20. April

20

APRIL

After that, it's a landslide.

We can't keep our hands off each other. Like, we literally can't. The second we're in the same room, that spark we've worked so hard to deny flares up hotter and brighter than ever. It's exhausting. It's terrifying.

And it's sexy as all hell.

"I hate you," I gasp into Matvey's ear as he hoists me up on the table.

"Not as much as I hate you," Matvey growls back, clearing the table with one fell swoop of his arm, food and plate shards scattering everywhere on the floor.

Needless to say, these activities aren't exactly confined to the dining area. There isn't a spot in the penthouse that we haven't— ahem —re-christened. So far, we've made improper use of the couch, the carpet, the shower, all four walls, and the washing machine. Yes, while it was on.

The one thing we haven't touched is the bed. Our bed. The bed where we exchanged so many promises.

It's not something we've talked about. Lately, if there's one thing we aren't doing, it's speaking. Hell, I haven't even managed to bring up Dominic's invitation again. The heights of our conversation so far have been scathing exchanges of insults, often without clothes on. But is it really so bad that we're letting our bodies do the talking for us?

Yes! yells the last scrap of my self-awareness. You need to clear the air, not heat it up!

If only it was that simple.

One night, I haven't tucked May into bed for five full minutes before I feel his hands on me. Rough hands, treating me like a ragdoll. "Turn around," he snarls, so close to my ear I can feel the vibrations against my skin.

I do as I'm told. "Like this?" I breathe.

He doesn't give me a reply. But soon enough, I feel one of his hands slide under my dress, the other tight around my throat. "Don't move," he growls, then rips my panties off with a single yank.

I try to stay still, I really do. But the sting of the elastic band snapping around my hips makes me yelp out loud, and his grip on my neck only grows tighter in return. A punishment for disobeying.

Then he bends me over.

He spears me open without a second of prep. "Matvey," I choke, vision swimming with pleasure as he fucks me senseless over the counter. "Matvey, I'm gonna?—"

But he doesn't care what I'm gonna do. He doesn't care if I come, doesn't care if I don't, doesn't care how long or short it takes for me to fall apart. Doesn't care if it hurts .

But it hurts so good that I don't care, either.

Here's the thing: back when I was pregnant, we never had a chance to be this careless. To test the limits of my body and throw caution to the wind. But now, there's no child inside me, no precious cargo to be mindful of, and Matvey hates me. Enough to bend and break me.

What I didn't expect is how good it would feel to be broken.

"You're a sadist," I pant when he knocks me down to my knees; when he fists my hair and yanks , stuffing my mouth too full to speak.

"You're a witch," he snarls back, all animal. He slams himself all the way to the back of my throat and I wish to God it didn't make my thighs tremble like it does. "A lying, cheating vixen."

Other times, the position is reversed: he sinks down on me like a predator and locks my wrists into place, forcing me to stay. Forcing me to take it. He plunges his boiling hot tongue inside me and suddenly, I understand what it's like to be prey. To be devoured bit by bit, until nothing's left but bones.

I lose count of the orgasms. Frankly, I don't even try to keep track. I knew it would be impossible going in.

Because Matvey may hate me, but he still loves my body.

It's a furious kind of worship, like cursing at an altar. He fucks my pussy raw and acts like I'm the one ruining him. But I don't have any otherworldly powers. All I have is a streak of bad decisions, and I'm not even sure we're breaking it here.

But at least this bad decision isn't mine alone.

"Ow! Suka , that hurt!"

I snap out of my thoughts. "Sorry!" I quickly pull my pin back. "Sorry, I was just…"

"Lost in thought?" Petra huffs, arms crossed like the world's angriest mannequin. "Yeah, I noticed."

I cringe. How many of these thoughts have been showing on my face? "My bad."

"Quit apologizing. If you want to make it up to me, spill."

"It's nothing!" I lie. When in doubt, always deny. "I just haven't been sleeping well, that's all."

"Uh-huh. And has my husband been helping with that?"

Straight to the point. "You know, I feel like a homewrecker when you say it like that."

Then I catch Petra's smirk and realize: I haven't denied her accusations.

Goddammit, April. You had one job! "I mean…!"

"Save it, Flowers. We all know what you meant. Right, Pirate Cat?"

As if on cue, Mr. Buttons peeks out from May's crib to make a judgmental face. To be fair, that's just his face most of the time, but still.

"Traitor," I mutter.

"So?" Petra demands. "Have you guys kissed and made up?"

Kissed? Pretty much everywhere but on the cheek. But the rest? "I don't know about the ‘made up' part," I confess.

She frowns. "What does that even mean? You're just having hate sex all over the furniture?" I must blush to the tip of my ears, because Petra's face instantly grows horrified. "Ew, ew, ew! I did not want to know that!"

