by M J Marstens
“I’m scared,” she admits.
I brush my fingers loving across her cheeks.
“I am, too, Nastya. I am, too, but life is about moving forward and not living in the past. We can live our lives in fear and never try again and maybe miss out on the best thing that ever happens to us—having more children. Life is about taking risks, not living in the shadows of those who do—and I want to live it fully with you.”
I kiss her lips tenderly, but passionately. In my arms, I can feel her begin to respond. She’s scared, but she’s also willing to try. I’m humbled by her trust in me—in us. I go to ease her down on the bed, but she stops me.
“I. . . I’d like to sit in your lap,” she says with a bashful blush.
At first, I think she means for me to hold her and comfort her, but when she turns to fully face me and swivels her hips a bit, I understand her meaning perfectly.
“You want to ride me?” I ask in a deep rumble that I can’t control because I’m so aroused.
“Yes. . .it feels. . .” she trails off and I tip her chin up to look into her eyes.
“It feels good to fuck that way, doesn’t it?”
She shudders at my words. Nastya comes from a sheltered past, but she has an innate sensuality that always called to me. She isn’t afraid to embrace it. I know she’s been with Zav, Maks, and Vadim. Perhaps, once, I would have been jealous, but I know it takes all of us to keep our girl together.
We all hold the broken pieces of her heart together—we are her glue.
“You’re so bad,” she breathes.
“And you love it,” I taunt.
She smiles candidly.
“I do.”
“Careful, that sounds like a wedding vow,” I tease.
“In that case, I definitely do.”
“Are you marrying me?” I ask in shock.
“You should probably ask me first,” she points out dryly and I laugh at her mouthy answer.
That’s my duchess.
I’ve missed her—in truth, I was afraid I might not ever see her again, the light and happy side of Nastya, but she’s come back to me.
“I’ll propose. . .eventually.”
“When?” she demands impatiently.
“When I’m done making you cry out my name,” I return with a wink.
I proceed to do just that until we are both boneless with pleasure. Then, I flop to one knee, kiss her bared pussy, look her deep into her eyes, and ask if she’ll forever be mine as husband and wife.
In answer, Nastya kisses me deeply and whispers, “As long as I can keep riding you.”
Over the next month, Nastya slowly comes back to us. She gets out of bed; she eats; she smiles and, eventually, she blooms once more into the exotic and rare woman that I adore. She leaves the apartment and starts cooking us dinners. She even takes some dancing classes. One night, over a strange meal called ‘spaghetti’—a recipe that she got from the Italian woman two floors down—she proposes something different.
“I think I want to move,” she announces without preamble.
I glance at Vadim, who glances at Dima, who glances at Zav, who lifts his brows at Maks and I almost laugh at how comical the five of us are acting at her words.
“Move?” I venture. “Where to?”
“The south! I hear it’s always warm down there,” she says dreamily.
“And buggy,” Maks mutters, but Zav gives him a glare.
“That sounds nice,” Dima offers. “I’ve always wanted to visit one of those plantation homes surrounded by the big trees covered in Spanish moss.”
“Why visit, when we could buy one?” Nastya tempts. “We’ve basically been ‘hiding’ out here in New York. . . maybe it’s time for us to assume our identities and really start living.”
No one says anything for a moment, but Vadim nods.
“Nastya’s right. We came here to start our lives anew, but we are still clinging to our past. A move south might just be the thing we need.”
“That’s Anya, now,” she reminds.
It’s the name she gave to immigration when we went through the American customs.
Anya Roman.
And I chose Ilya Roman. By American standards, we’re a married couple.
“Well, Anya, do you have a state in mind?” Vadim queries.
“Georgia,” comes her swift answer. “They have peaches there.”
I laugh at her answer, but it always seemed perfect in hindsight, since the region that Vadim’s family came from eventually became the country ‘Georgia’.
And, so, we left the hustle and bustle of New York behind to start anew—again—in Georgia. With the money from the gems, we buy a rundown plantation that Nastya is adamant about renovating. I couldn’t have guessed how well it would come together in the end—the perfect home for our perfect little family.
* * *
1 Anastasia means ‘resurrection’ or ‘to rise anew’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Anastasia
1940
It’s January once more of a new year and the world is again entrenched in another world war. At forty, I’m weary of all the fighting. I didn’t escape Russia and all the hostilities there for it to follow me forever. Thankfully, the United States maintains a separation from the war that is currently ravaging Europe, but for how long, I don’t know.
So much of the country is still recovering from the years of the Great Depression. Luckily, my family’s jewels have given us the opportunity to live without fear of money and the plantation is very self-sufficient. Our garden can grow all year round and my men and I harvest the food and preserve it ourselves.
Today, I’m in the kitchen making a pie when my daughter comes in for a snack. I hand her a fresh peach and she gets a bowl of cream to eat it with. I stare at her lovingly—it’s like looking at my eldest sister, Olga, when she was fifteen. While none of us are sure who her real father is, I know it must be Zav or Maks because of her fair coloring. But, Nikolandra doesn’t care. All of them are her fathers and she loves them equally.
“How was your day, Nikolandra?” I ask while I work.
