Chapter Text
"You traded me away at cards?"
Mal blinks at her, blue eyes wet and confused. She can smell the liquor on his breath. "It sounds bad when you put it that way."
"Don't worry, Mrs. Oretsev," says the smirking man in the armchair. "I'll play nice if you do."
Her whole body shaking, Alina looks between her husband and the man who’s won her.
She knew already that Mal could act stupid sometimes — wasn’t getting married to another poor orphan like Alina at the age of nineteen evidence enough of that? — but she never thought that he could do something like this. Mal had changed so much since he started working for that awful Brekker guy. He said it was fine because the money was good, but at least half of that money seemed to disappear in bills from the liquor store. And now look at just what he’d brought into what was supposed to be their home, the first home they’d ever had —
At least, she thinks, and realizes as she does that this nightmare is going to become real, he’s good-looking for a creep and a stranger. Yeah, he wears his beauty as easy as that suit she noticed earlier tonight. It’s far too nice to belong to any friend of Mal’s.
A man who looks like he bleeds money has no cause to be sitting in their humble little two-room basement apartment, drinking their awful booze, playing for small stakes at their plywood table.
“Mal —” she says desperately. He’s her last chance.
And Mal does look at the man. He’s got a stormy expression on his face, that face she’s always thought of as the icon of perfection. “Morozov, do you gotta —”
“It’s that or the money,” the man says, and to Alina’s horror, that shuts Mal right up. Her husband doesn’t look at her. Instead he grabs for the half-empty bottle of liquor left on the table and takes a swig.
“Just one night.” Mal is speaking to the wall instead of the other two people in the room. “Just one night.”
It’s just as well he doesn’t look up. Alina and the man — Morozov — are staring at each other.
She tenses as he unfolds himself from his chair, lazy and deliberate as some big mean-eyed cat. When she first saw him earlier tonight, shoving dinner onto the table before she went to bed and left the boys to their precious game, she didn’t realize quite how tall he was. When he covers the distance between them in a few long strides, he towers over her. “Well, Mrs. Oretsev, shall we?”
The hand he holds out to her is big. It might be bigger than Mal’s. She thinks the fingers are longer.
She doesn’t take it or do a damned thing otherwise. Anger has her frozen. She wonders how much Mal has sold her for. How much did he lose at the cards tonight?
Morozov gives a short bark of a laugh and grabs her wrist. His grip is not painful, but feels as solid as she always imagined a cop’s handcuffs might.
Out of the corner of her eye she sees Mal start to sober up and realize what he's done just as his “friend” is pulling her out the door. But she doesn't look back.
“Where are we going?” she asks the stranger.
“I’m at the Park Hotel,” he says. Alina frowns. She didn’t know they let gangsters into a joint like that. “My driver is waiting outside.”
His driver? Who is this man? Certainly, he’s no one who belongs in her humble little life. And yet he’s warm and solid and very tall and his smile as he looks back at her is — radiant. He might be ten or twenty years older than her, but the joy in his eyes makes him look, for an instant, as innocent as a little boy.
Alina lets him lead her to a big sedan. He opens the door for her and hands her in, as if she doesn’t know how to sit in a car herself. Of course, she doesn’t ride in one terribly often, but that isn’t any of his business. All this gallantry makes her nose itch.
Morozov settles in beside her, far too close for her to rest easy despite the comfort of the upholstery, but she doesn’t bother to try to get away. The interior smells like the leather of the seats and — something else, something spicy and rich. His cologne, maybe, Alina thinks with a little shiver. It’s like she’s been swallowed up inside him already.
A hand on her knee makes her jump a little. “Tell me, Mrs. Oretsev. Have you and Malyen been married for very long?”
Is he getting off on the knowledge that he’s stealing her from Mal? What a pig. Yes, she should focus on what a bad man he clearly is, and ignore all these novel sensations. Alina has a feeling that something dreadful will happen to her if she doesn’t. “Eight months.”
“And how did you two meet?”
She blinks at him. It seems a strange question to her, because she doesn’t remember meeting Mal. He was just always there. She couldn’t even tell anymore which one of them showed up at the orphanage first. “Don’t you know?”
