by M J Marstens
Luckily, this room is stocked to the gills with all the necessities. I hadn’t thought that I would ever need to use it, but I’m appreciative for my father’s and Dr. Botkin’s foresight. Now, everything is in God’s hands. Exhausted, I tuck the man in with some blankets before curling into a ball in the corner and falling asleep myself.
Tomorrow is a new day—hopefully, it’ll be better than this night.
I drift off thinking of Zavid and Maksim together this night, and I wish that my secret were here to comfort me as the two men are likely comforting themselves.
* * *
1 Russia is an extremely large country that encompasses many different cultures and peoples. In 1918, these different groups began to declare their independence from the Russian state, including the Ukraine and Finland, to name a couple.
Chapter Twelve
I awake to eyes staring at me. I’m a disorientated mess and it takes me a few seconds to gather my bearings and even remember where I am. But, as soon as I spot the man gazing intently at me in the dim glow of the gas lamp, I instantly remember the previous night’s events.
I have no way of telling the time in the windowless room—nor do I have any idea how long the stranger has been awake and looking at me. Self-consciously, I rub at my nose and hope that the snow didn’t wash away the bulk of my soot. My hair is still tucked under the scarf and should be alright, but I will need to make a trip upstairs to freshen up my disguise.
“Good morning,” I croak, my mouth dry from nerves and lack of water. “I mean. . . I don’t know if it’s morning or not. How are you feeling?”
I slip behind my professional mask of nurse and patient, hoping that this makes me feel less anxious. Still, the man doesn’t say anything, his hazel eyes assessing me severely. I begin to twitch uncertainly. Ever since my parents and siblings were taken, I’m on constant pins and needles about someone detecting my true identity.
“You saved me,” the man finally murmurs at last.
“Yes,” I answer hesitantly. “Should I not have?”
I ask this in genuine confusion and the man gives a small smile.
“You are not Beliye,” he nods decisively, not really answering me. “But, nor are you part of the Krasnyye.”
I do my best not to blanch at his words. In truth, I’m not part of the Beliye. I am on my own and will use whoever I need to in order to save my family.
“I am Krasnyye,” I correct and, again, the man’s lips tilt up in a grin.
“No, you are not, but I do not think you are the enemy or want me dead.”
“I don’t want anyone dead,” I frown, but I realize that this is a lie.
I want Lenin dead.
For taking my family, for killing my aunts, uncles, and cousins, for shattering my very life.
I clear my throat and try to swallow my volatile emotions, hoping that they are not present on my face. The stranger has eyes that see too much.
“I’m Anya,” I offer gently.
“Vadimir, but call me Vadim,” the man replies.
I feel my eyebrows raise at his answer. Even though I gave him my ‘familiar’ name, as opposed to Ana, I didn’t expect him to reciprocate with his. Diminutives in Russian culture are largely only used by those who are very close—such as family or friends. But, perhaps our circumstances make us closer than I think.
“Let me get you something to drink. You must replenish your fluids if you want to heal and regain your strength.”
I walk over to one shelved wall and take down a water skin. I bring it to Vadim as he slowly brings himself into a sitting position. His wince is barely perceptible, but I catch it. Instantly, I fuss over him like a mother hen. Again, the wry grin stretches his mouth, as if he finds my actions vastly amusing.
“We are in a secret room in Dr. Botkin’s house,” I ramble unconsciously. “It’s best that we stay in here but, if need be, there is a lavatory upstairs. It might be some days before you can manage this trip, though.”
Vadim’s eyes narrow.
“Dr. Botkin is the royal physician,” he points out.
Quickly, I respond, “Yes, but he also practices at the hospital here in town where I am a nurse. I’ve visited his house often.”
This doesn’t explain why I know about a secret room in the doctor’s home, yet Vadim doesn’t press me for more information. Instead of relieving me, his lack of further questioning makes me uneasy.
What is he thinking?