“Nikole, mom,” my daughter reminds me with a roll of her eyes.
We might be speaking Russian, but she is one-hundred percent American.
“I know you prefer your friends and dads to call you ‘Nikole’, but your name is special. It’s a combination of Nikolai and—”
“And Alexandra,” she interrupts me in exasperation. “I know, mom. You’ve told me a hundred times. I just don’t understand why you named me after a bunch of dead Russian royalty.”
Her words catch me off-guard and I surprise us both by bursting into tears. Instantly, Nikolandra is contrite.
“I’m sorry, mom. Don’t cry, please. What’s wrong?”
It takes me a bit before I calm down enough for the sobs to subside. Even though it’s been twenty-two years, it still feels like yesterday and I can see everything in vivid detail. I clear my throat and look out the window to the trees outside. How different they are in winter than in Russia. Most still retain their leaves and greenness. I miss my motherland, and occasionally the snow, but not the cold. I love the eternal summer of southern Georgia.
Everyone knew this day would come—when Anya could once more be Nastya and tell her story, but a small part of me fears telling my daughter. The guys and I didn’t realize it then, but our travels in Helsinki, Copenhagen, and throughout Great Britain brought speculation, especially when we approached King George the Bastard—as I call him.
My name became legend—the grand duchess that managed to escape.
Over the years, many imposters have come forward and every time, I would shake my head at the insanity these women’s claims would bring. I have no wish to make my identity made public and, if these women had any brains, they wouldn’t do so, either. The USSR—what’s become of my beloved Russia—would hunt me down if they knew I was still alive.
Even living quietly in America, I’m sti
ll a threat.
I know Nikolandra can be trusted with the truth but, sometimes, I pretend that I am just Anya Roman. In the years that followed our move to the south, we met up with Maria, Dima’s sister, who was part of a circus. I loved how she shed her past to embrace her American future fully. She even spoke English without an accent. I, too, speak English well, but the others struggle to sound entirely American.
After our move to Georgia, Zav and Maks went to school to become lawyers and now have a firm in the town near our home. Dima maintained his profession as a ‘monk’; although, our time alone is anything but priestly. And Vadim and Ilya own a construction company. It turns out that after renovating our plantation home, they fell in love with the process. They have a thriving business building new homes and fixing older ones.
We want for nothing and, generally, are in the best health and happiness. Only now and again do I have moments of melancholy—mostly in April and July. But much of that has been mitigated due to my daughter. I became pregnant in 1925 and to say that I was petrified is putting it nicely. I was convinced I would lose her, too, but God answered my prayers and on my mother’s birthday, I bore a healthy baby girl.
Her name is a unique combination of my parents’ names in their memory, but it’s also an albatross that I inadvertently hung around my daughter’s neck. I can see that now with how much she fights for her own identity as ‘Nikole’. Sighing, I look at her and can’t believe it’s already been fifteen years since she was born—my one and only because I bled too much at her birth. Another child would kill me, the doctor warned and I believed him. So, I cherish Nikolandra even more so.
“I’m sorry, my solntse1. If you want to be called Nikole, I will respect that. . . but, please know that I didn’t just name you after a couple of ‘dead Russian royals’,” I quote. “Your name has a purpose and it’s not just in honor of my homeland.”
“Maybe I would understand better if you told me,” Nikolandra chides gently.
“I’m not sure you are ready. . .” I hedge and she raises a feisty eyebrow in challenge at me that makes me laugh.
She might look like my sweet and passive eldest sister, but her attitude is all mine.
I shuffle over to an old cookbook and rummage through the pages until I get to one with a picture—a newspaper cutout—of my family. It’s old and, ironically, Olga is exactly fifteen in the picture. I’m barely recognizable. Seeing it always brings a surge of nostalgia in me. I hand the clipping carefully over to her and wait while she looks at it.
“Who is this woman?” she asks shakily, pointing to Olishka.
I know that she knows it’s like looking in a mirror.
“That’s the Grand Duchess—imperial princess—Olga, the oldest Romanov child.”
“Why. . .why do I look like her so much?”
“It’s a long story, my solntse,” I caution, trying to prepare her for what I have to tell.
“I have time, mom,” she says with no small amount of sass and I laugh again.
“Oh, how I love you, my daughter. I. . . I don’t know where to start,” I admit, suddenly daunted by the thought of telling my tale.
Nikolandra places a hand over mine and gives me a reassuring squeeze.
“The beginning. Start at the beginning,” she suggests.
I think about her words and nod.
“That’s a good idea, but I think that I will start at the beginning of the end,” I say cryptically.
“That doesn’t make any sense, mom.”
“It will, I promise. It all started, long ago, once upon a time in December. . .”
* * *
1 Russian for ‘sunshine’
Chapter Thirty-Six
Anastasia
1947
It’s January again and, for once, the weather is as dreary as it should be for the month. Normally, I would hate the cold front that has swept the state but, today, it seems fitting. At nearly fifty-two years old, my dearest Dima passed away. It solidified a horrifying reality—we were getting older and weren’t immortal.
