Page 35 of The Pakhan's Captive
My third orgasm is a seizure, a raw, screaming thing that locks my body around his. I milk his cock in frantic pulses, and with a roar that seems ripped from his soul he follows me. I feel the hot, sudden rush of his cum flooding my depths, jet after jet, as he pumps into me through his climax, his body shuddering violently atop mine.
He falls on me, a tangled, sweating, breathing mess. He doesn’t pull out. He stays inside me, softening, his weight a welcome anchor.
We don’t speak. The only sounds are our ragged breaths slowly calming.
After a while, he rolls us, pulling me on top of him. He’s hard again, already. I sink down onto him slowly, this time controlling the pace. It’s different. Deeper. Softer. His hands rest on my hips, guiding me gently. I ride him, my palms flat on his chest, watching his face. His eyes are open, watching me back, and the raw, unguarded look in them undoes me completely.
The tears start before I can stop them.
He sees them. His hand comes up immediately to my face, thumb brushing under my eye, and he says nothing, just holds my face and keeps looking at me and moves with me, slow and steady. I cry and he doesn’t flinch from it and doesn’t look away and somehow that is worse and better than anything else he’s done tonight. I fold down against his chest and he wraps around me and we stay like that until the crying passes and the movement slows and everything finally, finally goes quiet.
We both orgasm again and I finally slump forward onto his chest, spent in every way possible. He wraps his arms around me, and we stay like that until his cock slips from my body.
I sleep before I mean to.
The dark is total and deep and dreamless and I don’t fight it.
When I surface it’s still dark but different, the particular quality of dark that means dawn is somewhere close but not here yet, and I’m awake instantly, completely, the way I’ve been waking since Moscow, every nerve already running before my eyes are open.
He’s asleep. On his back, one arm out, breathing even and slow. In the dark he looks younger than he does when he’s awake, and I look at him for a long moment. Something moves through my chest that I refuse to name.
I slide off the bed without sound.
I find my clothes on the bathroom floor. I find the knife on the bedside table, the one he used to cut my ties, and I pick it up and I carry it to where he’s sleeping and I stand over him.
His chest rises and falls. Rises and falls.
Do it.My hand tightens on the handle.He killed Papa. He killed Papa and you are standing here and you have the knife and this is the only chance you will ever have so do it. Do it now.
I stand there.
I stand there for a very long time.
The knife comes down to my side.
I can’t.The knowledge sits in my gut like something swallowed wrong.I can’t do it and I hate myself for it and I can’t.
I put the knife down on the nightstand. Quiet as I can. I find the drive on the dresser where he must have put it down and I pocket it, and my phone beside it, and I don’t look at him again because if I look at him again I won’t leave.
I find the door.
I don’t look back.
8
RAZVAN
She’s gone.
That’s the first thought. Clean and simple and so obviously true the moment I reach across the bed and find nothing but cooling sheets that I’m already moving before the second thought arrives.
She took the drive.
I’m out of the bed and through the room and into the corridor in thirty seconds. The guards on the lower level are already scrambling, because they can see my face and my face is telling them something they don’t want to hear.
“The woman,” I say. “When.”
The younger one goes pale. “We don’t—we didn’t see?—”