"Then don't ask!" I blush harder. "And keep still, or I'll have to start over!"

That threat seems to have the desired effect. "Fine. But I still don't get it. When I told him to treat you better, I didn't mean go back to being fuck buddies. Or is it fuck enemies now?"

"Wait a second—you told him what ?"

"To be fair, I just pointed out that he was being more of an asshole to you than to me. I have no idea why he decided to make it about sex."

"Maybe he didn't," I try. "Maybe it just… happened."

"Maybe. But he still could've thrown in an apology."

I force myself not to speak the words crowding my head: He's right not to. I don't deserve it. "It's complicated," I sigh instead.

"‘Complicated,'" Petra scoffs. "Can't relate."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. ‘Accidentally Got Myself Pregnant By My Fiancé's Brother'? What is it you can't relate to?"

"That's situationally complicated," she objects. "Everything else is pretty straightforward, really."

"Is this where you confess to me that you and Yuri are secretly a super vanilla couple?"

God, it's so weird to be thinking of them like that. The images alone make me wish I could scrub my brain with bath salts.

"Nope," Petra says proudly. It's already more than I wanted to know, but that's on me. By now, I should know better than to ask questions I don't want the answers to. "It's just… he brings me breakfast in bed."

I almost poke her with another pin. "I'm sorry, what?"

Suddenly, it's Petra's turn to flush strawberry red. "I'm just saying—he takes care of me. He likes being around me. He… loves me." She says that last part like it's something incomprehensible. "And because he loves me, he acts like it."

"Rub it in a little more, why don't you?"

"I wasn't trying to ‘rub it in,'" she air-quotes. "Just explaining what I meant."

"Funnily enough, I'm still missing that part."

She rolls her eyes like I'm a toddler. "If Matvey hates you, why is he still with you? And if he loves you, why hasn't he forgiven you?"

For a long time, I just stare at the fabric in my hands. If I'm being honest, I've been trying to wrap my head around that exact same question.

But then again, I'm the same, aren't I? I hate him. I hate his stupid face and his stupid Bratva and his stupid talk of "blood, blood, blood."

And then his hands are on me, and I just can't think.

Like I said: it's complicated.

"Can we talk about something simpler? Like the meaning of the universe?"

"Sure. How about the concept behind this dress?" Petra suggests, frowning down hard at my work-in-progress creation. "Why am I covered in leaves? Is this an Adam and Eve situation?"

"Apollo and Daphne," I correct. "Charlie gave me the idea."

"As in, your teenage brother Charlie?"

"Apparently, he's really into mythology. Go figure."

Petra hums in surprise. "Guess you really can't judge a book by its cover. I would've pegged him for a skater boy."

"He is a skater boy. And a Bernini fan."

"The duality of man." Petra's eyes stray towards her shoulder strap, now peppered with placeholder paper leaves. Ideally, those will become embroidery. Just as soon as I can catch a break from this hem, that is. "I remember this myth," she muses. "Apollo tried to rape Daphne, right? She didn't want to break her vows, so she turned into a tree."

"Takes ‘no means no' to a whole new level, right?"

"I mean, yes," she concedes, "but it's not all about that. Not really. It's a story about sacrifice."

Now, I'm stumped. "Sacrifice?"

Petra nods. "When Apollo starts chasing her, Daphne's forced into a choice: she can either submit or resist. But both options come at a cost."

"Her integrity or her freedom."

"Sure, but then there's the irony: to break free of Apollo, she has to renounce her freedom completely."

"And if she submits to his will, then she isn't truly free," I realize. "So you're saying that's the big theme here? What it truly means to be free?"

"In part."

I frown. "I still don't get it. Where's the sacrifice?"

For a moment, Petra hesitates, as if handpicking her words. "Daphne's choice isn't just between freedom and captivity," she finally says. "It's between staying in a world that could hurt her or separating herself from it. Living with scars or running away."

"Before anything can touch you," I murmur. "She paid the ultimate price for a life without pain."

"Exactly. Until it was barely a life anymore. So that's the question: what's truly important to you? How much are you willing to sacrifice, and for what?"

I turn over the myth a little more in my head. Petra's explanation has opened up new interpretations. Shades of gray I hadn't considered before. "So it's not about the abuse? Not really?"

"I mean, there's that, too, but come on. This was ancient Greece. Have you ever read what Zeus got up to?"

"Suddenly, I'm not sure I want to know."

As I get back to work, Petra's words keep swirling in my mind. About Daphne's story—and about sacrifice. About the price you're willing to pay.

Then I think of Matvey. Of our nights of fire and brimstone, and then our days of ice and snow. And I can't help but wonder…

What price am I willing to pay?