Chapter 11
Stanka
Aurora watches me with suspicion. Her dry, one hundred-year-old hand pats the armrest of the red armchair she’s seated in.
Prince Kriz shoots me a cold glance from the sofa opposite me.
I’m standing in the middle of the room, my hand correcting the thick brown fabric of my skirt.
They fed me, allowed me to have a bath, and gave me clean clothes. I slept for two days, paralysed like a bear during its winter hibernation.
My eyes flick over the bow adorning my blouse as my fingers brush against the light fabric. It has a flowery pattern, white roses against a pale green colour. I look like a lady again.
Aurora glides her fingers over her grey thin hair styled in waves very popular twenty years ago. “Sit down, child.”
I settle myself into the chair and put my hands neatly on my lap, my ankles crossed, knees held together.
“Vilma didn’t make it,” Aurora says, her voice stripped of emotions.
“Unfortunately not,” I say.
Aurora’s cousin was my grandfather, but I don’t remember him. Vilma never talked about him and didn’t have any photographs of him.
“Unfortunately not, auntie,” Aurora corrects me.
“Who cares?” I explode.
Aurora’s steel eyes bore through me. “I know you’ve gone through a lot, but you’re among civilised people again.”
I’ve always thought that old people radiate wisdom and warmth, but this woman exudes some subtle ruthlessness. Her son is the same. Each time our glances meet, chills go down my spine. He’s older than Munroe, beautiful like the men from Da Vinci’s paintings, but as repulsive as a snake to me. His eyes are snake-like, two assessing blades, evil even.
I inhale deeply. “I’m sorry, auntie.”
She tilts her head, her thin lifeless lips curling into a parody of a smile. Prince Kriz sweeps his eyes over me and I feel like I’m naked.
“A man has brought you here,” Aurora says. “A man from a lower background. A soldier.”
“Munroe,” I say. “Munroe saved my life and helped me to get here from Germany when Vilma died.”
“Munroe,” Aurora says like an echo then her piercing glance catches mine. “Was he a gentleman?”
“Of course, he was a gentleman,” I snap.
“Did he touch you?” Aurora continues.
“Of course, he touched me,” I say as sarcasm coats my voice. “We rode on his bike. I had to hold on to him so I did not slip off the bike.”
The icy atmosphere of the room suffocates me. Everything in this house is about making a good impression, about propriety, about concealing something horrible under false smiles. About pretending, lying, believing in lies. I stifle my urge to jump from my chair and escape. I’m a marionette here. I’m dependent on those two people like a child.
Aurora inhales with a wheeze. “Are you still innocent, child?”
“Why do you need to know?” Uneasiness sits on my chest.
“Answer me,” Aurora insists.
“I am innocent, auntie.”
Dalimil Kriz flashes me a contented smile and nausea rolls over me. Aurora nods several times.
“Go, have some rest,” she says.
I pull forward as relief washes over me. Those two people unnerve me and piss me off. I hide in my bedroom and sit on the four-poster bed, floating in the sacred space of my memories about Munroe. Then I reminisce about my father, brother, and grandma. The maid brings some food later in the afternoon and puts the tray at my feet.
“Thank you,” I say in a dry voice as the maid drops a curtsy and walks off.
I have gone through hell. I’ve changed, yet here I am, stuck in this creepy house, with people who are as stiff as they were before the war.
I pick up a book and open it, but my eyes can’t see the letters so I toss it to the foot of the bed. Human voices resound outside of the house. Human voices full of joy. Laughter, squeals, shouts. I jump from the bed and move towards the window, pulling the heavy bottle green curtain away. A group of about twenty people is marching in front of the house, bottles of alcohol swinging in their hands. Women and men are holding hands, hugging, kissing. Fireworks illuminate the evening sky like a thousand stars as the rumble makes me shudder. I feel like something is strangling my throat.
