The exit strategy

Santiago adjusted the collar of his coat against the biting wind, his boots crunching on the frost-covered gravel as he studied me. We stood in the desolate open space of Chelobityevo, the grey Russian sky stretching endlessly above us. He maintained that sharp, analytical gaze that had served my ex-husband so well for years. The weight of the Romanov revelation was still hanging in the air, thick and suffocating, but Santiago was already moving on to the tactical reality of my escape.

"You mentioned a colleague, Marie," Santiago said, his voice barely a murmur to keep the wind from carrying it too far. "This isn't just about moving one person across a border anymore. You told me you needed a permanent exit for yourself and a 'friend.' Who is he? Who is this person you’ve tethered your survival to?"

I watched a hawk circle slowly over the distant, barren fields before meeting his eyes. "His name is Boris. He’s been in the business as long as I have, maybe longer. He’s spent fifteen years as my shadow, my cleaner, and occasionally the only reason my heart is still beating."

Santiago’s brow furrowed as he looked around the empty landscape, ensuring we were still alone. "A professional. That makes things... complicated. Bringing a second operative out of Russia, especially one with that kind of history, doubles the risk. Is he worth it?"

"He’s the only thing in this godforsaken country that I actually value," I replied, the ice in my voice leaving no room for negotiation. "I gave him my word. When I burn this life down, I’m not leaving him in the wreckage to be picked apart by the Kremlin. He’s important to me, Santiago. More important than the politics or the money."

Santiago tapped his fingers against his folded arms, his mind likely calculating the cost of extra falsified documents and high-risk extraction points. "And have you contacted him? Does he know the clock is ticking?"

"I sent word before I even reached this meeting. Boris will be at the safehouse in three to five days. He’ll be ready to move when we are."

Santiago nodded slowly, a grim respect flickering in his eyes as he leaned against a rusted fence post. "Good. Because once the Kremlin realizes you aren't just another asset—once they truly accept what that DNA test means—they won't just want your blood for a vial. They’ll want your life to ensure the line stays dead. We don't have time for hesitation."

"I'm not hesitating," I said, stepping closer to him so our voices stayed low.

Santiago looked at me, his expression turning solemn. "There is one more thing you need to accept, Marie. Once you cross that border, once you leave Russia behind—DNA test or not—you won't be allowed back for a very long time. Probably ever. You are closing a door that has been open for many years."

I met his gaze without blinking, the cold wind whipping my hair across my face. "I understand, Santiago."

He hesitated for a moment, his professional mask slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of personal curiosity. "Xavier still asks about you. Can I tell him I saw you?"

I didn't have to think about the answer. "No. You tell him nothing. Xavier needs to accept that I am no longer in his life. As far as he is concerned, Santiago, I need you to let him see me as dead. It's the only way he moves on, and it's the only way I stay safe."

Santiago sighed, the sound lost to the wind, and gave a single, sharp nod of understanding. "Understood, Marie. Consider it buried."

"Thank you, Santiago," I said, offering a rare moment of genuine gratitude. "I’ll let you know when Boris arrives."

Santiago checked his watch, his posture suddenly stiffening with professional urgency. "I need to get back to Riga," he said, his eyes scanning the horizon. "Latvia doesn’t know that I left the country and Russia doesn’t know that I entered the country. If the Russian government catches wind of this meeting, the paperwork will be the least of our problems."

I watched him walk back toward his vehicle, his figure merging with the grey landscape.

Once Santiago was gone, I didn't linger. The silence of the fields was too heavy, too full of things that had already been decided. I climbed back into the car I had hotwired earlier, the engine turning over with a reluctant, mechanical groan. I drove through the outskirts of Moscow, weaving through the late afternoon traffic with the practiced anonymity of someone who had spent their life disappearing.

When I was within twelve blocks of the safehouse, I found the same street where I’d initially taken the car. I slotted it back into the space, wiped down the ignition and the door handle, and stepped out into the cold. I walked the rest of the way, my hood up, eyes tracking the shadows of the doorways and the reflections in the shop windows.

The air inside the safehouse was stale, smelling of old wood and the copper tang of nervous energy. Bob was there, exactly where I had left him, his silhouette framed against the dim light of the kitchen. He didn't say a word as I locked the door behind me, but his silence was loud enough to fill the room. He had been waiting, counting the minutes of my absence, and I could tell by the set of his shoulders that he was ready for whatever truth I was bringing back with me.

I turned to face him, the cold from outside still clinging to my skin. "He’s heading back to Latvia. They don’t know he left and Russia doesn’t know he was here. He’s going to facilitate the exit for all three of us."

"All three of us?" Bob’s eyes narrowed. "Hopefully, you told him about Boris."

"I told him that it’s mandatory that Boris comes with us. I told him he’s non-negotiable." I stepped into the kitchen, the floorboards groaning under my boots. "But there’s a catch, Bob. A permanent one."

"There always is with Santiago," Bob muttered. "What's the price?"

“He was very clear,” I said. “Once we cross that border, we don’t come back. Not in five years, not in ten. As far as Russia is concerned—and as far as the world is concerned—the Romanov line ends with us.”

Bob let out a short, harsh breath that might have been a laugh in another life. "I've been a ghost in this country for years, Marie. The only difference is now the grave will be outside the fence." He looked at me, his gaze searching. "Are you really okay with that? Leaving everything? The life you built in working in different governments and our real names?"

"I'm more than okay with it," I replied, my voice steady. "I'm ready. I told him to tell Xavier picture me as dead; as he should’ve done when I divorced him and sent his pathetic ass to prison. It’s the only way you and I survive the fallout."

Bob nodded slowly. "And Boris as well."

I took a breath, scanning the small room and feeling the clock ticking against us. "We need to pack up and move. Now."

"What happened?" Bob asked, his hand hovering over his bag.

"I hotwired a car to meet Santiago," I explained, already grabbing my gear. "When I parked it back where I found it, people saw me. We can't stay here another hour."

Bob groaned, the sound of a man who had put up with me hotwiring vehicles too many times in his kid sister's lifetime. "Fine. Let's go."

It took only a few minutes to gather our things and leave. We abandoned the stale air of the safehouse, slipping back into the biting cold of the Moscow streets. We headed to the only other safe place I could think of—the Metropol Hotel.

When we arrived and entered the lobby, the opulence of the hotel felt like a different world compared to the grit of the streets we had just left. I noticed Fritz was at reception, his movements as polished and efficient as ever. He looked up as we approached, his expression neutral but welcoming.

"Welcome back, Miss Smith," Fritz said, his eyes flicking briefly to Bob. "Is this your brother? You always said how much you both look alike."

"It is him, Fritz," I said, a faint, tired smile touching my lips.

Fritz nodded, a spark of professional curiosity in his eyes as he and Bob began chatting. Bob fell into the role of the weary traveling sibling with ease, engaging Fritz in the kind of low-stakes conversation that kept suspicions at bay. Bob was the perfect person to put questions at bay as he is a restaurateur and can schmooze anyone for anything that he needed. While Fritz studied his computer, trying to decide where to place us in the fully booked hotel, the tension in my chest tightened.

"To make it easier for you, Fritz," I interjected, leaning slightly over the counter, "would it be okay if I used the room I had the last time?"

“Hmmmmm, I don’t think so as it hasn’t been cleaned yet,” he said. “Let me check with the boss。”

Since I knew that he had to place a call to the owner of the hotel, I pulled Bob aside.

"When were you here last?" Bob asked.

"Last night with K," I said as I kept my back to the desk. "It’s the only room in this hotel that’s truly secure. Only the owner, Sera, Fritz, and I know about it." I paused, glancing back at the reception. "Oh, and the owner’s personal house cleaner, of course. We need that room, Bob. It's about laying low until Boris arrives and we can get out of here."

We spent a few minutes in silence, watching Fritz as he spoke into the phone. The lobby was quiet, the heavy velvet curtains muffling the sounds of the city outside. Finally, Fritz hung up and turned back to us with a sharp nod.

"The owner has approved it," Fritz said. "We can use the room, but we need about forty-five minutes to clean it and set it up for both of you. I’ll bring up your belongings to store in the large wall safe in that room so you don’t need to drag everything around with you."

He leaned in slightly, a rare touch of informal hospitality breaking through his professional mask. "In the meantime, there is a hole-in-the-wall ramen restaurant two blocks over that I recommend. It’s quiet, and the food is authentic. Please let them know that I sent you."

“Thanks so much, Fritz,” I said as I was taking off my backpack and Bob placing my duffle bags and his one bag on the counter. “Which way do we need to take to the restaurant?”

“Go north west,” he said. I nodded.

We stepped back out into the Moscow chill, the heavy gold-trimmed doors of the Metropol clicking shut behind us. The transition from the hotel's climate-controlled elegance to the raw, biting air of the street was a sharp reminder of the world we were trying to navigate. I adjusted my scarf, my eyes automatically scanning the passing cars and the figures huddled in doorways. Bob walked beside me, his stride steady, though I could feel the alertness radiating off him.

Following Fritz's directions, we turned northwest. The city was beginning to settle into the early evening, the streetlamps casting long, distorted shadows across the pavement. Two blocks felt longer than they should have when every set of headlights felt like a spotlight.

The restaurant was exactly as Fritz described: a narrow, unassuming doorway tucked between a closed tailor shop and a darkened bookstore. We stepped inside, the heat hitting us instantly, along with the steam from the open kitchen. The place was small—just a few stools at a wooden counter and three cramped booths. It was the kind of place where you could disappear into the steam, exactly where we needed to be.

Polina emerged from the kitchen with food to serve to customers at a table. She froze for a second when she saw me, then a look of recognition softened her features. After placing the food on the table for the couple that was there, she began taking off her apron then came over.

"Polina?" I asked, surprised to see her in such a different environment. "What are you doing here?"