I look at him critically, trying to read his mind. His features are swarthier than any Russian’s that I’ve seen, indicating that he has family from the south. Russia is a vast, vast country and, as such, people of all different coloring are present. In the west, most of us look more European, with fairer skin, hair, and eyes. To the east, the features of Russian men and women become markedly Asian, and to the south, a little more Middle Eastern.
Vadim definitely has this Middle Eastern attribute. His skin is tanned many shades darker than mine—which is paler than a fish’s belly in winter—as is his nearly black hair. His nose is slightly larger, but does not overwhelm his face. His lips are full and sensuous, and his face looks sculpted from rock—all hollows and sharp angles.
I already know that his body reflects this since I saw him naked the night before. But, it’s his eyes that arrest me the most. Glittering green and golden brown pools that see everything. He, truthfully, is a gorgeous man. And very, very dangerous. I don’t know how I know this, but I feel it deep within me.
I must be very cautious.
Internally, I cringe. Cautious certainly isn’t one of the attributes anyone has every credited to me. Mother always did say that new skills were just waiting to be learned; perhaps now is the time that I finally mature—it only took watching my family be massacred, beaten, held hostage, and nearly being shot to finally grow up.
An experience that I wish upon no one.
“Do I have soot on my face?” Vadim surprises me by asking.
“What? No. Why?”
“Because you are starring most intently at me—I wondered if I had something on my face.”
I blush since I know he is alluding to my very dirty visage.
“No, I was just thinking. Are you a Krasnyye?” I wonder innocently.
Vadim’s strong white teeth flash in his trademark smile that I’m beginning to detest. His face tells no secrets, whereas mine is like an open book. I have no idea how much he assumes about me at this point, but his grin is like a taunt.
It sings, “I know something that you don’t know.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. And that is how I know that you are most assuredly not a Krasnyye.”
Dammit!
What does that mean?!
Vadim doesn’t keep me wondering this time, though.
“Trust me, Anya, if you were part of the Krasnyye, you would know me.”
My stomach plummets at his words and I feel ill.
Is. . .
Is Vadim the hateful man that I hunt?
“Are you Lenin?” I blurt out before I can censor my words.
Vadim raises an amused brow.
“Certainly not.”
My shoulders sag with relief.
“But, I’m basically his third-in-command.”
I clutch the shelf to keep upright. Vadim says this nonchalantly, but I am no fool. Why would he give such information freely unless he didn’t see me as a threat—or worse, plans to kill me eventually.
“So,” he continues, clueless to my distress—or simply not caring, “I would know if you part of our group. Trust me—I wouldn’t forget that face.”
I grimace, unsure if he’s offering me a compliment or an insult.
“I was coming to join,” I prevaricate.
“Interesting. I wouldn’t have pegged you for being a socialist. You strike me more as an. . . Imperialist.”
I snort at his words.
“Was it my fancy clothes or freshly-scrubbed face that gave me away?” I ask d
erisively.
“Oh, Imperialists come in many forms, milaya1.”
I make a face at his nickname.
“Anya. Call me Anya. And what’s wrong with wanting to join the Krasnyye?”
“Nothing. . . unless you’re a spy.”
“Do I look like a spy?” I grouch in irritation because this conversation is rapidly becoming uncomfortable.
“No—but isn’t that what would make you the perfect little shpion.”
Touché—he has me there.
“But,” Vadim continues, “I do not think you are a spy.”
“Oh? What makes you so sure?”
The minute the words leave my mouth, I could smack myself. Father always told me I was contrary to a fault and I would be hard pressed to deny it right now.
“Because, there is no way that you wouldn’t know who I am—nor would you have saved me.”
“Maybe I’m holding you hostage,” I joke lightly to let him know that I am teasing.
Vadim’s eyes rake over me hotly, as if he can see through the grime and dirty clothes.
“That sounds interesting. . .” he rejoins, except, I don’t think he’s joking.