I don’t belong in this house. I belong to those people celebrating the end of the war. I crave their joy and freedom. My eyes flick over the jacket thrown over the backrest of a red armchair and I reach for it, putting it on. I open the window and look down to assess the distance from the windowsill to the ground. Two, three steps at most. With my palms against the windowsill, I pull myself up and set my ass on the window frame. It digs into my flesh, forcing a hiss from my mouth. I can do it. I can fuel a bike. I can fight. I can smoke a cigarette. I can pretend to be a boy so perfectly nobody can see my true gender.
I can sneak out of this house.
Swinging my legs outside of the house, I twist my chest and slide down with my face turned towards the wall. As my feet find support against the ground, I release the grip on the window frame and land on all fours. The sound of my skirt ripping diverts my attention and I notice a split on the side, stretching from the lower edge up to my thigh. I look like a whore. Joy pricks my heart at this discovery.
I pull myself up and rush towards the metal fence that encircles the house. With my hands clutching the upper railing, I swing my body over the fence. Somebody’s hands grab my ass and strong arms draw me to a broad chest. A familiar scent settles in my nostrils.
“What a surprise,” Munroe says into my ear. “Bored with your aristocratic life?”
“A little,” I say and separate myself from him.
We stand opposite each other and the air between us thickens like a storm cloud. My eyes sweep over his kilt and my jaw drops. It’s a navy and purple tartan complemented with a spotless military shirt, boots and black socks. I like his outfit. I really do. My eyes flick over his face. He shaved his beard off, leaving the moustache, which makes him look younger, alluring.
I feel like part of him still belongs to me, but there is also that wild part of him the primal instinct inside me wants to seduce over and over again. The part of him making him a gangster from Edinburgh. The part of him making him an outlaw.
The bastard must know my thoughts because he winks at me and flashes me a beguiling smile.
“How are you, sir?” I ask as I smooth the skirt with my palms, my skin prickling.
“Not bad. You, princess?” One corner of his lips crooks up as he rubs his palm against his kilt.
“I’m fine.”
“But bored?”
A group of about ten people passes us. Munroe steps forward and grabs my wrist. My heart hammers in my chest as he joins the procession and drags me behind him. Fireworks make me look up as the joy of the people around me seeps into my veins. I notice two Scottish pipers among the group and the rich colours of their tartans grip my attention for an instant. There is something wild and masculine about those men wearing tartans. The pipers start to play and my cheeks heat up. The music brings sadness and beauty to my heart, touches my soul, as the images of the mountains layered with a veil of fog on an autumnal morning float through my head and I almost feel like this harsh landscape is surrounding me, like I’m there at the bottom of the mountain, facing pristine nature, facing God. A glance at my companion brings me back to reality. I pick up the pace as my fingers entangle Munroe’s.
We walk among the procession for about fifteen minutes then turn into a path leading to a barn decorated with lanterns and garlands. Modern music fills my ears and laughter follows. The procession enters the barn, but Munroe pulls me behind the corner of the barn. He slams me on the wall and his lips land on mine, greedy and possessive.
God, I’ve missed his kisses so much.
My hands stroke his back impatiently and I open my mouth wide for him. His tongue thrusts in as he deepens the kiss, devouri
ng me almost brutally, his hands squeezing my breasts through the fabric of my blouse.
He rests his forehead against mine. “I can take you under my roof right now. Just say the word, Stanka.” He cups my cheek with his palm. “I can’t breathe without you, baby girl.” There is a crack in his voice.
His lips capture mine again and my insides melt.
I turn my head and gasp. “You have to ask them.”
He chuckles. “So, you want to be my wife?”
“You have to ask my family. Come tomorrow. Maybe they will be willing to consider your proposal.”
I doubt that, but I want to bathe in this illusion for a little longer. I don’t want to think about my future. I want to kiss and touch him. Forever. But, I won’t have my forever.
Munroe kisses my forehead. “If you want to do this in your aristocratic way, that’s fine.” There is joy in his voice.
“I have to go. They’ll be looking for me.”
“Just a moment. Give me this one moment.” He tugs at my blouse and slides his hands under it, reaching to my bra.