"The salon job is my primary job," she explained with a tired but kind smile, "but I work here on my days off from the salon. A girl has to stay busy in this city."

"I apologize for my manners," I said, feeling a rare moment of social clumsiness given the high stakes of the day. "I didn't expect to run into a familiar face." I gestured toward Bob. "This is my brother, Artem Alexandrovich. But he prefers to be called Bob."

"A pleasure to meet you, Bob," Polina said.

"The pleasure is mine," Bob replied, extending a hand. They shook hands, and then, in a rare display of emotion, Bob stepped forward and gave Polina a hug. "Thank you," he whispered, "for changing her appearance and for sending for your brother."

When Polina broke their hug, looking slightly flustered but touched, I spoke up. "Polina, I spoke with a lawyer friend of mine a few hours ago. He's willing to help Boris get out of his government work, but you need to know there's a good chance he won't be welcomed back here any time soon once we leave."

The steam from the kitchen swirled between us, Polina’s eyes reflecting the weight of my words. She went quiet for a moment, her gaze dropping to the wooden floor. "I will miss him," she said softly, "but I will follow him eventually on my own. I'm saving my money to leave this country forever."

I turned to Polina. "We've taken up so much of your time away from cooking with just talking so we'll take a table and order with someone."

She thanked me, and we sat at the one table that was empty. Once we sat down, a server came over to us. "Good evening," he said with a slight bow. "You don't need to look at the menu. A friend of the house, Mr. Fritz, has already placed an order for you. It will be out shortly."

"Fritz is thorough," Bob remarked.

"Spasibo,” I said to the server. He nodded then left to join the kitchen activity. Within minutes, the server returned, placing a small bottle of chilled, expensive vodka and two heavy shot glasses on the table.

"Compliments of Fritz," the server added before disappearing back into the steam.

I reached for the bottle, feeling the condensation on the glass. "Be careful with this, Bob," I warned, pouring a steady measure into each glass. "The vodka here is significantly stronger than back home. It doesn't just burn; it takes your breath away."

Bob picked up his glass, eyeing the clear liquid. "After today, Marie, I think taking my breath away is exactly what I need."

In a matter of minutes, so many varieties of ramen were delivered to the table. Huge, steaming bowls of tonkotsu, spicy miso, and shoyu, each topped with perfectly marbled pork and soft-boiled eggs, filled the small space between us. We didn't talk much; the gravity of the situation and the sheer volume of food demanded our full attention. It took forever to eat all of it and consume all of the broth, the heat of the soup finally driving the lingering chill of Chelobityevo from my bones.

When the time came to leave, I signaled for the bill. As I paid, I tucked a thick envelope into the folder. Inside was a wad of rubles I had gathered—a small fortune in this economy. I wrote Polina’s name on the front in clear, precise script. I knew she would need it to follow Boris, to buy her own way out when the time was right. I left it on the table as we stood to go, a silent thank you for a loyalty that money couldn't truly buy, but could certainly protect.

We left the heat of the ramen shop and headed back to the Metropol Hotel. The night air was even colder now, the frost beginning to sparkle on the statues surrounding the square. Fritz was still at the desk when we pushed through the revolving doors. I walked straight to the counter, Bob following just behind.

"Fritz," I said, leaning in. "Thank you. Leading us to Polina was more helpful than I can say."

Fritz looked up, his expression softening into something abashedly warm. "I'm more than happy to help you, Deppgrl," he said softly, using the name that hinted at our long, strange history.

"I appreciate you, Fritz," I said, holding his gaze for a second. "And I appreciate your assistance with everything today."

He didn't say anything further, simply giving a short, respectful nod of acknowledgment. He glanced around the lobby to ensure no one was watching before sliding a cool, heavy metal key across the polished wood and into my hand. "The room is ready. Your things are already secured inside."

I closed my fingers over the key, the metal bite of it grounding me. Without another word, I signaled to Bob and led my brother toward the elevators, leaving the safety of the lobby for the sanctuary of the room upstairs.

 

The safehouse return

The cold Moscow air bit at my face, a sharp contrast to the lingering heat of the night K and I had just shared. I knew I wouldn't see him again, but the memory was worth the price. To pull off a rendezvous like this, he’d had to lie through his teeth to the school where we’d once taught as colleagues—spinning some elaborate fiction about a family emergency out of state forty-eight hours before flying halfway across the world. Now, he was facing the brutal reality of a flight home and the kind of jetlag that makes the world feel like it’s underwater.

In the few minutes it took to walk back to the safehouse, I opened the secure messaging app to update Sera. Her response was a rapid-fire sequence of texts that vibrated against my palm.

Vic is in the air. Good riddance.

Bob is anxiously waiting for you. He’ve been pacing like a caged animal. Listen, Marie, I can’t be in contact for a while. I told my wife I saw you yesterday. She didn’t appreciate the secrecy, even knowing it was a need-to-know situation. I have to smooth things over at home.

Before I could process the sudden radio silence from my handler, the third text arrived, dripping with her characteristic possessiveness.

Don’t think you’re off the hook. I’m still tracking you. I’ll have eyes on you every second you’re in Russia, every mile of the flight home, and for about two years after you land. I didn’t bother replying. The idea of Sera’s "eyes" was both a comfort and a curse—a digital leash that reminded me I was never truly alone, for better or worse.

The smell of stale coffee and concentrated tension hit me the moment I stepped back into the safehouse. Bob was a dark silhouette against the grey Moscow light filtering through the window.

"You're late," he said, his voice gravelly. He didn't turn around. "Or early. I've lost track of time watching you move through this city."

"I'm here, Bob. That's the only metric that matters," I replied, shedding my coat and locking the door.

He turned then, a dry, humorless smile twisting his features. "I'm glad you're safe, Marie. Truly. But your social circle is a goddamn nightmare. I’ve had three different 'anonymous' calls in the last hour confirming your location within a six-block radius. They claim they aren't tracking you, and yet here we are. It’s a fucking circus."

I ignored the jab, sitting on the edge of the worn sofa. "We need to talk about the exit strategy, Bob. When I pull the plug on this life, I’m not doing it alone. I’m bringing Boris out with us."

Bob stopped his pacing, his eyes narrowing. "Boris? You want to drag a ghost into a defection?"

"He's been my shadow for fifteen years. He’s kept me breathing through every suicidal assignment the Kremlin threw my way. I’m not leaving him behind to be liquidated the second I'm gone."

Bob’s expression softened, just a fraction. He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling a long, weary breath. "I know what he means to you, Marie. And I know it’s more than just his usefulness—though God knows he’s been your shield. If we’re burning this bridge, we do it right. No one who matters gets left in the fire."

"He matters," I said, the words final.

"Then he’s coming," Bob promised. "But we have to survive the Kremlin first."

I groaned, the weight of the city pressing down on my shoulders. "While you were out... occupied..." Bob started.

"I was fucking K, Bob. Let’s not use euphemisms. Get to the point."

My brother didn't even blink. "The Kremlin wants to redo the DNA test. They’re ignoring the results from Doc’s mechanic. They want their own samples, and they want you in the room when they take them."

"I'm not stepping foot in that building without security."

"You have me," Bob countered.

"No, Bob. In that house? You're a target, not a shield. I need Boris."

Bob nodded, accepting the tactical reality. "Then get him here. ASAP." He looked around the cramped, dingy room. "Am I going to have to listen to you two through these paper-thin walls?"

I laughed, the sound sharp and cynical. "Relax. If we’re going to fuck, we’ll find somewhere that doesn't smell like your anxiety. I’m not that much of a prick."

"Fine. When is he getting here?"

"Three to five days," I said.

Bob’s mask slid back into place. "Make the calls. Get him here."

I pulled out my phone and dialed Santiago, Xavier’s attorney. He picked up on the second ring, with surprise in his voice.

“Santi, it’s Deppgrl,” I said to my old friend. “I need help but you’re the only one from home that I trust to help me out.”

"Deppgrl. I wasn't expecting a call from you anytime soon."

“I know,” I said. I didn't bother with niceties when I explained everything. "You know the true work I do and I need help. The situation is hot and I need a permanent exit for myself and a colleague to get out of this work. Now."

"Understood," he said, shifting into professional mode. "Where are you?"

"Moscow, Russia."

"I'm in Riga, Latvia. I can have a private transport fueled and be there in two hours."

"Meet me in Chelobityevo. It’s quieter. I’ll spot a tail easier on those roads."

"Two hours. Stay dark, Deppgrl."

I hung up and went to the back room to change into something nondescript—a jacket that hid my frame and colors that blended into the Russian sprawl. I checked my reflection one last time before heading out.

"I'm off to see a friend, then Chelobityevo," I told Bob. "Do not follow me. I mean it."

Bob nodded, his jaw tight, but he stayed put.

I didn't head for the outskirts immediately. I doubled back to the salon and found Polina. The family resemblance was a flare in the dark; I’d known she was Boris’s sister the moment I saw her yesterday. I pulled her aside, away from the other stylists.

"I need Boris here, Polina. Tell him it’s time."

She searched my face, seeing the gravity of the request. "It will take a few days," she whispered, "but I'll send him."

“He will disappear for a bit but when he can, he or I will reach out,” I said.

“I understand, Marie Alexdrovna,” she said.

I thanked her and drove to Chelobityevo. I was late, having stopped to eat; my body needed the fuel for whatever was coming next. When I arrived, Santiago was already waiting. In my drab clothes and with the exhaustion etched into my face, he looked right through me at first.

"Deppgrl?" he asked tentatively as I approached. When I apologized for the delay, he let out a breath of relief. "I'm just glad you're breathing. You look like you've been through a war."

"The war's just starting," I said, standing across from him. I didn't waste time on small talk. "Santiago, look at me. I’ve known since I was a child that Bob and I didn't fit in with our family and especially with our sister. Certainly, not with the life we were given. Now I know why." I leaned forward. "I’m not just a client in need of help. I’m Marie Alexandrovna Romanov. And Bob’s real identity is Artem Alexandrovich Romanov. He’s my biological brother from the very beginning. As far as I know, we are the last of a direct line they thought they ended in a basement in 1918."