“He doesn’t talk about you that much.” His long fingers are sliding up her thigh, tracing dangerously close to the bare skin above her stocking where her skirt has ridden up. “I can imagine any number of reasons why.”
Alina can’t. The thought that Mal might be keeping her a dirty secret just stings. But she isn’t ashamed of where she came from, so she might as well tell Morozov the truth. “We met at Saint Ursula’s Home for Innocents.”
“Ah. Innocents,” he breathes, and his face dips close to hers. She thinks for sure that he’s about to kiss her, but instead his nose brushes her neck, as if he’s taking in the scent of her. His hair brushes at her pulse.
Alina barely hears the rest of his questions during the short ride. She’s wondering when he will kiss her, and what it will be like when he does.
In fact, it doesn’t happen until they’re in the elevator going up to his room.
It's not like kissing a drunk stranger at a dance hall to catch Mal's eye. It's not like kissing Mal. Morozov has her pinned against the wall, almost lifted in the air so he can feast on her mouth without impediment, her jaw in the vice of his grip.
He is taller than Mal, after all. She knows because she doesn’t have to strain this much on tiptoes when she kisses her husband.
The ding that announces their floor is almost unwelcome. She shouldn’t want to be kissing this man who isn’t the one she belongs to — but the man she belongs to sent her here, and — is it so wrong if she enjoys herself?
Maybe not so wrong, Alina thinks as he leads her by the hand to his door, but very dangerous.
The room isn’t just a room but a whole suite. Alina never imagined standing in the midst of so much luxury, finer even than the house she saw working as a maid. In her poverty, she’s too proud to gape. Instead she marches to the window and takes in the view of the sleeping city while he pours them drinks from what looks like an extraordinarily well-supplied liquor cabinet.
Mal really is an idiot, she reflects sadly. He should have called this man “Mr.” Morozov, at least. Rich men, powerful men — they expect respect whether they’ve really earned it or not, and they act like children when they don’t get it. Even Alina knows that.
She’ll be smarter, she decides. She’ll get out of this in good order, and if she’s lucky, she’ll wheedle some extra money out of him, something that will let Mal take a break so he doesn’t have to do as much work for Brekker this month. Of course, she has no idea how she’s going to do it, exactly, but it’s the sort of thing a smart girl would do in this situation. Isn’t it?
When Mr. Morozov comes up to her and passes her her drink, she uses this plan as an excuse to smile at him, and to enjoy the smile he gives her in return.
The liquor burns her throat going down and she can’t help but cough a little. She sees his wicked eyes dance with delight, but it isn’t her fault that she drinks less and less the more she sees of what the stuff does to Mal.
He takes a sip from his own glass, downing the amber poison as easily as if it were pure water, and reaches out to pet her cheek. "You as good as asked me for this, you know."
She doesn't even know his first name, and he’s talking to her as familiarly as a lover, or a husband. It’s infuriating enough to almost make her forget her resolutions. "How did I do that?"
"You ran away tonight as if you couldn't stand your dear husband's company. Didn’t even serve the dinner you cooked, hmm?” He smirks knowingly in the face of her anger. “You seem like a good little housekeeper, but you could use some lessons in how a hostess should behave. For a start, she shouldn’t look at strange men like I saw you looking at me."
Alina sees red. Before she knows quite what she’s doing she’s slammed the glass down on the sideboard — not without a pang at the liquid splashing over the brim onto the polished wood — and her hand is pulled back to slap him. Fortunately for them both, he’s anticipated her. He’s smiling pleasantly as he grabs her wrist and draws her close, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand.
At least her mouth is still free to retort, “Like you were looking at me, you mean!”
“Of course I was,” he says baldly. “I had to see if everything I’d heard about Oretsev’s pretty little wife was true.”
This shocks her into silence. But she knew there had to be a reason why a man like him would show up for one of Mal’s card nights. The reason — was Alina?
“I thought he might fight harder for you,” he continues. His thumb is stroking her palm. It’s the best distraction she has from the buzzing in her ears, because both his voice and the things he’s using it to say are — maddening.