His mouth touches my neck and he bites me lightly. I feel his fingers slipping under my bra and stroking my nipples. My rationality fades and I put my hands on the belt in the waistband of his kilt. Munroe’s mouth grazes along the side of my neck. My fingers tug at his shirt and I slide my hands under it, touching his chest. He lifts my thigh and wraps it around his waist, rubbing his erection against my crotch as our lips meet hungrily again. The fever of our desire burns between us like a real fire, consuming, wild, and liberating. Time stops and there is only this beautiful moment of our unleashed passion.
Munroe’s hand massages my ass cheek then dives under my panties and spreads my folds. I feel his finger sliding gently into my pussy. A moan leaves my mouth. He pumps his finger in and out as I slip my hand under his kilt and stroke his hard cock. He growls into my mouth.
A couple passes us, but they’re occupied with kissing and groping one another. I turn my head to the side and watch them. The man slams the woman on the wall and opens his trousers. He lifts the woman’s thigh and drives his cock into her. She emits a low scream then gasps as he thrusts into her.
Watching their lust enhances my own pleasure. Munroe rubs his thumb against my sensitive nub and my whole being ascends. I bury my face into his neck and moan my satisfaction as he gathers his kilt up and guides my hand to stroke his hard cock. He breathes heavily into my ear then moans as his semen spurts onto my hand.
His lips mould to mine and we kiss tenderly, trying to steady our breaths.
“I love you, princess. I love you so much. Always remember that.”
“Take me back to the house.”
He rests his forehead against mine. “Alright.” He sounds like he’s given up and it breaks my heart, but I kill this pain.
We correct our clothes and Munroe walks me to the Krizs. There is a dead silence between us and I feel his anger like it’s strangling my throat. He kisses my forehead, smacks my ass, and shoves me towards the front door of the house.
Chapter 12
Stanka
I enter the hall illuminated by the candles stuck on the silver candelabra. The serious faces on the paintings adorning its walls make me feel as tiny as an ant. My eyes travel forward and I notice the maid is standing in front of the library.
“Miss,” she says and gestures for me to walk into the library.
I nod at her and go through the double ornate door. My hosts are sitting around the coffee table, their faces cold like Venetian masks. I suck in a breath. The scent of wood and old paper mingles with that of resins drifting from the marble fireplace.
Aurora’s eyes flick over my skirt. “Where have you been?” Her voice is calm, but every molecule of my body can sense the fury inside her.
“I needed a walk,” I say as my fingers travel to my lips.
They’re swollen, still tingling from Munroe’s kisses. The skin of my cheeks is burning from the scratches caused by his facial hair.
“Sit down,” Aurora says.
I drop into the cream armchair and put my hands on my lap. Dalimil’s eyes sweep over my thigh exposed by the split.
“You’re not allowed to leave the house without my permission,” Aurora says. “You’re not allowed to be with a man without my permission.” Her voice rises with every word.
I suck in a breath. “I didn’t—“
“Are you still innocent?” Dalimil asks.
I want to yell ‘none of your fucking business’, but the ruthlessness in his eyes stops me.
“Yes,” I shriek.
Aurora nods as she turns her face to her son. “We wanted to give you more time, but you’re unstable, child. You need a man to look after you.” She folds her hands as if praying. “Dalimil Kriz and Stanka Tesarik together. What a perfect match. We’ll organise the wedding as soon as possible.”
I feel like there is no oxygen in my lungs. My heart thumps in my ears.
No fucking way. I’m not going to marry that old disgusting man. Only one man can be my husband, Munroe. Suddenly, all my needs and goals appear crystal clear in my mind. I’m not just a position in society. I’m not a helpless aristocratic girl. I’m myself. I have no past, just the present to enjoy and a future to plan. I’m free. Free to do whatever I want to do.
I shouldn’t have come to this gloomy house. These two ossified caricatures staring at me like I’m a helpless child are not my family. Munroe is my family. He’s been my friend, my lover, and my husband since the moment we met.
