by M J Marstens
This position is new—and I love it.
Vadim isn’t slow and tender with me, but does exactly as he said—fucks me like an animal. My toes curl as I soar higher towards another peak. My nails continue to rake across the surface of the table and I’ve stopped worrying about silencing my desire. The cabin is small and my pleasure is great—poor Dima will just have to ignore us.
Vadim slams into me and I hungrily arch my zhopa to meet his kher. I want this—I’ve craved it. The fast-paced rough rush that I saw between Maks and Zavid. To not be treated like a delicate little princess, but as a flesh-and-blood woman with needs. I’m sure I’ll be embarrassed later by my lack of modesty, but all I care about right now is feeling that ultimate release again.
I’m so close. . .
Just as I’m about to reach for it, Vadim slows down.
“Faster,” I pant, not caring if I sound like a shlyukha.
“Tell me to fuck you raw, first,” the bastard goads.
“Vadim,” I snarl in warning, but he only laughs and moves even slower.
I can feel my orgasm ebbing away and I lose my temper.
“Fuck me raw!” I order, livid at his underhanded tactics but, thankfully, he complies.
Harder and harder, faster and faster—I don’t even realize that I’m chanting the words he made me speak until I come and shout them for a final time. With a guttural moan, Vadim empties himself deep within me.
Spent, I collapse on top of the table, my overheated skin relishing the cool feel of the wood. I turn my cheek towards the rooms and see Dima standing there, barely discernable in the small dark sliver that he is watching through. My body shudders pleasurably at the thought of him watching.
I want to call out to him to join us, but he quickly and quietly shuts the door. I hear Vadim chuckle and I know that he knows Dima watched. Dmitri is right—Vadim is an instigator.
And Lord help me, I can’t wait for him to strike again.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dmitri
It is exceedingly difficult to pray when the woman you covet and another man are engaging in carnal union outside of your bedroom door. I will myself to ignore their sounds of pleasure and fold my hands more tightly together.
I will not touch myself.
I repeat this mantra over and over in my head until I’m too exhausted to move. I slump onto my bed, my knees raw from hours of bending on them. Instantly, I fall into a deep, but disturbed slumber.
When I bolt upright, it’s nearly dawn, and I’m covered in sweat. I’m shaking from head to toe because I know with a certainty that my father visited me in my dreams and showed me the future. It’s bleak—a living Hell on Earth. The only way to escape it is to run.
Those were his exact words to me—that when the time came, to run.
Wearily, I make my way to my sitting room and pace before the fire. It’s not long after that Vadim joins me and we sip our sbiten quietly, the internal unease growing within me. I know Vadim notices, but he is a reserved man who keeps his own counsel. He won’t push me unless necessary.
When the sun is just over the horizon, Ilya, Zavid, and Maksim come bursting through the door. They don’t appear worse for wear, but I can tell by their faces that not everything went smoothly in the war-torn capital. Ilya walks over to whisper to Vadim and the Beliye boys sit by the fire to warm themselves. I pour everyone something hot to drink and, then, sit and wait patiently for someone to talk.
“We’re fucked,” Zavid finally mutters.
“Why? What’s wrong?” I ask, instantly alert.
“He means the Beliye,” Maks elucidates. “We were in Lenin’s private study. . . we’re outnumbered and outpowered. It’s far worse than we thought. The Beliye don’t stand a chance.”
“Nor does my father,” Ilya adds sadly. “The Krasnyye are multiplying daily, but Vasily now has the group majority—and popularity. They will steer Russia in a direction that my father never intended, but there’s no stopping them.”
“Your father needs to leave while he can,” I note.
“He won’t, though,” Ilya sighs. “He won’t abandon his cause or his true followers.”
“Then, he’ll end up dead,” Vadim announces bluntly.
“I know. He’s survived two assassination attempts already, but if his own party folds on itself, he won’t be able to stave off the wolves that come after him.”
I walk over to Ilya and briefly rest my hand on his shoulder—to lend him strength and to let him know that I understand. My father, too, was hunted like a wild animal until he was brutally murdered for different ideals, but the same reason—others didn’t agree with his beliefs. Russia is many things, but tolerance is not something bred into our people.
And from this intolerance, it breeds dissent and hatred where it festers under the surface until it violently erupts and poisons the world around it. Now, Russia is nothing but an open wound spreading its infectious toxins. I think to my sister who left long ago before the unrest exploded—maybe I should leave my mother country, too, before I become immersed by the turmoil.
A door opening pulls me from my thoughts and out walks the grand duchess, still dressed in my sister’s plat’ye1. For some reason, the sight of her in it brings me great joy—like I am connected to both her and sister at the same time. I miss Maria, but Anastasia almost feels like family—a dangerous thought for a solitary monk.
“Princess, how did you sleep?” Vadim asks slyly, and both she and I blush at his insinuation.
“I slept well, thank you,” she says with a bashful smile.
She looks beautiful this morning, her brilliant hair shining against the backdrop of the early morning sun, creating a halo effect. This thought makes me chuckle under my breath. After last night, I’m not sure I can call the youngest grand duchess an angel anymore.