“He knows better,” Alina says. The bitterness seeps into her tone, like leaking water from the pipes above stains the ceiling of the apartment Mal pays for them to live in. She steals a glance around the hotel room. This is the sort of place where someone immediately fixes anything that goes wrong, and the damage never shows. “I don’t know you, but he seems to. And he knows better.”
“You’re very generous with him.” But he releases her with this comment, stepping back to look her up and down as if weighing his prize with his eyes. Alina wonders if he thinks she’s worth Mal’s losses. “You must love him very much.”
In all her years of knowing Mal, Alina has never doubted that this is true. But when the man in front of her says it, she realizes — “Did you bring me here to talk?”
That earns her a low chuckle and a flash of something — danger! — in his expression before he smooths it back into his pretty, polite smile. “I brought you here to do whatever I want. Surely you’re a grown enough girl to understand that, Mrs. Oretsev.”
Damn it. She really doesn’t like it when he calls her that. Why does Mal’s name, the one she was so happy to take, feel like an insult on his lips? “And is talking what you want, Mr. Morozov?”
Long fingers ghost across her hipbones and trace the waistline of her plain skirt, pressing at her belly through her blouse. “It’s a start. Why don’t you tell me what you think I’m going to require of you tonight?”
Alina stares at him, hoping that her expression contains all the contempt and incredulity she feels. “I’m going to —”
His smile widens at the tremor in her voice.
“I’m going to go to bed with you,” she says in a rush. “What else does a man ask from a woman he’s bought?”
“Oh, you’re going to bed with me.” Is he licking his fucking lips? “And will I be satisfied with that? The two of us sleeping in one bed, chaste as kittens? Is that enough for young Malyen?”
He must know Mal better than she thought. “You two seem pretty familiar with each other. Can’t you make your own guesses?”
“Ah, ah.” His finger brushes her lips. They feel tender as the petals of a daisy from the kisses earlier. He’s still holding her firmly by the wrist with his other hand. “I asked first. Don’t you want to answer me?”
What answer does he expect? Alina used to overhear a lot of talk in the orphanage, sometimes from girls much younger than herself, about what kinds of things men want in bed. Strange daydreams would fill up her head, even if she had nothing to contribute to the conversation back then. But she’s not a virgin any longer. She has her nights when Mal is home and sober, once or twice a week, most weeks… most weeks, isn’t it?
So she does know what kind of answer to give this big scary gangster — no, this man who thinks he’s a big scary gangster —
“Do you want me to —” Get the words out, Alina. “Do you want me to blow you?”
His eyes widen just a little before they narrow back down on her, but she can’t tell if he likes the idea or is just amazed at what an idiot he’s bought for the night. “That could be a start. What else?”
“You’re going to want to… put it in… I guess?” He must. But why is he making her say it?
The hand that’s been caressing the skin behind her ear fists in her hair. She feels him pulling a little too hard at the roots and her head spins, like she might fall down if he weren’t holding her up. “One thing you should learn about me is that I don’t like vague answers, Mrs. Oretsev. So try to be specific. What will I want to put where?”
Her rising panic makes her use the words that Mal whispers in her ear when he gets home from work. “Your cock in my — my — you’re going to want to fuck my pussy.”
Something ghosts across her belly and she gasps. The feeling has grown. It’s like there’s a fire in there, but it’s got weight, and his fingers make it fall down and crush her every last nerve. She looks up at his wide smile. He has so many white teeth. “So you’re going to blow me and then I’m going to fuck your pussy. Is that right, pretty thing?”
Alina has a feeling there are some other steps that might help the process along, but she’s forgotten most all of them. His mouth is so close to hers. If he would just kiss her again —
“I said, is that right?” The hand that was barely feeling the warmth gathering at the line of her panties under her skirt trails up to her throat. His thumb taps her pulse. Like he’d pressed a button, her knees give out, and he barely catches her.
“Ah-ah.”
Now he’s holding her by the waist and her palms are flat against his chest. He’s strong under the fancy suit, she can tell —
“Careful, darling. I need to send you back to your husband in one piece, don’t I?”
Husband. That’s right. Alina has one of those.
“When you get on your knees, you need to go slowly and carefully.” There’s the flash of a grin and gentle hands are pushing her down in front of him.