Santiago’s eyes went wide, the name "Deppgrl" clearly vanishing from his mind as the weight of the revelation hit him. "You're saying that you have proof of this? Real proof?"

"Doc’s mechanic ran a DNA profile against the markers of Czar Nicholas II’s father. It was a perfect match. The Kremlin has caught the scent, and they’re coming for their own pound of flesh."

Santiago leaned back, his mind clearly mapping out the legal and lethal ramifications. "A mechanic ran the DNA test? If those markers are real," he whispered, "this isn't just an exit strategy anymore. It's a geopolitical earthquake."

“The mechanic was a former nurse in a previous lifetime,” I said. “I knew that I could trust him as he had been my nurse a few times here over the years. Calling it a geopolitical earthquake is a nice way to put it.”

The Romanov Enigma: Shadow of a Ghost

Polina’s question hung in the air, thick with the weight of a history that was supposed to be buried under decades of snow and revolution. She stared at me through the mirror, her fingers trembling as they hovered near my face.

"I have no idea what you’re talking about," I said, my voice dropping into a low tone. I didn't flinch nor did I blink. I simply met her gaze with a coldness that made the air between us turn brittle. "I came here for a service, Polina. I suggest you focus on doing it."

Polina swallowed hard, the color draining from her cheeks. She knew she had stepped over an invisible line, one where the penalty for curiosity was often permanent. She didn't apologize—we both knew an apology would only confirm the suspicion—but she fell into a stony, frantic silence.

She returned to the tiny bowl of black dye, her movements robotic now. She applied the dye to my eyebrows with meticulous, shaking hands, coating the pale arches until they looked like ink strokes against my skin.

"The processing time for brows are shorter than the time for your hair," she said. "I’ll start the hair now, but I’ll pause to clean the dye off before they stain the skin too deeply."

"Do what you need to do," I replied.

She began the arduous process of burying the blonde. She worked with a feverish intensity, sectioning my hair and painting on the heavy, midnight-black cream. The scent of ammonia was sharp, stinging my nostrils, but I welcomed it. It smelled like erasure.

Halfway through the application, Polina glanced at the station timer. Without a word, she set down her brush and grabbed a stack of cotton pads soaked in cleanser. She leaned in—close enough for me to see the pulse jumping in her neck—and began to wipe the dye from my eyebrows.

As the black dye came away, the transformation began to take shape. The contrast of the stark, black brows against my pale skin made my eyes look piercing, almost predatory. I looked less like a victim on the run and more like the shadow that hunts them.

"Beautiful," she said, the word accidentally slipping out as she finished wiping the dye off of my second brow.

"Please just finish my hair, Polina," I commanded softly.

She nodded quickly and picked up the larger bowl. She worked the rest of the dye through the lengths of my new bob, ensuring every strand of my former life was submerged in ink. When she finally finished, she stepped back, her chest heaving slightly.

She reached for the station timer, twisting the dial to forty-five minutes. "I think it will take less," she noted. "Your hair is fine; the dye should take quickly."

I looked at her through the mirror, my expression flat. "With how light my hair is, if you do less time, it will pull red rather than black. Run the full time, then check a small section."

Polina paused, then nodded slowly. "You’re right. The undertones would be a disaster."

She waited, the mechanical ticking of the timer the only sound between us for almost an hour. She spent some time to sweep up my hair and swept it into the incinerator. When the timer finally chimed, she pulled a small section of hair from the nape of my neck and wiped away the cream. She frowned slightly. "It’s dark, but under this light, I see some red undertones.”

"Fifteen minutes longer, I guess," I said.

She set the timer. We sat in a heavy, expectant silence until the final chime rang out. This time, when she checked another small section, a tiny smile touched her lips. "It is perfect. Your hair is blacker than your soul now."

"Good," I said, standing up. "Let's wash out the dye then."

We moved to the sink for Polina to wash and condition my hair. During the process, the water ran a dark river swirling down the drain. Once the water ran clear from the excess dye, shampoo and conditioner, we returned to her station. The roar of the blow-dryer filled the room as she styled the sleek bob, the black hair swinging with a healthy, dangerous luster.

Before I could stand to leave, she reached into a cabinet and pulled out several professional-grade bottles of both shampoo and conditioner. "These should be enough product to protect the color and the health of your hair for a long time," she said, placing them in a small bag. "Given what I think you've been through, this is on me."

"Thank you," I said. I reached into my pocket and pulled out three thousand rubles, set them on the station.

Polina looked at the money and immediately shook her head, her hands up in a gesture of refusal. "No, please. It was a pleasure."

I simply raised my eyebrow again—the same commanding look that had broken her resolve earlier. Her hand hovered for a second before she quietly took the bills and tucked them away.

"Thank you, Marie Alexandrovna," she whispered. “Good luck.”

I nodded my head but didn't give a verbal answer. I turned and walked out the door, the weight of the black hair unfamiliar but right. I stepped into the biting Moscow wind and began the walk back toward the safehouse, a ghost finally wearing the right shroud.

When I reached the safehouse, the air inside was still heavy with the scent of dust and Bob’s expensive espresso, but the man himself was nowhere to be seen. I moved through the rooms with a predator’s caution, checking the locks and the shadows. The apartment was empty. Maybe he’d gone out to make good on his promises or perhaps he was just keeping his own secrets.

I found a scrap of paper on the kitchen counter and scribbled a short note.

Came back from my errand looking a little different but you weren’t here. Staying elsewhere for the night but still local. If my friend Sera calls, take her for her word.

I left it pinned under a heavy glass ashtray where he couldn't miss it. I checked the blade in my boot, grabbed a few things and shoved them in a bag, adjusted the weight of my coat, and slipped back out into the darkening city.

The Moscow twilight was a deep, bruised purple. As I walked, I pulled my phone from my pocket and felt the cold metal bite into my palm. My thumb hovered over the encrypted messaging app. I needed to know. I needed to see if the ties I’d tried to cut were still holding.

I typed out a message to Sera: Is Vic still in Russia?

I didn't wait for a reply. I shoved the phone back into my pocket and turned toward the Metropol. It was the hotel I had practically lived in before I found the safehouse that I now know that Bob and I have shared in passing - a place of high ceilings, velvet curtains, and enough anonymity to hide a dozen scandals.

Passing a shop window, I caught my reflection. The woman staring back at me was sharp-edged and unrecognizable. The black bob moved perfectly, framing a face that looked like it belonged to a legend rather than a fugitive.

My phone buzzed. I stopped under the amber glow of a streetlamp, my breath blooming in the air like smoke, and looked at the screen.

He’s still here, Sera replied. Tearing Russia apart looking for you. He’s blind with rage trying to find you, Marie. He has no idea where you are.

A cold, familiar thrill raced through me. Do you have eyes on me right now? I typed back.

The response was instantaneous. I always have eyes on you.

Send him to me, I commanded. The Metropol Hotel. I'll be here for twenty four hours.

Copy that, she sent.

I pocketed the phone and straightened my shoulders. The walk was short, the snow beginning to fall in fat, lazy flakes that vanished against my dark coat. By the time I reached the grand entrance of the hotel, my heart was a steady, rhythmic drum. I stepped through the revolving doors, the warmth of the lobby embracing me.

I walked up to the reception desk, my expression unreadable. The clerk didn't recognize the dark-haired woman before him, which was exactly the point.

"Check-in," I said. "The name is DeppGrl Smith."

The clerk tapped at his keyboard for a moment, then nodded. "Welcome back, Ms. Smith. We have your preferred room ready."

I took the key card and headed for the elevators. The room was exactly as I remembered—opulent, quiet, and smelling of beeswax and history. Once the door clicked shut, I finally let out a long, jagged breath. I kicked off my shoes, the plush carpet a relief against my aching feet, and started to unbutton my coat.

A sudden, heavy pounding at the door made me freeze. It wasn't the polite knock of room service; it was urgent, demanding.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Sera: It's Gleb Botkin - the grandson - knocking at the door.

I walked to the door, my movements silent, and looked through the peephole. It was him, looking just as frantic as the messages suggested. I took a breath, reached for the handle, and opened the door.

"Come in," I said, stepping back to let him pass. I closed the door and turned the lock behind him, the finality of the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged room.

"I apologize for startling you," Gleb said, his voice breathless as he smoothed his coat. "But I've paid the staff here for years to let me know the moment you book a room under that name."

I looked at him, my expression flat. "What was so important that you had to hunt me down within minutes of my arrival?"

"Val is on a warpath," he said, pacing a small line near the foot of the bed. "You left without a note, Marie. She’s furious. She’s now incapable of using her inherited talent to find you—it's like you've completely vanished from her radar. And to top it off, she didn't win Vic over completely like she usually does with men. He’s immune to her, and she can't stand it. I think it’s because you left and cut ties with her."

I leaned against the dresser, crossing my arms. "And what exactly does Val's ego have to do with me?"

"Because Vic has been tearing Russia apart looking for you," Gleb said, stopping his pacing to look at me. "He's obsessed."

"I know," I said calmly. "He’s been my lover for years."

Gleb blinked, surprised by my composure. "What are you going to do with him, Marie?"

"I'm sending Vic home," I told him then I lied about Boris. "And I'm using whatever contacts I still have to get Boris into prison."

Gleb watched me for a long moment, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I can help you with Boris. I have the channels to move someone like him without triggering any alarms." He paused, his eyes twinkling. "But it’ll cost you."

I narrowed my eyes. "What's the cost, Gleb?"

He looked toward the door, then back at me. "The cost is a cup of coffee from the bar. I’ve had a very long day."

