Inside, the heat had finally settled into a hush. The moans had tapered into ragged breaths and slow heartbeats. Ayoka's skin shimmered with sweat, lashes heavy, her cheek resting gently against Viktor's bare shoulder as they lay tangled in the wreckage of a bed that had long since given up its shape. The sheets were half-pulled to the floor, and her dancer's costume—shredded from a seduction that was part battle, part ceremony—clung to her wrist like a silken white flag.
Viktor lay still beneath her, not dead but somewhere between calm and collision. His body was warm stone beneath her, anchored in silence. The slow rise and fall of his chest proved he hadn't drifted into sleep or spell—just thought. One arm remained coiled around her waist, possessive and heavy, like he meant to keep her tethered.
Ayoka shifted, her muscles protesting. The bruises blossoming across her thighs and hips ached like strange flowers. The raw mark of his bite throbbed just above her collarbone. She turned her head slightly, her lips brushing the edge of his skin with the softest exhale. She didn't want to stay until sunrise. That much she knew.
She moved slowly, her fingers brushing the sheets, toes stretching downward for the floor. She intended to slip away, quietly and with grace—to take back her breath, her control, even just for a moment. But his arm snapped tight around her waist like a lock clicking shut.
"Don't," he said. Not with fury, not with softness. Just certainty. She paused. Tried again, just a breath's worth of defiance—and his grip pulled her back, chest to chest. His mouth brushed her ear, his words not whispered but etched:
"Ты не сбежишь в этот раз."
You're not getting away this time.
In his haze, Viktor held her close, eyes half-lidded from the exhaustion of hunger sated and shadows quieted. But a flicker of thought cut through the calm: why did she try to leave so quickly? Did she think he wouldn't tend to her afterward? That he didn't know how to care for a body so fiercely claimed?
Maybe her past lovers had been selfish—quick, rough, and gone. All hunger, no heart. But her reaction told a different story. When Viktor softened his touch, slowed his rhythm, let gentleness creep in like a prayer—something changed in her eyes. Not fear. Not pain. Just... absence. As if she'd folded herself away from the moment. Her body stiffened. Her breath caught. That softness seemed to scrape at something deeper than bruises—something buried.
He'd paused then, excusing himself to fetch food, pretending it was about care. But it wasn't. He needed time to think. Why did gentleness feel like danger to her? Why did her body respond to roughness but retreat from kindness?
Maybe those men hadn't been lovers at all. Maybe they'd been tyrants with sweet mouths, who turned affection into a leash.
Viktor wasn't them. He told himself that. Swore it like an oath. Still, the way she braced under kindness made him question how deep the damage ran—and how long he'd be willing to wait until she realized that not all soft touches carried the sting of betrayal.
He pressed his nose into her curls, catching the scent of sweat and magic, lavender and survival. She was still warm. Still trembling. Still his.
He'd see to her. All of her. Every time.
Her heart thudded once, hard and low. She didn't speak. Didn't flinch. Instead, he kissed the bruise he'd left at her throat. Tenderly. Like reverence. His hand eased lower to her hip, his hold shifting from trap to claim.
She still trembled. But not from fear. Her cheek rested against his chest now without theater, without manipulation. It was simply the only place she hadn't yet learned to run from. And somewhere inside her, behind the ache and the want, a thought stirred:
Maybe I don't want to get away either. Not if they'll hunt my boy no matter where I run. The North don't want him. They never did. Light-skinned boys like him might be favored for a second, but they get turned bitter quick—spoiled, twisted, or sold to someone crueler when they stop being 'pretty.' Girls get turned into dolls or ghosts. Boys get trained like livestock. His mother had dark skin. She knew better. Knew the lie of 'privilege' when it came with a collar.
Maybe it wasn't just survival anymore. Maybe staying here wasn't only for the child. Maybe it was for her, too. Not because she trusted Viktor. But because, for once, the cage was padded—and maybe, just maybe, it had a door she might one day choose to open herself. This wasn't the time to flee. There was no map for women like her. No hands waiting out there to catch her fall. But here... here there was space to breathe, to plan, to make something of all this bruised history. And if she had to lay beside a monster to do it—so be it. Because the monster was never the true danger. It was the man beneath the teeth and charm, the one capable of cruelty cloaked in calm. And she wasn't the first to face such a choice, nor would she be the last. History was littered with women who took survival over legend, who chose quiet endurance instead of being turned into saints too soon. Maybe, just maybe, she could settle for the outcome instead of the fantasy. After all, what mattered was who got to write the ending—and she still had a pen in her hand.