“Keep dreaming, princess,” he deadpans, scratching his jaw. The dark stubble there makes him look even more dangerous, but I doubt it means anything to him. He catches me staring, and smirks. “Listen, I handle things like these a lot in my line of work. I eliminate threats. These scars are just gentle reminders.”

“There’s nothing gentle or subtle about these scars,” I insist.

“Why do you care?” he asks, and I can tell he’s just as annoyed as I was only minutes before. “The look on your face tells me you think they’re ugly. They are battle scars, princess, they aren’t supposed to be pretty.”

“Stop talking to me like I’m a child, Nikolai.”

He looks like he’s about to say something else, something that’s going to sting, but changes his mind and moves back to the room, closing the door just a little. Great, now I can’t even see him anymore.

I make do with the image that’s already imprinted in my head: his strong, endless shoulders, the muscular chest, the abs that look like they were created by a very good 3D printer or modern AI, the low V dragging downward to his pants. My mind bends to the memory, adjusting itself to fit in every particular detail until he’s all in.

I flick my hardened nipples with a finger, rolling them between my thumb and forefinger. The sweetness gathers down in my pussy, and I moan.

Fuck. See just what your body does to me, Nik. See how wet I am for you. God. Ooh…

I shove my hand through my shirt to cup my breasts in my palm and squeeze, hard. Delicious ripples of pleasure course through me, at the feel of my hands there. My imagination claws back to him, pretending that he’s the one touching me like that, his rough fingers claiming me. I let out another strangled moan and quickly slap a hand over my mouth, but it’s too late—the sound’s already escaped.

I hear movements in the other room, but he doesn’t come out. Good. I don’t need him being here while I try to get off on his smell and taste and body, while I drown in the sick need for him.

I slip my fingers down my shorts to my already wet pussy and tease my folds, slow and deliberate. Holy fuck! Oh, God… ooh…

It’s instinct, what I’m doing right now. There is nothing dignified or sexy about it, masturbating to a man whom I can’t wait to take out. But I do it anyway, running my fingers through the folds, feeling as the sensations simmer on my skin, building into something feral.

It only takes me about a few flicks more to begin thrashing against the bed, my eyes firmly shut, lost in the haze. The world disappears in this version where I’m caught between desperately wanting Nikolai and forever hating him, the two twisting together.

My fingertips are inert for a beat as I try to steady myself. I bring them out, see how very wet and slick they are, glistening with my shame, and groan.

God, this feels too good!

I run my tongue across my lips, feeling it becoming charred from how dry it now is. I shift my hips on the bed, adjust my fingers in, rub slow circles against my clit, and increase the pace, chasing that edge.

Magnificent doesn’t even come close to describing the way I feel—dirty.

I swipe and thrust, feeling as my skin becomes hotter, as my pussy becomes wetter, dripping for him, and knowing I’m coming close. The sensations begin to gather in my knees and toes, pushing and shoving for light, clawing their way up my body.

I gasp and moan. Unabashedly. Too turned on to care about anything else, too lost in the spiral.

“Nikolai. Nikolai. Please… please…”

I need him, right now. I need to feel his body on mine, to feel the weight of his body press into mine, tangled and warm, crushing me under him. I feel the pressure shift then, knowing I’m close.

I push my head back, gasping, ready, waiting, willing, my whole body screaming for release.

“Your face,” Nikolai mutters. “I love the look you make when you’re about to come with my name on your tongue.”

Wait! That’s not right. He isn’t supposed to respond to me, right?

So, I peel my eyes open to see the object of my desire, the man who’s now standing in front of me, one hand hooked against his hip, a small but dangerous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and eyes dark with something wicked.

I scream. That’s what I do, that’s what any sensible woman who’s just been caught masturbating will do. And then I pull my fingers out and hide them behind my back because they are still wet, still coated with my guilt. He’s too close, towering over me.

“No, don’t stop. Don’t stop!” He groans like I’ve just upset the balance of the world, like I’ve robbed him of something he’s entitled to.

I try to speak, but the words come out all jumbled and out of breath, a mess of panic and lust. “What are you doing out here? I thought you were busy—”

“I was,” he says, cutting me off. “But then I heard you, moaning my name like a needy slut.”

Somebody kill me now! I need the ground to open and swallow me whole.

“Don’t you know what privacy is?”

“I know what it means,” he says, so matter-of-fact with his answers, that I start to wonder what’s going on in his head. “If you were vying for privacy, then you did a pretty awful job of it. You were moaning my name, Katya. That’s damn hard not to notice, hard not to want.”