“I had a strange dream, though,” she continues and, immediately, I still.
“From my father?”
Anastasia shoots me a startled look.
“Um, no. About a train, actually, and all the boxcars separated to go in different directions.”
Zavid rubs his forehead.
“That is weird. Oh, Shusha says ‘hi’. I quickly ducked in to see her while Maks and Ilya finished up some things.”
“Oh! I wish I had known—I would have written a letter!”
“I remember what prolific letter writers your mother and sisters were,” I reminisce.
“Yes, mother missed her family in Germany and England terribly and letters were the only way to keep in touch.” She pauses and tilts her head inquiringly at me. “Why did you ask if I had a dream from your father?”
I swallow before answering.
“Because I think that he sent me one last night—he spoke to me.”
“What did he say?” Anastasia asks in a whisper.
“He said ‘to run’.”
The princess’ face pales.
“What’s wrong, malenkaya?” I wonder.
“The night before. . .before the attack in the palace, I dreamed of your father, too. He said the exact same words to me. It’s the only reason I fled that night and left my family behind. I think that Father Grigori was telling me that only I could save my family.”
The other four men all exchange a look—this is too circumstantial to be coincidental.
“When do we leave for Yekaterinburg?” I toss out to Ilya as I turn to get some things in order for our trip.
“Tonight. We should be there by tomorrow morning.”
“Good. The sooner we get there, the better. I have a feeling that the royal family is running on borrowed time,” I mutter.
Anastasia places a hand over her heart and bows her head.
“Please, Lord, don’t let us be too late. Please,” she prays fervently.
“Amen,” I intone.
“Amen,” everyone else parrots.
The rest of the morning into the afternoon, we make our plans to rescue Nastya’s family. We won’t be a
ble to take a train back to the capital and Nastya is unsure if her brother can make the journey to St. Petersburg on foot. Ultimately, we can’t come up with any viable ideas.
“We’ll cross this bridge when we get to it,” Ilya finally decrees. “Your father might have ideas, too.”
Anastasia nods.
“Are we ready to go?” she asks everyone.
Maks claps a hand on Zavid’s shoulder with a grim grin.
“As ready as ever, princess,” he answers.
I pick up my small bag with a few personal belongings, food, and a change of clothing. We all walk out into the cold winter’s evening and I pause to look back at my cabin.
I have a feeling it’s the last time I’ll ever see it.
* * *
1 Russian for ‘dress’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
ANASTASIA
Everything started out so smoothly—we boarded the train, our papers were approved, and we were heading to Yekaterinburg. But, by early morning the next day, we still hadn’t arrived. Worse, Red soldiers came and put us in separate cars.
Thankfully, Ilya is adamant that I remain with him—because I’m his cousin. My hair and face are once more covered in soot and I look every inch the dirty little peasant that no one will give a second glance to.
The train stops for a couple of hours and I fret alongside Ilya, wondering what was happening. When we finally start moving again, Ilya leaves to go speak with the officer in charge of the train and to see if the others are alright. When he returns, he looks like he has seen a ghost.
“They’re gone,” he whispers and I gasp in horror.
“What? What do you mean?”
“The other cars with Maks, Zav, Dima, and Vadim—they’re no longer part of our train.”
I barely can wrap my mind around this.
“Just like my dream,” I suddenly realize.
“Just like your dream,” Ilya nods.
“What now?” I wonder fearfully.
“I think we were in Yekaterinburg when they separated us. Dammit, we should have abandoned ship then!”
“What direction are we heading?” I wonder.
“East. We’re probably going to Tobolsk. The others probably got sent in opposite directions. But, don’t worry. We’ll find a way back to Yekaterinburg, and so will the others. That is our plan.”
“Ugh,” I mutter in disgust. “We never talked about what to do if we got separated! How stupid of us!”
“Don’t despair. We all know the plan.”
“So, what now?”
“Clearly, my papers aren’t good enough. When we stop, we’ll need different disguises.”
“Who could we possibly mascaraed as that no one would question?!” I demand.
Ilya gives me a mischievous smirk.
“Why—officers of the train, of course.”
When the train stops again, Ilya wastes no time ushering me out and we practically run from the station. I’m out of breath when we finally stop and laugh to see Ilya also huffing and puffing. The icy wind fairly knocks the wind from our sails.
Here in Tobolsk, the city is not ravaged by war, but it seems just as desolate as St. Petersburg. The sight sobers me up and reminds me of all that is on the line. Ilya guides me to a house and knocks on the door. A woman opens with a less than welcoming look on her face.
“Good morning, we are checking everyone’s papers, if you would be so kind to show me your family’s, we will be on our way,” he lies.
Now, the lady’s face becomes fearful.
“I-I-I thought that was only for travel,” she stammers.
“It’s recently become a requirement for everyone to have them and carry them on their person at all times, traveling or not,” Ilya answers seriously.
“I’m sorry. . . we haven’t obtained any official documentation yet. . .”
The woman trails off, looking ill.
“I see,” Ilya frowns. He turns to me. “Please wait here until I can return.” Then, he addresses the woman once more. “I’ll see what can be done at this.”