I cough to clear my throat and rummage around for some food for us to eat. Vadim’s coloring is good, a sign that his blood is already replenishing. I keep my lips tightly pursed so as not to ramble. Something about this stranger has me on edge—something that I’m rapidly beginning to detect as attraction. The thought makes me blanch. Of all the men in the world, this is the last one to feel this way towards.
I curse inwardly when I realize that I’ve also given him knowledge of Dr. Botkin’s secret bunker. Just what someone high up in the Krasnyye doesn’t need to be privy to. But, I don’t regret saving his life. In truth, he saved mine first, as those bullets would have hit me. I owed him my loyalty and medical knowledge.
“So, little Miss Anya, you want to join the Socialists? Lenin is always looking for doctors and nurses. Wouldn’t it be ironic to have someone who worked under Dr. Botkin saving the lives of men in the Krasnyye?”
Wouldn’t it be ironic, indeed.
“I would be happy to help in any capacity. Although, Dr. Botkin is the most skilled surgeon,” I add on in a stroke of inspiration. “He most assuredly is loyal to the royal family, but wouldn’t his aid be the most beneficial. Perhaps you can bring him to work for Lenin.”
I turn around to fake search for something so Vadim won’t see the hope in my eyes that he’ll take the bait and tell me where Dr. Botkin is.
Because, chances are, where the good doctor is—my family is more than likely with him.
* * *
1 Russian for ‘sweetie’
Chapter Thirteen
Vadim
I regard the lovely, albeit filthy, woman who is pretending insouciance. Unfortunately for her, her expressions are easier to read than if she had just spoken her mind. This girl is no spy, but nor is she as innocent as she appears. She’s definitely hiding something.
That she is a nurse cannot be a cover. My wounds are all dressed and I surely would have bled to death if not for her quick thinking and quicker hands. For this, I am eternally in her debt, regardless of who she is.
I ponder her familiarity with Dr. Botkin—both the man and his house. Clearly, she is someone to the royal physician, but what? A relative? Perhaps a daughter or a niece protecting her identity. Or perhaps she’s something more—like a mistress.
But, contrarily, there is an air of innocence about her that would belie this type of relationship. I ponder her back as she waits for my answer. Anya tries to relax, but her shoulders are tight with an obvious tension. My answer is important to her—critical even.
“Dr. Botkin would be an asset to the Krasnyye, indeed, but Lenin would never use him, no matter how skilled and renowned. Who’s to say Dr. Botkin wouldn’t purposefully harm one of our men or even kill them?”
“He would never do that!” Anya denies hotly, her penchant for speaking her mind giving her away.
Just as I suspected—Anya knows Dr. Botkin personally.
I shrug indifferently.
“Lenin doesn’t agree. Besides—the doctor is needed for the fallen heir.”
Anya pales at my words and sways alarmingly.
“Th-th-the fallen heir?” she stammers in apparent fear.
“Yes,” I answer in perplexion. “Alexei Nikolaevich.”
“I know who he is,” she snaps before she can school her anger. “What do you mean by fallen?”
“Why do you care?” I counter.
Anya’s eyes narrow dangerously and a look of stark determination comes across her face.
“Because I don’t believe in hurting innocent children,” she hisses.
“He isn’t hurt,” I respond, baffled at her vehemence.
“But, you said fallen!” Anya bursts out.
I roll my eyes in understanding.
“I meant fallen from power.”
Anya opens her mouth to say something monumentally stupid, I am sure, and further give herself away, but she surprises me by clamping her lips tightly shut and turning away.
“I am going upstairs to use the lavatory and freshen up,” she tells me tightly. “Perhaps, then, you could tell me more about the fallen imperial family.”
She leaves before I can respond and I am too weak to follow her. Anya seems much too occupied with the emperor and empress, but I cannot figure out why. I know for a fact that any cousins near her age were effectively killed when the Krasnyye stormed Alexander Palace weeks ago. The only other young women are the grand duchesses, themselves, but all four have been accounted for.