I watched him as he spoke, but my attention kept shifting to his eyes. He couldn't keep them off the door; every few seconds, his gaze flickered toward the heavy wood as if he were waiting for it to splinter.

"Why do you keep glancing at the door, Gleb?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave. "Are you expecting someone?"

Gleb stiffened, his hand hovering over his pocket. "I’ve got your brother with me," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

I felt a flash of cold anger. "I don't believe you."

"Marie, I swear—"

"Go down to the bar, Gleb," I interrupted, my tone icy. "Ask them what the bartenders means by a 'cup of coffee.' Then come back and tell me if you still want to play these games."

Gleb hesitated, his face turning a shade paler. "You're sending me to the wolves, Marie," he muttered, but I didn't answer. He turned and hurried out of the room. I waited in the silence, my hand resting on the hilt of the blade in my boot. Moments later, the desk phone chirped with a sharp, mechanical ring. I picked it up.

"Ms. Smith?" the bartender’s voice was smooth, professional, and slightly cautious. "I have a Mr. Gleb Botkin here. He is inquiring about the meaning of a 'cup of coffee.' Did you authorize this specific request?"

"I did," I replied, my voice steady. "Tell him exactly what it means."

"Very well," he said. I hung up the phone with a sharp click.

Five minutes later, Gleb returned. He didn't come in all the way; he stood in the doorway, his eyes wide and haunted. "It meant consuming a deadly amount of cyanide, Marie," he whispered, his voice shaking. "A 'cup of coffee' is a suicide wish."

"Leave," I said, my voice as cold as the Siberian wind.

He didn't argue. He turned and vanished into the hallway. Once I had confirmation from Sera that he had truly left the premises and that he didn’t have anyone with him, I shoved my feet back into my shoes, grabbed my overnight bag and grabbed my coat. I headed straight back down to reception.

The clerk from earlier was gone. In his place sat an older man with sharp eyes and a weary, knowing posture. I recognized him—he was one of the few who still remembered the old protocols. I could trust him.

"I’m checking out, Fritz," I said, leaning over the marble counter. “And checking in again.”

He looked up, his eyes narrowing as he scanned my new face. He didn't ask questions. “Yes, Ms. Smith,” he said. "And the new registration?"

"Please check me in as Marie Alexandrovna Romanov," I said.

The air in the lobby seemed to grow still. Fritz didn't flinch. He turned to his computer and began tapping at the keyboard with rhythmic fervor. As he worked for several minutes in silence, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"I've found it," he finally whispered, sliding a new key card across the cold stone. "A room that exists off the main grid. No one else knows about this suite but Serafina, security and myself. And the owner."

I took the metal key, cold against my palm. I nodded my head once, a silent acknowledgment of the risk he was taking. "Thank you, friend."

I headed up to the room that I know very well, following the path through a service elevator that required a physical override key. The hallways here were narrower, the air cooler, smelling of old stone and polished brass. When I reached the door, I entered the suite. It was a time capsule—heavy velvet drapes, a four-poster bed, and a silence so profound it felt like a physical weight.

I locked the door from the inside, the heavy bolt sliding home with a satisfying thud. Finally, the tension that had been holding my spine together since the Kremlin began to unravel. I kicked off my shoes, letting them fall where they may, and peeled the heavy jacket from my shoulders.

I didn't even bother to turn down the sheets. I collapsed onto the bed, the mattress yielding beneath me. Within seconds, the darkness of the room mirrored the darkness behind my eyelids, and I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep that lasted for hours.

The sharp, persistent ring of my phone pulled me out of the depths of exhaustion. I groaned, fumbling for the device on the nightstand until I saw the caller ID. It was Sera.

"Hello?" I rasped, sitting up and rubbing my face.

"Marie," Sera’s voice was crisp and urgent. "Vic is in Moscow. He's already on his way to the hotel."

I felt a jolt of adrenaline, the last remnants of sleep vanishing instantly. "Does Bob know I'm safe?"

"He does," she confirmed. "He knows you're off the grid for the night and that you'll be back to the safehouse tomorrow. He isn't happy about the secrecy, but he's standing down."

"Thank you, Sera," I said, my mind already calculating the hours. "How is Vic going to know how to find me? I'm under a name that isn't on the official guest registration list. How will he even get past reception and security?"

"He won't need the guest registration list, and he won't be navigating reception and security alone," Sera replied, her tone softening with a rare note of warmth. "I’ll be with him as I’ll be bringing him up personally."

"You?" I breathed, a different kind of ache settling in my chest.

"Me," she said simply.

I smiled. I hung up and stared at the ceiling, the silence of the room suddenly feeling much less lonely. I couldn't wait to see her. Beyond the bloodline and the betrayals, Sera had been the first love of my life. The thought of her presence, alongside Vic’s, was the first thing in days that made the future outside of government work feel like something I actually wanted to see. But as I lay there, waiting for the sound of her key in the lock, a stray thought crossed my mind—with Vic in tow, would Sera and I even have the privacy we needed to fuck, or would his desire to beg for forgiveness and fucking take me away from Sera.

I pushed the thought out of my head and forced myself to stand. My body felt heavy, a dull ache lingering in my joints from the days of running, but the anticipation of what was coming acted like a secondary heartbeat. I moved toward the bathroom, stripping away the clothes that still smelled faintly of salon chemicals and Moscow's winter. Thankfully, all my shower and oral health supplies were still here in the bathroom tucked away exactly where I had left them just before the New Zealand trip. Seeing the familiar labels felt like a strange anchor to a version of myself that hadn't been a fugitive.

I stepped into the shower, turning the handle until the water was scalding, letting the heat punish the tension out of my muscles. I scrubbed my skin until it was red, feeling the residue of the day wash down the drain like a dark memory. Eventually, I turned off the water, wrapped a bath towel around my body and a smaller towel around my hair.

After the long, hot shower, I leaned over the sink and brushed my teeth with a feverish intensity, the minty sting a welcome contrast to from when Sera woke me up with her call.

When I hung up the towels, I was relieved to see that the black dye hadn’t bled onto the plush white fabric; Polina’s work was as permanent as a vow. I dressed slowly, choosing simple black leggings and an oversized grey sweatshirt that made me feel small but shielded. I brushed through the new black bob, watching the sharp edges swing against my jaw. I looked like a different woman, but when I finally walked back into the main room of the suite, the vibration of my phone on the nightstand reminded me that the past was already at the door. I picked it up, checking the caller ID. It was Sera. My thumb hovered over the answer button, my pulse quickening.

“We’re almost there. Give us about fifteen minutes,” she said before hanging up.

In the meantime, I picked up my dirty clothes and put them in a pile near my overnight bag. I hung up my jacket and looked around to see if there was anything else that I needed to do before they arrived but everything looked good. I sprayed on a little bit of Sera’s favorite perfume of mine that I owned. After not seeing each other in nearly thirteen years, I wanted to look and smell my best for her.

The silence of the hotel room was broken by a sharp, rhythmic knocking. Before I could even call out, the door swung open. Sera led the way, her eyes immediately locking onto mine with a fierce intensity. Behind her followed Vic and K—two men from different parts of my life, both looking like they’d seen a ghost.

Sera didn't hesitate. We crossed the distance between us in a blurred rush, colliding in a hug that felt like coming home. She pulled back just enough to frame my face in her hands, her thumbs tracing my cheekbones before she pressed her lips to mine. It was a gentle kiss at first, tasting of relief, but it quickly sharpened into something more passionate. I nipped at her bottom lip, a playful spark that ignited a deeper, hungrier kiss.

“It’s so good to see you, Sera,” I whispered against her lips as we finally broke for air. I cast a sideways glance at the two men standing awkwardly by the door. “Honestly... I was hoping we’d be alone.”

Sera smoothed my hair, her eyes glowing. “It’s been far too long. Do you remember the last night we were together?”

A slow, wicked smile spread across my face. “I do. We spent the entire night fucking and coming until neither of us could move.”

“It was the best night of my life,” she whispered. “Even over marrying my wife.”

We shared a knowing look before I stepped out of her embrace to acknowledge K. I’d heard rumors that she’d married but clearly, it was something that we never talked about…she didn’t want to hurt me but her admitting it to me now hurt more than she'd know. He looked older, more rugged, but his eyes still held that familiar warmth. I stepped close and as we hugged, I leaned in until my lips brushed his ear.

“I hope we can find some time for ourselves tonight,” I whispered.

K’s voice was a low rumble, thick with genuine longing. “I wish the same. It’s been years, and seeing you now... I don't want to let you out of my sight.” I gave him a slow, deliberate wink, feeling the heat rise between us.

Then, my gaze turned cold as I looked at Vic. I gave him a sharp, dismissive head nod. The atmosphere in the room plummeted. Without a word, Vic sank to his knees, his head bowed in a posture of desperate supplication.

“Forgive me,” he choked out. “Please forgive me and my time with Val. I was weak as I was under her spell. She said that you wouldn’t find out. Please, just give me your forgiveness.”

“You don’t have it,” I said, my voice like ice. “And you’re not getting it. You continuously betrayed your wife with me and she lets it slide. However, you betraying me with someone I trusted is unforgiveable. You’ve seen me; you know I’m breathing. Now, go home to your wife. You’ve overstayed your welcome in my life.”

Vic looked up, a desperate glint in his eyes. “I know your secret now. I know who you are.”

I leaned down, my face inches from his. “If that secret leaves this room, or even your own head, there are going to be issues for you that you can’t imagine. Keep your mouth shut and your life might stay intact.”

Vic swallowed hard, nodding frantically. He stood and retreated into the hallway, unable to meet my eyes. Sera stepped in, giving me one last lingering kiss.

“I’m taking him to the airport myself,” she said, her voice firm. “I’m putting him on a plane back home. K will be staying the night with you.”