Then the same hands are gripping her skull between them and he’s pressing her face to the front of his trousers, rubbing her nose and lips against something straining there. The wool is a little rough but her mouth opens up anyway quite despite herself and she tongues the fabric. At least it mostly stifles her moan.
“You’re a married woman.” His tone is mocking. “I assume you know what to do with what I’ve got for you here.”
“Of course I do,” she snaps, slapping at one of his wrists so he lets go of her head, and taking the chance to unbutton his fly. “I said I was going to, didn’t I?”
She does know about blowjobs. Mal likes them, after all. He doesn’t last very long in her mouth, so she doesn’t mind doing it. This won’t be any different.
Then she pulls out the thing she felt under itchy fabric a moment ago. Oh. Some things might be different.
She glances up at his eyes and sees them gone dark. His pupils are voids sucking in her image. Alina looks down guiltily, back at the dick in front of her.
She swallows a breath and then swallows it.
At least, she does her best. She knows she can take Mal in one go, but Morozov gets stuck at the back of her throat when she isn’t even halfway down. There’s a breathless sort of chuckle above her. Oh, does he like this?
If she can take him deeper, will he make that sound again?
Down she goes again, and this time she’s careful to hollow out space for him by stretching her neck and gulping down as if for air. Her lips and throat play helplessly against his length, resisting the intrusion her body knows by instinct could be fatal, but she does what they taught her in the orphanage school and puts spirit over matter. All she wants is to hear him crack louder than she feels herself breaking.
But his voice is calm when she hears it again.
“Oh, no, you’re choking on it. Let me help you out with that.”
He takes hold of her hair, barely guiding her with his fingertips this time. She tries to move just as he wants her to, all the way in but then back out in time for her to catch her breath. Again and again she goes down on him until her eyes and nose are leaking too much to see the triumphant expression on his face.
She should hate it — she does hate him — she’ll hate all of it again, as soon as she’s —
A coarse little oath above her and he’s pulling her on and off him, slamming the breath out of her, all his careful regard shattered. She flattens her hands on his thighs — his muscles are moving like the big waves at the beach — and lets him press all his need down into her. She knows, oh, she knows he won’t be too long now —
“That’s enough,” he snarls, wrenching her off. She blinks up at him, confused and strangely disappointed. Why doesn’t he want to come for her? She’d like to triumph over him, even if it means she has to choke on it —
But there is consolation in the sweetness of his smile as he stares down at her, fisting the dick he denied her. Instead of cleaning it off or demanding that she do so, he pushes the weeping cock on top of her face, the softness of his balls pressing against her nose. Alina breathes in.
“That’s right. Just let it rest there. That looks good on you, doesn’t it?”
She nods only a little, not wanting to disturb the heavy flesh, wet with her own spit, that’s stretched across her brow. Something is leaking onto her forehead. She doesn’t care.
“So that’s item number one. You’ve — in your words — blown me. A nice effort — I can tell how hard you tried to please.”
There is a hum in her ears like the busy gnats in the church garden in summertime. He wipes his cock off on her hair. Then Alina watches him descend to her level.
Kneeling with her, almost over her, on the carpet, in his clothes that she could no more describe than she could afford, he pulls her legs open and makes a sound she fears is disapproving when he sees the ugly, baggy underwear that comes so cheap at the kopek market by the tram station. Fingers worry the cloth over the tangled hair above her mound for too brief an instant.
He pinches the scant flesh at her inner thigh and she against her will gives up a puppy’s scared yip. A tolerant smile breaks over that elegant face as he unloosens his tie. She wonders a little frantically how much she’ll get to see of his skin tonight. After all, she only has this one night before she has to go back to her life, her duty, the burdens she must carry alone.
The fabric at her crotch pushed aside, he sighs as he traces around something that she never knew ached like this. All of her throbs with the stroke, but he doesn’t look satisfied.
“Now, you didn’t mention anything else you thought I was going to do with you, other than giving me your cunt, but you’re such a sweet little girl that I think you deserve having a nice bone thrown at you. Look at this hole. Is it really ready for my cock? Or do you want to ask me to work it nice and open before I fuck it?”