He drags a chair forward and sits down on it, his legs spread wide. Now, he’s close enough—too close.

“Take off your shorts,” he snarls, the command dripping with hunger.

“No. What… are… you…”

“Take it off right now, or I will, Kat, I swear. I’ll rip them off you myself.”

I lift my hips up, tug the shorts off, and shimmy them out of the way, letting them land on the floor with a soft thud.

“Spread your legs out,” he demands. I do it, but drag my eyes down, afraid he’ll see something else there, something I’m trying to keep hidden. “No, look at me. I want your eyes on me while you come, while you fall apart for me.”

I glance up at him. He’s still naked except for the pants, and that just breaks something inside of me, snaps it clean in two.

“Moya Lyubov,” he whispers, charged, erect in his pants, the bulge straining against the fabric. “Put your fingers down your pussy and rub it for me. Show me how much you need this.”

I don’t think he’s noticed he called me my love. I shouldn’t even notice these things, but I do, and suddenly, it’s all I can think about. My love. My love. It’s a sick promise, a twisted tether.

I slide my fingers back into my pussy, slightly embarrassed over how wet it’s become since he joined, how much wetter he makes me. I flick my sex and gasp, goosebumps erupting all over my skin, a wildfire spreading. It’s not like I haven’t masturbated before. I have, and yet somehow this is different. New. Sinful. I welcome it wholeheartedly, diving headfirst into the abyss.

“Take your fingers out,” he commands, eyes locked on me. “Suck on them. Lick those juices off your fingers. Show me how filthy you are.”

I do as he says, without question, bringing my slick fingers to my mouth and sucking them clean, tasting myself while he watches. He lets out a sound that’s animalistic before unzipping his pants and bringing his thick cock out. He strokes the veined hardness, and I swallow, my throat tight. He’s beautiful, sitting down in front of me and stroking his cock to my pussy, a god of ruin and desire.

“Keep touching yourself for me, baby…” His voice is deep, masculine, honeyed venom, tight with need. “Just like that… ooh… yeah, fuck yourself. Yeah… mmmm. Fuck that sweet little cunt for me.”

Oh, God, his moans. His words. Everything. They sink into me, pull me under.

I go faster, fingers plunging deeper, which takes me a few minutes. I go stiff, breathless, teetering on the edge. “I’m coming, Nik. Oh, Nik…”

“Come for me!” he commands, his voice a snarl. “Come all over those fingers, you gorgeous fucking mess.”

I crumble into the bed as the orgasm rips through me, dying down to a trickle, leaving me shaking. Nikolai stands, comes to me, eyes wild with lust. “Suck me off. I want to fuck your mouth right now, Katya.”

His commands are rough, jagged, no trace of gentleness left in him, and fuck, I like it. I like how he takes what he wants, how he’s peeling me open, and right now he wants to finish in my mouth, claim it like it’s his. I part my lips wide, obedient, desperate, and he sets his beautiful, hard flesh on my tongue. I close my mouth around him, sucking, licking, tasting the saltiness of his pre-come coating my throat.

“Oohh…” he breathes with a shuddering growl.

He gathers my hair in his fist, tugs hard until a burning pain sears my scalp, and forces me deeper, urging me to give him what he craves. “Fuck me,” he insists, groaning, thrusting his cock into my mouth, those mighty hips snapping like he owns me. “Take it, baby. Choke on it. You love this, don’t you?”

I’m hot and flushed everywhere. I want to taste his come, need it, want to swallow every drop of him until I’m drowning in it. My tongue swirls, so sloppy and eager, stretching my lips tight around him, my spit slicking my chin.

When he stiffens. I know he’s about to come, and I’m rabid for it. I hum against the crown of his cock as the vibrations buzz through him, knowing it’ll break him apart—and it does.

He releases, coming in my mouth, and spills over my tongue as his hands trap my hair, pulling me into place. He’s moaning, my name a ragged prayer on his lips, “Fuck, yes, take it all,” and I do, gulping him down, greedy, lost in the taste of his ruin. When he’s done, spent and trembling, he pulls out of me, tucks his cock back in his pants, and hauls me up. His hands cradle my face, and his eyes—they’re the softest now, a sick contrast to the beast he just was. He’s oddly… soft.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. “So beautiful.” His thumbs stroke my cheeks, smearing the mess he made, and I’m wrecked, caught in the chaos of us, wanting more.