As she ushered Vic out and closed the door, her muffled voice echoed through the wood, sharp and biting: “You’re a pathetic excuse for a man, Vic. Cheating on your wife is one thing, but doing that to her? After everything she’s done for you and the strings she pulled for you? You’ll be lucky if I can get you out of here in one piece and even luckier if I can get you back to your wife!”

The click of the lock signaled our privacy. I turned to K, the tension from Vic’s presence melting away. “Are you sure that you want to stay here with me for the rest of the night?”

“There’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be,” K replied.

“Good,” I said, stepping closer. “There’s something you should know. I’m in the process of starting a medication-induced abortion. It’s happening, but it shouldn’t interfere with us though I’m due for the next set of pills soon but I don't want to wait.”

K didn't flinch. He reached out, his large hand cupping the back of my neck. “I don’t plan on stopping. If it takes all night, or if we have to stay an extra night to make sure you’re okay and we’re satisfied, then that’s what we’ll do.”

“We’ll have to take a few minute break so I can take the rest of the pills,” I gently reminded him.

“Of course,” he said as he kissed me.

The clothes were gone in moments. When we hit the bed, I settled onto my back, spreading my legs wide and inviting him in. K was a force of nature. He began by worshiping my body, his mouth finding my tits, biting and squeezing with a possessive hunger.

“K... please,” I moaned his name, my fingers digging into his shoulders. He responded by biting harder, his hands bruising my skin in the best way possible. I reached down, my hand closing around his dick—it was massively thick, pulsing with a life of its own. As I started to stroke him, he let out a guttural scream.

“Deppgrl!”

He mounted me then, sliding into my still-swollen, sensitive pussy. The friction was intense, and he came almost instantly, his body shuddering against mine. He didn't pull out; instead, he started to move, a slow, deliberate grind.

“Gods, I’ve missed you,” he groaned, his pace picking up into a rhythmic pounding.

The night became a blur of motion and sweat. K was tireless. He fucked me for hours, moving from the intimacy of missionary to the raw depth of doggystyle. We moved across every inch of the suite—pressed against the cold glass of the windows, draped over the couches, slick with water in the shower. We reclaimed the kitchen table, the chairs, and even the desk where I once killed a man many years ago. Part way through, we took a few minute break so I could take the last of the pills then we resumed our fucking.

Every time I thought he was spent and out of cum, he found more. I lost count of how many times I came against his dick, and he seemed determined to fill me until I couldn't take any more.

By noon the next day, the sun was high and the room was a wreck of discarded sheets and memories. He finally emptied his balls deep inside me one last time. We stayed tangled together for a long while, breathing in sync.

Eventually, the world called us back. We showered together, the water washing away the salt and excess, and dressed in a comfortable silence. We packed our bags, the weight of the night still heavy and sweet in the air.

At the door, we shared one last look. It wasn't a goodbye, just a transition. I headed toward the safe house to disappear from his life again, and K turned back toward the life he kept with his second wife, both of us carrying the marks of a night that had been years in the making.

The mediator's gambit

Standing in the doorway was the one person I never expected to see within the walls of the Kremlin. The breath left my lungs in a sharp, painful rush.

"Bob?" I whispered, my voice cracking.

He didn't say a word. He stepped forward and pulled me into an embrace that smelled of old woodsmoke and the expensive espresso he always favored. I buried my face in his shoulder, the heavy wool of his coat scratching my cheek, and for a moment, the 135-mile trek and the frozen wind of the Russian wilderness felt like a bad dream. We stayed like that for a long time, the receptionist lingering awkwardly in the hall until Bob dismissed her with a sharp nod.

"I got your fax, Marie," he murmured into my hair, his voice steadying the frantic beat of my heart. "I came as soon as I could."

I pulled back, my hands still gripping his forearms. I blinked, trying to clear the exhaustion from my eyes. "You? I sent that to a secured line. I thought I was reaching a handler, someone in the deeper archives."

Bob sighed, looking older than I remembered. He guided me to a chair, but I remained standing. "I’ve been the one on the other end of your line for years, Marie. Who else do you think would have been able to keep your trail so clean?"

I watched him, my mind racing. "How are you even here? How did you find me so fast?"

"I didn't find you fast," he admitted, a weary smile playing on his lips. "In fact, I did the opposite. I reached out to Tom, Dmitry, and Boris as I knew that you were with one of them. I told them to delay you as much as possible. I needed the time to get here to ensure that when you walked through those front doors, you weren't met with a firing squad."

My blood ran cold. "You told them to hold me back? You knew I was out there in the freezing dark, and you told them to slow me down?"

"I had to," he insisted, stepping closer. "As your older brother, I know more than I’ve ever let on. You think you’re the only one with eyes and ears in this city? I’ve been acting as the mediator, Marie. I’m the one negotiating your exit from Russia. I’m the one pulling the strings to get you out of government work forever. But I needed you to stay in the shadows until I had the paperwork signed."

I looked at him—really looked at him. He sounded like Bob. He looked like Bob. But the Kremlin changed people, and I had spent the last week being hunted by people who could mimic a friendly face or kill me like Javi tried to do. A cold, prickling sensation crawled up my spine. Something felt off but then again, the only person that I somewhat trusted right now was Sera. The way he was standing, the way he was so casually admitting to manipulating my survival.

"I need to be sure," I said, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous level.

Bob raised an eyebrow. "Sure of what? Marie, it’s me."

"Tell me," I challenged, crossing my arms over my chest. "What is my least favorite fruit, and why?"

He didn't even hesitate. He gave a small, impatient huff. "Pineapple. You say it feels like the fruit is trying to eat your tongue, but yet you’ll still drink pineapple juice without that feeling. I don’t understand it but whatever."

I didn't relax. " What was the one dish you made at the restaurant that I absolutely hated, and why?"

Bob’s expression softened into a look of genuine at the memory I brought up. "The tripe. You nearly threw up in the kitchen when I brought the pot out and you actually did throw up when you tried it. You told me it smelled and tasted like ass, and you refused to set foot in the building for a week until the scent was gone."

I let out a long, shaky breath. The tension in my shoulders finally snapped. No double, no FSB plant, and no deep-cover agent would know the specific, vulgar way I had described his tripe three years ago.

"It’s really you," I said, leaning back against the wall as the adrenaline finally began to fade.

"It's me," he said, his eyes filled with a grim resolve. "And if we don't move fast, being your brother won't be enough to keep you alive. We need to go."

I stared at him, but the relief I expected to feel didn't come. Instead, a slow, hot poison began to circulate in my veins. I looked at his calm, calculating face—the face of the brother I thought had my back—and realized he had turned my survival into a game of logistics.

"You manipulated them and I!" I said, my voice trembling with a sudden, sharp edge. "You reached out to the only people I had left to trust and told them to sabotage my arrival. You let me freeze, you let me run until my lungs burned, and you let me live in terror for extra days just so you could play 'mediator' on your own timeline."

"Marie, it was for your safety—"

"Don't," I snapped, pulling my arm away when he tried to reach for me. An overwhelming sense of betrayal washed over me, heavier than the exhaustion. He hadn't just watched my back; he had reached out and tripped me while I was running for my life. I had been a pawn in his grand negotiation, and the fact that he was my brother only made the knife go deeper. "We’re leaving, but don't think for a second that we're okay. You traded my life for a few days of paperwork."

We left the Kremlin in a silence that felt like lead. Bob led me through a series of service tunnels and into an unmarked car that took us to a safehouse we had both used over the years—a dusty, nondescript apartment on the edge of the city with iron bars on the windows and three locks on the door. How we had both used the same safehouse for years without either one of us knowing was hard to comprehend.

Once the door was bolted behind us, the adrenaline finally crashed. I slumped onto the faded velvet sofa, my head spinning. The words started spilling out of me, a frantic need to unburden myself of the secrets I’d carried through the snow.

"You have no idea what it was like out there," I began, my voice rising. "Val and Vic... it got so fucking complicated, Bob. Val is a storm and she used her inherited skills from her great-great-grandfather to seduce Vic. So I left him with her. And then there was Mimi—she’s Serafina’s identical twin—and she tried to convince me that she was Sera. It was a desperate attempt, and Mimi believed me when I told her that I’d never met Sera. I was just trying to stay safe in my safehouses."

Bob paced the small room, his jaw tight. "Marie, you don't have to—"

"And Anya," I cut him off, my eyes wide as the memories flooded back. "She overdosed on Tylenol. As you know, that’s code that her government killed her once they realized that I found the trackers that she put on Vic and I. But I made it to Tom, Dmitry, and Boris." I let out a jagged, hysterical laugh. "And you know what? The rumors about him were true. He can cook, and he's very well endowed."

Bob stopped pacing, his face reddening. "I really don't need the locker room talk, Marie."

"I was alone for days!" I yelled. "They were the only ones who treated me like a person instead of a target. They were all great lovers, Bob. They gave me something to hold onto when I thought I wasn’t going to make it out alive."

"Marie, please," Bob groaned, rubbing his temples. He looked like he wanted to bolt for the door. "I don’t want to hear the details. I really, really don't."

"Well, you're going to hear this," I said, my voice going flat and serious. I looked him dead in the eye. "I need an appointment with a doctor right away. There’s a chance that I’m pregnant."

Bob froze. The irritation drained from his face, replaced by a stunned, pale silence. He stared at me for three long seconds before his hand moved instinctively toward his pocket, grabbing his phone.

"I'm calling Val," he muttered, his thumb hovering over the screen.

"If you reach out to Val," I said, my voice deathly quiet, "I am leaving you and all my stuff right here. I will walk out that door, take care of everything myself, and I will disappear from your life forever. Do you understand me, Bob? Forever."

He stopped, his thumb trembling just above the glass. He looked at me, seeing the absolute conviction in my eyes, and for the first time since I’d walked into the Kremlin, he looked truly afraid.

