His voice is dangerously soft as he drags his hand down to my neck. “It doesn’t matter what you call it. You’re mine, and your life is here now.” Locking his fingers around my neck, he holds me in a possessive grip. “It will be a happy life if you don’t fight it so hard.”
I swallow, my throat moving against the pressure of his palm.
Lowering his head, he brushes a question over my lips. “Is that clear, Katyusha?”
“Yes,” I say, not daring to breathe.
I know where this is going when he pushes me down, yet I don’t stop him. There’s only a partition between us and Yuri, but it’s not the only time he’s taken me in a car. When my back hits the seat, I don’t utter a protest. The taste of defeat is bitter in my mouth, but I try to take my loss without letting him see my tears. My stomach clenches with anticipation as I wait for the moment he slays me.
He doesn’t make me wait long. Planting the gentlest of kisses on my lips, he dips a hand under my skirt and between my legs. My underwear is no match for his strength. The lacy fabric gives with a tearing sound that mixes with my gasp just before he forcefully sinks two fingers inside me. Barely giving me time to drag in air, he finger-fucks me with harsh strokes.
My body bows to his rhythm, responding with pleasure. He nips my bottom lip and feeds me tender Russian words as he spanks my clit with the heel of his palm while curling his fingers inside. It’s a battlefield, and the war is over before it’s even begun.
I come in seconds, surrendering like a beaten enemy. It doesn’t matter that my release locks every muscle in my body with excruciating ecstasy, or that he presses sweet praise with kisses to my neck for my record-breaking performance. It’s a loss all the same.
Because that’s how it works in war.
There are only two outcomes, only two sides.
If you’re not the winner, you’re the loser.
21
Alex
It’s quiet at work, the building deserted except for me, Igor, and a few bodyguards. The sky outside is still dark. A vista of city lights spreads out below my office window, twinkling on a blanket of snow. The streets aren’t buzzing with the morning rush hour yet. I’m the first one in, which gives me time to catch up before everyone demands my attention.
Settling behind my desk, I study the report in front of me. The gala was a big success. Many influential business players pledged their support for nuclear power. The pressure is on for the government to give the green light to the new technology. As usual, there’s a shitload of red tape, but it’s only a matter of time.
I close the report and pull up my emails. After scanning through them, I file the less urgent ones in a folder for later and open the most important messages. The first is from Konstantin Molotov, checking on how the gala went and informing me about a few kinks his engineers have worked out in the latest version of the portable reactors. Konstantin is the brains behind the technology, and though we have yet to formally sign the papers for the joint venture, my engineers and I have been working with him for several months as part of our due diligence process.
The Molotovs are a powerful, well-connected family from Moscow. Their wealth and position in society go back generations, all the way to Czarist Russia. Konstantin Molotov is the oldest of four siblings and is widely considered to be a tech genius, while his younger brother, Nikolai, runs the business side of things—or did until recently. The youngest Molotov brother, Valery, seems to be managing most of their holdings now, though Nikolai is overseeing this particular project despite the fact that he recently married an American woman and is currently residing in a small mountain town in Idaho, in the States.
I reply to Konstantin, telling him that the event went well and that we’re one step closer to getting government approval for his technology. Of course, all of this is predicated on the joint venture going through. If the Molotovs back out at the last moment or try to screw me over in any way, it’ll take just a few words whispered in the right ears to choke the project with red tape. Naturally, I don’t say that to Konstantin. I don’t need to. He understands perfectly how things work in our world.
I’m about to launch into a review of the new safety regulations we’re implementing at one of my oil wells when the screen of my phone lights up with a call. I usually send my calls to my voicemail until later in the morning, using the only time I have without interruptions from my employees constructively, but one glance at the caller ID and I take the call.