The lady nods and I can tell by her face that she’s unsure if his words are a good thing or a bad thing, but Ilya has already left before she can ask.
“Don’t worry,” I soothe, touching her hand in comfort. “He’ll make sure that your family is safe.”
I say the words as sincerely as possible since I’m not entirely sure what Ilya is doing. She immediately relaxes at my words and I swallow my guilt, hoping that I haven’t inadvertently placed her in danger.
She politely invites me him, even though I’m a grubby mess, and offers me some bread, which I eat gratefully. I make sure to thank her profusely and compliment the delicious food. She never gives me her name and I don’t offer mine. Anonymity is the name of the game, now, to survive in this new Russia.
Ilya returns a short time later dressed as a Red officer. He carries another uniform for me to change into.
“Your papers have been secured,” he tells the woman, who gives him a watery thanks.
I’m not entirely sure how he managed this, but I’m grateful that the woman doesn’t ask about my new outfit.
“Here, tuck your hair under this cap,” Ilya orders. “Keep your head down. Your face is far too feminine to be mistaken as a boy,” he adds.
I nod my understanding and follow him out.
“We have to hurry. I’ve timed it so that the train is leaving in minutes and we don’t want to be here when the other Krasnyye find the officers who I knocked unconscious to take their uniforms.”
I blanch at his words.
I suppose knocking them out is kinder than killing them.
True to his word, we barely make the train as it’s leaving back to Yekaterinburg. Ilya walks up and down the cars, six in total, barking out orders that lower officers scramble to obey and I follow meekly behind him with my head bent.
“Why is everyone jumping to do your bidding?” I ask lowly so no one can hear.
“Because I’m the head officer, obviously,” he says with a lopsided grin.
Of course, he is.
I don’t even bother asking him. Ilya is a force of nature—either you get out of his path or end up demolished.
By the time we finally get back to Yekaterinburg, I’m a nervous wreck, but Ilya is the calm before a storm—and he has a plan. The minute we disembark from the train car, he orders the soldiers at the station waiting to round up everyone in the city except those guarding the royal family. To my astonishment, they don’t even question him.
“I don’t understand,” I burst out. “Why is everyone still listening you?!”
“Because—only the highest members of the Krasnyye know where the royal family is being held. Just like our train was dismembered and separated, so were the cars that held your family and personal retainers. Your parents, siblings, and a few personal servants were shipped back and forth to confuse everyone and, ultimately, were brought back here while everyone else went to other cities—and were killed immediately upon disembarking. No one questions me because I clearly must be in charge to have such knowledge.”
“I thought it was because you’re Lenin’s son.”
“No—most of these soldiers are new recruits and not loyal to my father or his cause, but that’s for the best that they don’t know me.”
I watch in amazement as nearly twenty Red soldiers return to the train.
“Sir,” one addresses Ilya formally. “We didn’t go to Ipatiev House1. Captain Yurovsky asked not to be disturbed.”
“Nor should he be. He is attending to some very important business. Now, get aboard. More orders are waiting for you at the capital.”
The soldier salutes him and boards the train. Within a matter of minutes, Ilya manages to clear most of Yekaterinburg of all the Krasnyye.
“What’s that look for?” he queries, confused by my starry-eyed gaze.
“You’re my hero, Ilyushka,” I tell him sincerely.
He pulls me in
for a brief, but tender, kiss.
“I’ll always be here for you,” he swears. “Now, let’s go save your family. They’re apparently being kept at Ipatiev House.”
I follow beside him, not entirely sure where this new place is. Yekaterinburg isn’t a city that I’ve visited often, but Ilya seems to know his way. Just as we are passing a few shops, a shrill whistle cuts through the air. Ilya swings his head to the right and begins jogging over to the shadowed alleyway. I run after him and gasp happily when Vadim steps out from the gloom.
“Vadim!” I cry joyfully.
“Brat,” Ilya greets him, giving Vadim a hug when I finally let go of him. “Where did you end up?”
“Perm,” Vadim answers. “I knew immediately what happened when we stopped again. I hopped back on a passing train that passed me when I was walking back.”
“Glad you got back here. Have you seen the others?”
“Dima is here. It seems that they let him stay. He’s walking around the town, looking for the others.”
“Then, let’s go. I’ve sent all the soldiers back to St. Petersburg for the time being. All other Krasnyye are with the royal family at the Ipatiev House.”
Vadim doesn’t even question how Ilya did this.
“The Ipatiev House is in four blocks,” Vadim announces. “Let’s circle back and find Dima. By the way, princess, you make an adorable soldier,” he adds with a sultry wink.
I giggle at his silliness.
“Don’t let anyone else hear you complimenting another supposed soldier,” I tease.
“Why? It seems to be working for Zavid and Maks,” he counters and I freeze.
“You. . . know about them?”
“It’s pretty obvious,” Ilya replies with amusement.
I scowl at him.
“Is that going to be a problem?” I challenge.
Ilya just laughs at my ferocious glare.
“Not unless they want me to join,” he answers dryly.
“Agreed,” Vadim says, throwing in his two cents.
I blow out a relieved and irritated breath.
“Don’t mock them, either,” I warn.