"I can’t risk losing the only sister that I get along with," he said quietly. "I know a doctor at the local hospital who has a private clinic on a small, quiet street nearby. I'll see if he can take you immediately."

"What's the name of the street?" I asked.

"Ostozhenka Street," he replied, starting to dial.

"I'm going there after I shower," I said, standing up.

"You're not going alone, Marie," Bob insisted, his voice sharp with concern. "I'm coming with you."

"No," I stated firmly, turning toward the stairs.

"The less people who see multiple people leaving the safehouse, the better. We're keeping a low profile. Besides, I know damn well you don't speak Russian. You'd be more of a liability than a help."

I didn't wait for his rebuttal. I grabbed my bags and headed upstairs to wash the grime and the betrayal off my skin. It was a quick shower, and after drying off, I dressed in clean clothes and headed back downstairs.

"Bob, what’s the news?" I asked.

"He's waiting for you," my brother said, looking defeated. "Just be careful."

"I'm always careful," I said, though we both knew that was a lie. I checked my reflection one last time, tucked a small blade into my boot, and left him standing in the middle of our shared secrets.

The clinic on Ostozhenka Street was tucked away behind a facade of crumbling masonry. The receptionist recognized me the moment I stepped inside; apparently, word travels fast in the circles my brother runs in. Within seconds, a doctor emerged alone to greet me, ushering me back to an exam room with a professional, knowing air.

"My cousin Tom told me to expect you," the doctor said, his voice low. "As did your brother, and Dmitry, and Boris."

I gave him a sharp, weird look. "They all called ahead?"

He nodded, adjusting his glasses. "They were concerned. Tom, Dmitry, and Boris all have a rare trait—hypermobile sperm. It can cause a woman to conceive significantly faster than usual. However, given the timing, I suspect that if you are pregnant, it likely happened before you encountered them."

I shrugged, the cold reality settling in. "It’s possible that any of them—Vic, Doc, Tom, Dmitry, or Boris—could be the father. I’ve slept with all of them in the past week or more ago. But there’s a better chance it was Vic."

The doctor’s expression didn't change. "Vic has hypermobile sperm as well. It seems you have a type, Marie." He gestured to the exam table. "Are you ready for the exam?"

"I am," I said.

I didn't wait for him to leave the room. I stripped quickly, my movements practiced and efficient and climbed onto the table. He drew blood first, handing the vial to a nurse with instructions to run it immediately. Then, he performed a physical exam.

"Based on the physical," he said, stripping off his gloves, "I’m ninety percent sure you’re pregnant. But we’ll wait for the lab work to be certain."

I got dressed while we waited in a tense, clinical silence. A few minutes later, the nurse returned with a printed report. The doctor scanned it once and then looked up at me. "I can confirm that you’re pregnant."

"Give me the pills for the abortion," I said instantly. There was no hesitation and no room for second-guessing.

He produced the kit and handed me the first pill. "You know the protocol?"

"I know," I said, swallowing the first one with a sip of water. "I have to wait twenty-five minutes before I leave to make sure I don't have an immediate reaction like throwing up r allergic reaction. I take the second and third pills in the next twelve hours. And I know I can take those together."

After waiting the twenty-five minutes to make sure I was okay, the doctor told me I could leave. "You can have sex again in five days," he noted, "as long as all the bleeding has stopped."

"I know," I said flatly.

He provided me with a Depo shot that I could take back to the safehouse. I took it, but my eyes remained fixed on him. "Thank you. Now, burn everything I touched."

He looked startled. "I promise you, everything that has your DNA will be destroyed."

"The last time someone promised me something, they lied," I said, stepping closer. "I want to watch you do it."

"I can’t burn anything here," he stammered, looking around.

I pointed to the fire crackling in the fireplace behind him. "You’re clearly lying, Doctor. There's a fire burning right there."

He looked at me sheepishly, trapped by his own half-hearted deception. I narrowed my eyes, my voice dropping to a whisper that carried the weight of a death sentence. "Burn everything. If I hear even a whisper that I was here, if a single word of my visit reaches anyone, I guarantee that your practice and your reputation will be destroyed forever. You will lose your license, and you will never practice medicine again anywhere in the world. Am I clear?"

He nodded quickly, his hands trembling as he began to gather the disposables. I watched him throw them into the flames, ensuring the evidence was consumed, before I turned and walked out into the cold Moscow air.

There was a salon near the doctor's clinic. I knew what I had to do. My blonde hair was too recognizable, a beacon in a city that was currently a minefield. I stepped inside, the chime above the door echoing in the quiet space. Thankfully, no one inside looked up with a spark of recognition.

I approached the receptionist and spoke in perfect Russian.

"Ya khochu pokrasit' svoi natural'nyye svetlyye volosy v chernyy tsvet. I ya khochu sdelat' eto za odin vizit, plyus strizhka," I told her, my tone leaving no room for argument. I want to dye my naturally blonde hair black. And I want to do it in one visit as well as a haircut.

She looked at my long, pale locks and shook her head.

"Eto nevozmozhno sdelat' za odin raz bez povrezhdeniya volos," she started to explain. "Vam nuzhno neskol'ko—" It's impossible to do it in one time without damaging the hair, you need several -

I simply raised my eyebrow, a cold, steady gaze that spoke of things far more dangerous than split ends. She swallowed hard, the refusal dying on her lips.

"Vprochem, my mozhem sdelat' eto pryamo seychas," she corrected herself instantly. However... we can do it right now.

 "Spasibo," I said. Thank you

She ushered me back to a salon chair and talked to the stylist.

After a few minutes, the stylist came back and introduced herself as Polina to me. She was a striking woman with eyes that seemed to see right through the surface. I looked her in the eye, my expression neutral.

"My name is Deppgrl," I told her.

"I am Polina," she said. 

Polina tilted her head slightly, then switched to fluent English. "Welcome to my chair. Tell me, what are you looking for today?"

"I'm looking for a completely different look," I said, meeting her gaze in the mirror. "And I have a feeling you're the only one in this city who can pull it off."

She raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing her face as she ran a hand through my natural blonde hair. "That is a bold claim. Most women cling to their blonde for dear life."

"I'm not most women," I replied. "I want my hair dyed as black as my soul. And I want a haircut."

Polina’s smile sharpened. "As black as your soul? I can certainly do that. It takes a certain kind of spirit to carry off that depth. And what kind of haircut are we talking about for this transformation?"

"I want a sleek, shoulder-length bob," I said firmly. "It’s perfect to wash and go; minimal work. Something that looks like it belongs on a woman who doesn't wait for permission."

"A sleek bob it is," Polina said, already reaching for her shears. "Let's begin."

In a matter of 30 minutes, my haircut was done and it was perfect. The long hair was gone, replaced by a weightless, sharp swing of hair that hit exactly at my shoulders. As Polina was gathering her tools, she paused, looking at the pale arches above my eyes.

"What should we do about your eyebrows?" she asked.

"We should dye them as well," I told her.

She nodded, her professional mask slipping back into place. "I will mix some dye together."

As she turned to leave, I leaned in and whispered to her, my voice barely audible over the hum of the salon. "I have eyes everywhere."

Polina turned pale, her hand tightening on the back of the chair. She didn't say a word. She headed straight to the storage room where the dye inventory was kept.

About 8 minutes later, she came back. She had come back with two mixing bowls; one was tiny and the other was of average size - the tiny one was clearly for my eyebrows. Her hands were still slightly trembling as she set them down on the station, her eyes darting toward the other patrons as if checking to see who might be watching.

"Relax, Polina," I told her, watching her reflection in the mirror with a steady gaze. "They may or may not be in here. They may or may not be watching through the security cameras. The more nervous you act, the more worrisome my eyes will be."

Polina took a shallow, trembling breath and forced herself to stand up straight. She dipped a small applicator into the tiny bowl of black dye. As she leaned in close to my face, her eyes searched mine, filled with a mix of terror and intense curiosity.

"Who are you?" she whispered, the question escaping her before she could stop it. "Truly?"

I didn't blink as she applied the first stroke of dark pigment to my brow. "My family was well known around the area many, many years ago," I said, my voice smooth and devoid of emotion. "And we tend to be revered."

The applicator paused for a fraction of a second. Polina’s eyes widened as the weight of that statement settled between us. In this city, only one name carried that kind of historical gravity—a name that was supposed to be a ghost. She didn't ask another question; she simply worked in a focused, reverent silence, transforming my face until the woman in the mirror was a total stranger.

"Are you The Missing One?" she asked quietly, her voice barely a breath.

The Kremlin Journey: Part Three

The steam in the small, cedar-lined bathroom was a thick, white veil that smelled of pine resin and heat. Boris stepped into the spray beside me without a word, the heavy thrum of the water drowning out the whistling wind outside the cabin walls.

"The water is nice and hot," I murmured, leaning my forehead against the wet wood. "I didn't think the pipes would hold up in this cold."

"The wood-fired boiler is reliable," Boris replied, his voice echoing in the small space. "Simple machines do not fail as often as complex ones."

"Is that your philosophy for everything?" I asked, looking at him through the mist.

He was silent for a moment, the water cascading over his scarred shoulders. "In the woods, yes. Complexity is a luxury we cannot afford until we are back in the city."

When the steam became too heavy to breathe, Boris reached around me and twisted the handle with a sharp, final jerk. We stepped out of the tub, which was still toasted by the cabin’s central hearth and the steam of the hot water. Instead of the rough linens I had expected, the towels were plush, thick, and incredibly soft—a jarring bit of comfort in such a rugged place.

"These are unexpected," I said, burying my face in the warmth of the fabric.

"A gift from a former associate," Boris said, his back to me as he dried off. "He had a taste for French imports. He didn't need them where he was going."

"Should I be worried about where he went?"

Boris paused, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "You should worry about getting dressed before the fire dies down."