I can choose the life I want to live. I can draw from my origins but choose a different path in life.
I rise from my seat. “I’m not going to marry you, prince. I’m sorry.”
“Sit down,” he says as chills go down my spine at the icy tone of his voice.
“No,” I say as my hand dives into the pocket of my jacket and my fingers close around the coin from Franz.
I squeeze it in my hand like a talisman. A sense of wrongness drifts through me, subtle like a cold breeze.
“Sit down, child.” Aurora says.
“No,” I hiss.
“We understand,” Aurora continues as though she can’t see my resistance, “that enduring the company of that man, Munroe, must have been a trauma for you. A trauma binding you to that man. A trauma blinding you. We understand that you despise all the other men of the world now—“
“I loved Munroe’s company,” I interrupt in a sharp voice. “And I loved his calloused fingers touching my naked body. Loved it. Loved touching his hard cock. I will love being his wife.” I flash Aurora a bright smile then my glance meets prince Kriz’s and I step back, knocking the chair over.
He leaps to me as a scream of primal fear leaves my mouth. His hand grabs my throat and a grey cloud fills my head. Red and black sparks dance in front of my eyes. Kriz moves his hand to hook the back of my neck, his fingers digging into my flesh as my knees bend. He pushes my head down and my forehead bangs against a hard surface.
I feel weightless like I’m hanging in another realm then a pulsating pain attacks the side of my head. My body is limp as Kriz bangs my head against the same surface again and my vision narrows. I’m all pain and nausea. I’m blood in my mouth. Nothing more.
This man is going to kill me and I can’t move.
Shouts tear their way to my brain through the wall of pain. Bangs, clinks, and screeches follow. Male voices, a female’s scream. A gunshot.
I can’t move. I can’t scream. I’m a narrowing stream of consciousness.
Strong arms embrace me and lift me up. A familiar scent hits my nostrils.
“Munroe,” I rasp.
“I’m here, princess. I’m taking you out of this shit.” His lips brush mine and blackness cuts me off from reality.
Munroe
The bruise on her forehead has a deep cut. It must hurt like hell. She’ll have a scar, but I will love this scar like mad. As do I love every inch of her body and every piece of her soul
.
Stanka flaps her eyelashes but still can’t see anything. I stroke her head and she shudders like a little bird suffused with rainwater. My hands itch to put them on Kriz’s throat and squeeze it to make his eyeballs pour out. A man who dares hit a woman is just a piece of scum that doesn’t deserve to live.
I run my knuckles down Stanka’s cheek. “You’re safe, princess.”
I stole a truck and Dave helped me load my bike onto the flatbed. I put unconscious Stanka into the passenger seat and left Edinburgh as soon as possible.
“Munroe,” she hums.
“I’m here, baby girl.”
“Munroe.”
Her eyelids lift and her pupils narrow at the touch of the evening sun.
She raises her hands, but they collapse lifeless.
“Stanka, I’m here. Rest and don’t worry about anything.”
All the worries are on my head now. I shot that dick dead and we have to leave the country as soon as possible or I’ll be hanged. Not that it concerns me or something. If I was put on trial, I’d be sentenced with a tenfold capital punishment at least-the list of my crimes is that long.
We’re in the small hotel facing the sea, about ten miles away from Southampton. The building wears sings of fire after bombing and the left flank still needs repairs, but the right flank is in a good condition so the owner can run his business as he did before the war.
The ship will depart in five hours.
“Stanka,” I say gently. “You have to wake up, sweetheart.”
“I’m trying,” she hisses.
I stroke her head. “Good girl.”
“Can you kiss me?”
Of course, I can kiss her. I’m going to kiss her for the rest of my life.
I press my lips against hers and caress the inside of her lower lip with my tongue. The coppery taste of her blood pricks my tongue.
“Wake up, princess. We have to go.”
Her eyes meet mine. “Where are we going?”
Munroe and Stanka_The Beginning Page 9