Once more, our lives feel like they are on a precarious precipice like those final months in Russia. The United States has risen as a superpower in the world—and the USSR has become their sworn enemy and competitor. It’s not a good time to be a Russian in America.
Nikolandra has since married—to a wonderful American-born man of Russian descent, like her, named Sergei—and is now pregnant. If only my Dima could have held on for a few more months, I lament, but I know my daughter and unborn grandchild have a guardian angel to look after them.
Sergei knows the truth—not only about my many husbands—but also my past. When my daughter does give birth, it’s to a healthy baby boy. She surprises me by naming him ‘Alexei Dmitrievich’. We no longer use patronyms, but she does this in honor of our heritage, my slain baby brother, and her father.
Little Alyosha is the light of my life. He takes after his father’s family and has dark hair and eyes—almost like Dima. His nature is just as gentle, too. We all dote on him terribly and it’s funny to see the gruff Ilya and Vadim be grandpas. It’s when I see my remaining husbands together with him that I miss Dima the most. He was such a family man after losing his at such a young age.
Maria kept in touch, but we were his anchors—and he was ours. Always compassionate, kind, and giving, I think of all our time together. . .and, then, I think of our first time together. I smile at the memory. Dima might be gone, but his spirit and love will forever be in my heart.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Dmitri
1920
I wake up to the cheerful sound of chirping birds. Soon, the sun will peek over the horizon and it will be a beautiful day. I climb out of bed to get dressed, comb my hair, and do my morning prayers. I walk into the hall to the restroom when I hear a very familiar moan—Nastya.
My room is closest to Vadim’s—who has taken it upon himself to leave the door open whenever she shares his bed for the night. I’m not sure if he’s doing it to tease me or goad me into action since I haven’t done anything more than kiss our lovely princess, but I am a monk—what do I know of passion compared to these men?
I know that I will never measure up to what they can do. I’ve never even slept with a woman before and Nastya is my first kiss—in a chapel, trying to flee our homeland. Maks and Zav try to convince me that the princess is waiting for me to make the first move, but I’m not so sure.
Anastasia Romanova—I mean, Anya Roman—might just be the most strong-willed person on the face of the Earth, and she doesn’t hesitate to take what she wants—including acting on her desires. I should know, living in this plantation house together for almost two years demonstrates her comfort level with all the others.
She refers to us as her ‘husbands’ and showers us with equal affection, but I still feel like an outsider looking in—I don’t know how to move forward and take our relationship to the next level. Instead, I ignore my body’s demands to make her mine and live my life as I always intended—celibately.
But, that sneaky bastard across the way is trying to break me. Most mornings when he leaves the door open, I just glimpse Nastya sleeping, her dark reddish-blond hair spread across the white sheets of their bed and her naked body barely covered.
Once, I looked over and found Vadim wide-awake, a smug smile stamped on his face while I watched our princess dream. Then, he proceeded to wake her and make love to her until I ran away. I scowl at the memory—he’s definitely taunting me. Vadim is the only one comfortable enough to do so.
While Maks and Zav are clearly in a separate relationship together—they both share a room—they mostly keep their ‘bedroom activities’ to themselves. Both are a little more adventurous, I think, than their Krasnyye counterparts, but because of the nature of their couplings, they keep it behind closed doors. None of us judge them and fully support their special bond.
Ilya is the most private of us all. He and Nastya share a room and, publicly, they ar
e married. He will kiss her and, occasionally caress her, but he very firmly keeps his carnal exploits to himself. It’s only Vadim that seems to want to break me. Maybe it’s because of what he saw all those years ago—me on my knees at my cabin touching myself to the thought of Nastya—but he seems determined to make me miserable.
I tell myself to keep walking and go straight to the restroom but, of course, I don’t listen. I stop at Vadim’s door, cracked open wide enough to see clearly inside, and see Nastya riding Vadim. Her back is to me and her long shimmering hair seems to glow in the early morning light. It sways back and forth as she bounces vigorously up and down Vadim’s shaft.
Another delicious moan escapes her lips and I involuntarily slip a hand down the front of my pants to clench my kher tightly. It’s been so long since I’ve given in to temptation that I’m afraid just the sight of her will make me explode—and by the noises that she’s making, Nastya is close, herself.
Suddenly, Vadim flips her on her back and eases out of her and off the bed. He grabs a pair of pants sitting on a nearby chair and quickly pulls them on before turning to me with an evil grin. I can see the outline of his manhood clearly straining in his trousers, but he doesn’t even acknowledge the discomfort.
“Where are you going—I was so close!” Nastya yells indelicately making me groan.
I remember where my hand is and yank it out of my pants, but not before Vadim sees—his smile only grows.
“Don’t worry, princess. I’ll be back later. Dima here will make it all better, though, won’t you, brat?”
I glare furiously at him, but he just squeezes himself around me and the door jamb and clambers off to God knows where. Nastya’s soft whimper has a distinctive sniffle that immediately has me at her side—I can handle many things, but her tears are not one of them.
“He left me,” she says in slight shock.
I focus hard on her face, refusing to let my eyes wander down the lush expanse of her body that has fully come into womanhood over the last couple of years together. She already had such a womanly figure. . .