We dressed with a quiet efficiency. I pulled on a heavy wool sweater, feeling the lingering softness of the towel on my skin and thick leggings. I retreated to the living room, seeking solace by the fireplace. The hearth was the massive, stone heart of the cabin, and the logs within roared with a fierce, orange hunger.

From the kitchen, the peace was shattered. A cacophony of clattering metal and ceramic thuds erupted. It sounded less like cooking and more like a structural collapse. A heavy pot hit the floor with a resonant clang that made me wince.

"Boris?" I called out, staring into the flickering light. "Is everything alright in there?"

"Fine!" he barked back. The sound of a cupboard door slamming followed his voice. "The layout of this kitchen was designed by a man who hated light and logic."

"Wasn't that you?"

"Don't remind me!"

I listened as a drawer was opened and closed with enough force to rattle the silverware. "I’m beginning to doubt your legendary culinary skills," I said, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "It sounds like you're fighting the stove, not using it."

"The stove is a stubborn beast," he muttered. I heard the scrape of a knife against a wooden board—rapid, aggressive strokes. "It requires a firm hand."

“Sounds like me when I’m fucking,” I said softly.

“You need more than one firm hand,” he said.

I stood up, the warmth of the fire reluctantly letting go of my back. I walked to the threshold of the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe. Boris was hunched over the counter, his large shoulders tense. A pile of onions, hacked into uneven chunks, sat beside a rusted skillet.

"Do you want any help?" I asked softly. "I could handle the chopping while you negotiate with the beast?"

Boris didn't look up. He pointed a notched paring knife toward the living room without turning around.

"I do not need help," he said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly tone that brooked no argument. "I have survived Siberian winters and Leningrad bureaucracies. I can survive a beef stroganoff. Sit. Stay warm. It is handled."

I watched him for a moment longer—the way he handled the spatula like a weapon—before I turned back to the fire. Whatever he was making, it was going to be seasoned with spite and smoke, but in the heart of these woods, I suppose that was as close to a home-cooked meal as I was going to get that wasn’t Vic’s.

“Do you want any wine or vodka, Bo?” I asked.

“No, but you’re welcome to have some,” he said.

We moved around each other in the tight space of his kitchen as I reached for a glass and uncorked a bottle. The glass was heavy, catching the amber light from the living room. I moved back to the hearth with the bottle and glass in hand.

I knew that drinking while possibly being pregnant wasn’t a great thing, but the thought was a distant, cold knot in my stomach. I knew that if I was pregnant, I would terminate the pregnancy anyway. Right now, the moral weight of it was too heavy for my tired mind to carry. I just wanted to enjoy this time and this meal with an acquaintance who, for all his rough edges, felt like a safe harbor. I was exhausted, the kind of bone-deep fatigue that made my vision swim, but I knew I had to stay awake. I hadn’t eaten in a day or so, and my body was demanding fuel even as it begged for sleep.

About twenty-five minutes later, Boris’s voice cut through the crackle of the fire.

“Marie Alexandrovna?” he called. “It’s time for dinner. Or midnight meal.”

“Thank you, friend,” I mumbled, the words thick as I pushed myself up from the warmth of the rug.

I was swaying slightly as I reached the kitchen. Boris appeared at my side, his large hand steadying my elbow. “Highness, I think you picked a wine that has a higher alcohol content than you’re used to,” he said, his voice unusually gentle as he helped me into the kitchen. He pulled out a heavy wooden chair. “Here, have a seat, woman. I’ll get you some water.”

“Dinner smells great, Bo,” I said.

“Please dig in,” he said, setting a steaming plate in front of me. “It’s been a while since you last ate.”

My manners went out the window. Back home, I would’ve waited, hands folded, for the host to begin. Here, I started eating before he even sat down. I was ravenous. A minute later, Boris returned with a tall glass of water. I chugged it in one go, the cold liquid cutting through the fuzziness in my head, then returned to the food. He watched me for a second before he started on his own portion.

“Boris, both rumors I have heard about you aren’t rumors but they’re actually facts,” I said, my voice tipsy and light. I felt a giggle bubbling up. “Rumors were you’re well hung and you can cook well. Both are true.”

Boris paused, a forkful of noodles halfway to his mouth. “Rumors, eh?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t say anything,” I said, giggling again before taking another slow sip of wine. "Promise."

He set his fork down and looked at the bottle on the table. “How much wine have you had?”

“Almost the full bottle.”

He didn't lecture me. He simply reached out, took the bottle, and finished the rest himself in a few long gulps. He then reached for the pot and served me a second massive portion of the beef stroganoff, sliding the plate toward me with a silent command to eat. I didn't argue. I ate every bite.

But the hunger was a hole that still hadn't quite filled. I looked at the pot, then at Boris. Without a word, he scooped out a third portion, piling the rich, creamy beef onto my plate. Boy, did I eat! It was the most satisfying meal I could remember, every bite grounding me back into the physical world.

After that third serving and more water, the world finally felt like it was tilting on its axis. I managed to stand and navigated my way toward Boris’s room. I stripped off the heavy wool and the layers beneath, my movements clumsy, and crawled into the bed. The sheets felt cool and crisp. I fell into a dark, dreamless sleep instantly. I never heard him clean the kitchen, and I didn't feel the bed sink as he eventually joined me.

Hours later, the world came back in a rush of cold air and a firm hand on my shoulder. He was waking me up.

“You slept fifteen hours,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the dim morning light. “You're dehydrated. You need to rehydrate, woman.”

I could only nod, my throat feeling as though it had been lined with dust. Boris headed to the pantry and returned with two gallons of water. I didn't sip it; I drank both within minutes, the cool liquid reviving me as it hit my system.

I managed to get up and took a brief, bracing shower to clear the last of the wine-haze from my mind. After a quick meal of leftovers to keep my strength up, I dressed in the heavy layers required for the road.

"Bo," I said as I adjusted my gear. "How far are we from the Kremlin?"

He leaned against the doorframe, his expression unreadable. "We're about 135 miles away."

"How long do you think it will take me to get there?"

He calculated for a moment, looking out toward the snow-choked horizon. "I think that it could take you three to four hours."

I looked at him, seeing the quiet concern he tried so hard to mask. "I need to go but I know you don't want me to go, Boris."

"You're right," he said simply. "I don't. I appreciate you and your company. And I want to fuck you again.”

"If I could, I would take you with me," I said, reaching out to touch his arm. "But I won't risk you getting arrested. Not for my mess."

He lowered his head slightly. "Thank you."

I pulled out the wad of cash I had been keeping—4,500 rubles in crisp bills—and handed it to him. He looked at the money, then at me.

"When I am out of government work," I told him firmly, "I will find ways to help you and pull you out. I promise."

"Thank you, Highness," he replied, his voice thick.

"I owe you my life," I added, stepping closer. "Because you saved me."

"You returning the favor is when you pull me out," he said, and for the first time, the stone-faced man cracked.

We hugged, a desperate, fierce embrace, and we both cried—two people caught in the machinery of a world that didn't care for them. As we pulled apart, he wiped his eyes with a rough hand.

"Remember," he whispered. "You promised you wouldn't say anything."

I let out a loud laugh, shaking my head. "I won't. I promise."

I turned to put on my final layers of protective gear while Boris went out to the shed. Twenty minutes later, my ATV was packed, refueled, and idling in the crisp air. The engine's growl was the only thing breaking the silence of the woods.

I thanked him one last time for everything and asked if he needed more money.

"No," he said, standing tall. "What you gave me will help me for a long time."

"The serial numbers on the rubles," I said "they're non-sequential."

He nodded. We hugged once more—one last anchor to the safety of the cabin—and then I kicked the ATV into gear, heading off to the Kremlin.

The ride was a blur of biting wind and white-knuckle focus. I pushed the machine harder than I should have, the engine screaming as it tore through the slush and frozen ruts. It took me only two and a half hours to reach the perimeter of the Kremlin, but the cost was high. By the time the red stars of the towers appeared in the grey sky, the machine was smoking, the belt slipping and the chassis rattling. It was busted, beyond repair.

I pulled into a side alley near a service entrance where I saw a group of homeless people huddling for warmth. I recognized a few of them; they were the "helpers," the ones who traded information for kindness in the shadows of the city. I didn't need the fuel anymore, so I siphoned what was left and gave it to them for their heaters. I handed over my remaining food as well. They accepted it with silent, solemn nods, their eyes wide as they recognized the desperation on my face.

I grabbed my bags, the weight of the Romanov name feeling heavier than the luggage itself, and headed inside.

The warmth of the building hit me like a physical blow. I marched up to the receptionist, my hair matted from the helmet and my face raw from the wind.

"I am Marie Alexandrovna Romanov," I said, my voice sounding steadier than I felt.

The woman’s face drained of color. She looked panicked, her eyes darting to the security cameras and then back to me. She didn't ask for ID. She scrambled out of her seat, grabbed my heavy bags, and guided me down a corridor to a small, windowless room.

"Wait here, Deppgrl," she whispered, using the old code-name. As she moved to close the door, her hand trembled. "Lock the door. Do not open it for anyone but me."

I did as I was told, locking the door behind her. Through the thin wood, I heard her retreat to her desk just three feet away. She was on the phone instantly, her tones hushed and frantic. I couldn't make out the words, just the urgent cadence of someone reporting a ghost.

Minutes passed like hours. Then, the sound of rhythmic clicking—shoes on the hard floor—approaching with another set of heavier footsteps. A sharp knock followed.

"Marie? I have an important person with me," the receptionist called out.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever was coming next, and turned the lock. I swung the door open, and there stood my brother, Bob.

The Kremlin Journey: Part Two

The cold was a physical weight, pressing against my chest with every breath. I had driven the ATV for two days straight, the roar of the engine the only sound in a world made of white silence and biting frost. I didn’t sleep, and I barely ate, forcing myself to swallow dry protein bars as I steered through the treacherous mountain passes. My goal was simple: reclaim the time I had spent with Tom. By the third morning, as the sun began to cast long, pale shadows across the snow, I listened to my internal clock and GPS. I was sixteen hours ahead of schedule.

