10 Days to Ruin

He really doesn't do this. Not "this" as in sex, because any man that handsome and that obviously wealthy and that supremely confident in his own skin can clearly have women in his bed at the snap of his fingers. What I mean is that he doesn't do "this" as in gaze down at the woman he's about to fuck like she might be the death of the self-control that defines him. He doesn't do "this" as in show that there is anything accessible within him that might charitably be called a soul. He doesn't do "this" as in let his bedmates look back and wonder just what it might take to crack him open for once in his grim, bloodsoaked life. He doesn't do "this." Neither do I. But then he slides into me, and we both do something we've never done before. For all the build-up, it's almost remarkable how fast the sex is. Brutal things can never last that long. And besides, I'm skittering in and out of awareness, too overwhelmed by how it feels like he's fucking my heart, splitting me wide open, wider, wider. The thump and rattle of the sink touching the mirror glass times every thrust. I moan, broken, helpless. His hands carve divots in my bare waist. "Spread for me," he orders. "Spread those fucking thighs and give me all of you." But even as he orders it, he does it for me, molding me like putty. My hips are screaming with the strain and my throat is raw from the effort of holding back the kinds of moans that would draw attention from the partygoers on the other side of the wall. But I want so fucking badly to give him what he's asking. Every twitch of his muscles drives him deeper into me than anyone's ever gone before. I'm a bouncing, sweaty disaster and I don't have the brain cells left to give a damn. Even as our mouths clash and our breath mingles and he keeps murmuring filthy nothings that are half-exhale and half-fuck-you're-dripping-for-me, all I can do is hold on and pray that the climax doesn't kill me. He's not wrong-I am dripping for him. More broken syllables fall out of my mouth. "P-pl-pl... M-m-more..." And just when I think he couldn't possibly give me more, he does. He drags me down onto his cock, crushing my waist between his palms, fucking harder and faster and more relentless. Almost... Almost... Boom. He growls, I whimper, and then we both explode, one on the heels of the next. Light fractures in my vision as the orgasm cleaves me in two. A few starlit, timeless seconds suck us in. For as long as those last, I'm soaring. Then gravity reclaims us. Time reclaims us. Common sense reclaims us. And all I can think as I float back down is, That really was a bad idea. Returning to reality is an ugly affair. I'm suddenly aware of how unkempt my dress looks scrunched around my waist like that. How cold and sticky the sink countertop is. How what I just did-fucking a stranger while literally on the job-was so unbelievably rash that I should probably tender my resignation at the Gazette and go become a nun, because a lifetime of prayer and solitude is the bare minimum of what I'll need to redeem my soul after this idiotic stunt. It would help if the stranger would say something. But as he straightens his clothes, shoots his cuffs, and steps back from me, it's as if he's pulling up the drawbridge and locking down the castle gates behind his eyes. Those glimpses of soul I saw swimming in the blue of his irises are long gone now. The shreds of humanity are hidden. He looks the way he did when he first opened the stall door. Cold. Cruel. Merciless. I open my mouth to tell him-I mean, shoot, something, if only because it feels like the silence is gonna swallow me whole if I don't. Should I ask his name? Should I give him my number? Should I see if he regrets this or if he maybe wants to do it again? But he beats me to the punch. He gives me one crisp, formal incline of the head, jaw clenched brutally tight. "Enjoy the gala," he says in that tar-on-rubble voice of his. "Try not to cut yourself again." Then he's gone, leaving me leaking and lonely on a sink counter, wondering what in the fuck just happened. 4 SASHA It's a fucking pity I'll never have that again. I mourn the loss even as I stride away down the hall and leave the bathroom behind me-not looking back, not ever looking back, because looking back is the act of a fucking ssyklo. A pussy. A coward. That doesn't mean I don't listen, though. I hear the door close behind me. I hear my footsteps echo off the ceiling like a pulsing, thudding heartbeat. I hear the murmurs of the people I pass. I hear it all. But I never, ever look back. The voice snarling in my head sounds like my father's-though, to be fair, everything sounds like my father's voice these days. Yakov Ozerov's ghost has been especially loud lately, ever since this arrangement with the Greeks started taking shape. I can almost smell the reek of cognac on his breath as he reminds me what matters: Power. Control. Empire. Love is for children and fools. I am neither. My phone vibrates in my pocket. Feliks. "The package is secured," he says in Russian when I answer. "But it's getting anxious about the delivery time." Code for: the Serbian spy he caught snooping around an Ozerov warehouse earlier tonight is starting to panic. "Keep it fresh," I reply. "I'm on my way." I find a side exit and slip out into the December night. The cold bites through my suit jacket, but I barely feel it. St. Petersburg winters were far worse than anything New York can throw at me. Still. Something about tonight's chill makes me long for what I left in my wake just now. Soft skin under my hands. Green eyes watching me like I might be worth saving. She smelled like peaches. It's just now hit me that that's what that sweetness was. Ripe summer peaches, sweet ones, the kind that leave juice dribbling down your chin when you sink your teeth in. Peaches. Fucking pea⁠- So you're a fucking poet now? Forget her, Yakov bellows. She's nothing. A distraction. Remember what happened the last time you let yourself get distracted? As a matter of fact, Father, I do remember. The scars on my back remember, too. My car waits at the curb, Klaus at attention behind the wheel. He doesn't speak as I slide into the back seat, just pulls smoothly into traffic. Good man. He knows when I need silence. As we drive, the city flows past my window in rivers of neon and shadow. Ten minutes to the abandoned restaurant where Feliks is holding our guest. Ten minutes to get my head in order. Ten minutes to forget the way that little ptichka whispered, "Or else what?" like she wasn't afraid of me at all. I wonder if she's aware of how easily little birds like her get their wings broken. It could've gone that way, after all. I could've clipped her feathers the moment I realized she'd overheard my conversation on the phone with Feliks. A quick twist of the neck and it would've been bye-bye, birdy. Another unfortunate mess easily swept under yet another bloodstained rug. Wouldn't be the first time. Won't be the last. But one look at those wide green eyes told me what she truly was. Not a threat, not a spy, but a dove snared in the wrong trap. So I did what I shouldn't have done: played with my food. I gave myself this little indulgence. And why not? I deserve it. I fucking deserve one goddamn moment for myself before I hurl the last of my humanity into the gaping maw of this Bratva that always wants more, more, more from me. It took my mother. It took my childhood. And now, it's taking my freedom. Because once I return to the gala from this little errand, I'm going to meet the woman I have to marry. That's the only reason I've bothered attending this bullshit dog-and-pony show in the first place. Fuck knows I don't usually make an appearance. Invites for these kinds of social torture sessions stuff my inbox on the regular. Everybody-civilian and criminal alike-wants Sasha Ozerov to darken the door of their little soirees. I'm a curioso, an oddity, a man who lives so far outside of the ridiculous lines into which they've boxed themselves that all they can do is gawk and whisper behind their hands. There he goes, they tell themselves. Don't get too close or he might bite. They're right-I might. And normally, that threat is enough to keep the gawkers at bay.