When she returns some thirty minutes later, I’m no closer to solving the puzzle that is this woman. Also, opposite to her word, she comes back covered in more ashes, but her hands are meticulously clean—another indication of her nursing background.
“I thought that you said you were going to freshen up?” I taunt.
Anya doesn’t deem my sarcastic remark worthy of a rebuttal but, rather, just glares at me.
“I need to check your wounds,” she announces, trying to turn my attention.
I grin at her unsuccessful attempt to divert me—how she amuses me.
“Of course,” I agree, pushing the blanket off of me.
I’m still naked underneath the many coverings she put on me to ensure that I would stay warm. In fact, she must have given me all that there was in the room because when I awoke to find her, she was huddled asleep in the corner, shivering.
That alone spared her life.
She clears her throat at the sight of all my skin and I suddenly find myself wanting to see how much I can make her blush—although I can barely tell under all the dirt caked on her face. I shift my legs so that my semi-hard cock comes into full view. Now, Anya begins coughing in earnest and I have to force myself not to laugh outrightly.
“Is everything alright?” I ask in mock concern.
“F-f-fine,” she manages to stammer. “Everything is fine. I’m just going to change your dressings and maybe we can put back on your clothes. I can bring a bucket for you to relieve yourself.”
“That would be wonderful,” I all but purr, enjoying her unease greatly.
Even though she is clearly uncomfortable, she takes the utmost care to check and change the bandages on all three of my bullet wounds. She’s on her knees between my legs, leaning in to do her work. When she fixes my shoulder, I look over hers to ignore her feminine scent filling my nostrils.
But, when she gets to my waist, my faux indifference melts away and I can’t help but envision her doing something else bent between my naked thighs. Instantly, my cock comes fully to attention. Personally, I take this as a good sign. If my body has enough blood to spare my raging erection, I’m clearly not depleted.
I know the second she spots my rock-hard dick standing at attention when she inhales deeply. I’m surprised that her gasp doesn’t knock her over and I, again, have to swallow my chu
ckle. Anya lets out a few more delicate coughs, but she forges on to wash and switch my last sullied bandage.
The feel of her hands around my thighs is beyond provocative and I shift, painfully aware of her. My movements upset her hands on me and, unintentionally, make them brush against my shaft. Now, I moan low in my throat and she jumps back like she’s been burned. I most definitely can make out a blush beneath the grime.
“Do it again,” I beg unconsciously.
Anya’s eyes widen in shock at my words and I curse my unbidden slip-up. But, I’ve already said them; so. . .
“Do it again,” I command more forcefully this time.
Her mouth opens in a dazed O but, to my disbelief, she complies. Anya settles back between my knees and lightly brushes the backs of her hands against my straining cock. I groan at how tantalizing good it feels. She bites her lip and makes a soft desirous hum that has my blood pumping.
I long to scrub the filth from her cheeks and see the beauty lurking underneath. Anya’s movements grow bolder and, soon, she’s using the fronts of her hands to touch me instead of just the backs. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so aroused by the slightest of touches, but Anya is driving me insane with need.
Locking eyes with hers, I grasp her hand to wrap it firmly around my cock and, together, we trace a path up and down—slowly, but, then, with quickening speed. Anya appears utterly enchanted by the movement. Has she never seen a kher before? The idea is intriguing to me, but not nearly as enticing as when she licks her lips ravenously every time our hands stroke me closer to coming.
As if drawn by an invisible pull, Anya leans down and flicks her tongue along the broad head of my cock, my salty pre-cum coating the tip and, now, her tongue and lips. I lose it at the sight of her savoring me and erupt fully against her pouty mouth. Poor Anya is clearly not expecting this move—hell, I hadn’t planned it, either—but she doesn’t pull back in disgust.