My body was a map of aches—my pussy was still tender and swollen, and the bite marks on my tits stung whenever my base layers shifted—but the adrenaline of the discovery about my Romanov blood kept me focused.

I pulled the ATV into a small, secluded clearing where a weathered stone cabin stood partially buried in the drifts. As I climbed off the machine to refuel, my movements were stiff and mechanical. I was reaching for the first jerry can when a shadow detached itself from the side of the building.

I reached for the sidearm holstered at my hip, my instincts screaming, until a familiar, deep voice cut through the wind.

“Your Imperial Highness.”

I froze, my hand hovering over the grip of my gun. I looked up and saw a man stepping into the light, his face partially obscured by a heavy tactical scarf. It was Dmitri. We had worked together on a black-ops mission in the Urals three years ago. Back then, the tension between us had been thick enough to cut with a knife, and I had spent more than one restless night wondering what it would be like to have him pin me down.

"Dmitri," I breathed, my voice raspy from the cold. "You’re a long way from the city."

"I was told to expect a traveler, but not that the traveler was royalty," he said, his eyes scanning the perimeter before settling on me with a gaze that felt like heat. "As soon as you fuel up, you need to come inside with me. It isn’t safe out here, and the scouts are active two miles east."

I nodded my head in agreement, my hands trembling slightly as I poured the fuel into the tank. "I'm ahead of schedule. I can spare an hour to thaw out."

"You'll spare more than that if you want to keep your fingers," he grunted.

After the tank was topped off, he stepped forward to help me drag the heavy machine closer to the cabin’s foundation. We hauled my bags onto the porch, and together we threw a heavy, weighted tarp over the ATV, camouflaging it against the encroaching snow.

"Hurry," he urged, ushering me toward the heavy timber door.

In the mudroom, the air was thick with the scent of damp wool and woodsmoke. We worked in a rhythmic, practiced silence, shedding our outer layers. My heavy parka and my boots hit the floor followed by my snow pants. Every movement felt like a luxury now that the wind wasn't clawing at me.

Once inside the main room, the heat from a massive stone fireplace hit me like a physical blow. Dmitri didn't say a word as we both stripped down to our base layers—thin, moisture-wicking fabric that clung to every curve of my body and the hard, sculpted lines of his.

I sat on a low bench near the fire, stretching my hands toward the flames. Dmitri sat beside me, close enough that I could feel the radiation of his body heat. He looked at me, his eyes dropping briefly to the visible bruises peeking above the neckline of my top before returning to my face.

"You look like you've been through a war, Marie Alexandrovna," he murmured, using the name that carried the weight of my true lineage.

"I've been reminded of who I am," I replied, looking into the fire. "And I've been reminded of what I've been missing."

Dmitri leaned closer, his shoulder brushing mine. The silence of the room was heavy, broken only by the snapping of the logs. "The Kremlin is expecting you, Marie. But they aren't the only ones. There are those who would see the Romanov line extinguished once and for all."

"I know," I said, turning to look him in the eye. The cold from the journey was fading, replaced by the familiar, electric pull I had felt years ago. "That's why I'm moving fast. But right now, I'm freezing and I'm exhausted."

His hand moved, fingers tracing the line of my jaw, his touch rough and warm. "I’ve got ways to warm you up, Highness. I have thought of it since we first met in the Ural Mountains."

“Oh?” I asked not so innocently as I stood up and stripped my base layer off.

Dmitri stood with me, his own movements swift and hungry as he stripped his clothes off. He stood before me, his body hard and ready, staring intensely at my naked skin and my bruises.

“Yes, Highness,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.

“You call me Highness one more time, you won’t be allowed to warm me up,” I said. “Mita, I want this as much as you do.”

"Yes, Marie," he said, his eyes darkening. He suddenly shoved the bench we had been sitting on away from us. It skidded across the stone floor and crashed directly in the fireplace with a heavy thud.

The dry wood caught instantly, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney and bathing us in orange light.

"Whoops," he said with a dark, unapologetic grin. He didn't look at the fire; he only looked at me, his hands reaching out to pull me toward him on the floor.

As I spread my legs for him on the warm stone, he didn't rush. He moved with a reverence that surprised me, his lips tracing the bruises on my tits and hips with soft, lingering kisses. He caressed the marks as if he could soothe the ache, his hands steady and warm against my skin.

"You've been through so much, Marie," he whispered against my skin. Then, he moved lower.

He ate my pussy with a focused intensity that left me breathless. His tongue was relentless, finding every sensitive spot. I came on his tongue so many times, my body arching off the floor as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over me. Each time I thought I was spent, he would find another way to make me cum.

Just when I thought that I couldn't possibly cum again, that my body was entirely drained, he moved up over me. His eyes were burning with three years of repressed need and desire as he guided his massive dick to my pussy. He pushed his thick dick deep into my aching pussy in one smooth, powerful motion, stretching me wide and filling me to the point of a sharp, delicious gasp. The heat from the fire was nothing compared to the fire he was lighting inside me. My gods, he felt so good stretching me out.

He began to move with a savage, rhythmic power that echoed the blizzard outside. Each time he drove into me, I felt the strength of his desire, a hunger that had been simmering for three long years. He took his time, making sure I felt every inch of his dick, his hands pinning my wrists to the floor as he dominated my senses.

"You're not going to the Kremlin alone, Marie," he growled, his voice vibrating through my chest as he hammered into my core, each stroke bottoming out. "I’m seeing this through with you. I won't lose you again."

"Good," I managed to choke out, my legs locking around his waist to pull him even deeper. "Because I don't plan on letting you go again. Fuck me, Mita."

He let out a guttural sound, his pace turning frantic. He flipped me over, pulling my hips up and driving into me from behind. I could feel the bruises on my hips beneath his large hands, but the pain was distant, drowned out by the incredible pressure of him stretching me out. He reached around to squeeze my tits, his thumbs rubbing over the bite marks, his focus entirely on the physical connection between us.

"Three years," he hissed against my ear, the words punctuated by the heavy thud of his body against mine. “I finally get to fuck the one woman that I’ve ever wanted. I could fuck you for days!”

"Yes," I gasped, my head thumping against the floorboards as he found that perfect angle. "Finally. Harder, Mita!"

The hours passed in a blur of shared heat and whispered promises. He came inside me repeatedly, his loads thick and warm, adding to the layers of history between us. We moved from the floor to the rug, his bed, the kitchen, the couch and then back to the warm stone, exploring every inch of each other. Each time we reached to climax, the world outside the cabin ceased to exist.

Eventually, the fire began to dim, the bench having burned down to glowing embers. Dmitri slowly pulled out. As he pulled out, he moaned and came in my pussy one last time. He laid his body heavy with satisfaction. He didn't move far, pulling me into the crook of his arm as we lay on the stone floor, the lingering warmth of the hearth still shielding us from the mountain chill. My pussy was aching in the best way possible, thoroughly used and filled by him.

"We need to move by dawn," he said, his voice returning to its professional, tactical edge. "The scouts I mentioned... they aren't just looking for a traveler. They have your description. Someone leaked the DNA results from the mechanic."

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. "Then we don't wait for dawn. We eat, we pack, and we vanish."

Dmitri looked at me, a smirk playing on his lips. "Spoken like a true bad ass. Let's get to work, Marie Alexandrovna. We have a throne to reclaim—or at least a very big point to prove."

I stood up, my body sore but revitalized. I gathered my discarded base layers, the bruises on my skin a reminder of the strength I had found. The journey was far from over, but for the first time since I left home, I didn't feel like I was running. I was charging.

I took my wet things and hung them by the fire to dry. I showered, dried off and ate enough for four people. I’d just burned so many calories to get here and burnt even more having sex with Dmitry. I dressed in dry clothes and waited until he was ready before dressing in my outer layer.

Dmitri spread a topographical map across the small kitchen table, his finger tracing a jagged line through the northern pass. "The main roads are monitored by local militias in favor of the current administration. They aren't Russian army, but they’re paid by the people who want you in prison. They see you as another pretender. We’re going to take the ridge line. It’s steeper, and the wind will be brutal, but the sensors can't track us through the rock interference."

"How far to the Kremlin?" I asked, checking the action on my sidearm.

"Two hundred and forty-five miles." He looked up, his expression hardening. "Marie, if we get separated, don't look for me. You go straight to the safe house near the Red Square. The contact there knows the signal."

"We aren't getting separated, Mita," I said, my voice low. I reached out and squeezed his hand, my fingers lingering on the callouses. "I didn't survive that trek just to lose my best asset two hundred and forty-five miles from the finish line."

He gave a sharp nod and handed me a suppressed rifle from his locker. "Load up. We move in five to ten minutes."

I gathered my things and loaded up my ATV. I went back in the cabin to get a large drink of water and to also search if I missed packing my things. Thankfully, I didn’t miss anything. When Mita was ready, he joined me by the door.

We stepped out into the biting night air, the cabin door clicking shut behind us. The wind had picked up, a howling beast that threatened to knock us off our feet. We moved like shadows, our white camouflage blending into the swirling snow. Every snap of a branch or rustle of wind felt like a threat. The scouts were out there, and they were hungry. But as I followed Dmitri’s broad shoulders into the dark, I felt a cold, sharp clarity.

The time for hiding was over. The Romanovs were coming back, and we were bringing the storm with us.

The wind was a physical wall, a screaming banshee of ice and grit that threatened to scour the paint from the ATV. I leaned into the handlebars, squinting through goggles that were rapidly frosting over. I had been delayed by two days because of Dmitry and I was woefully behind schedule. I didn’t terribly regret my additional days with him though.

I took the sharp left, the tires of the ATV biting into the deep, fresh powder of the forest shortcut. I knew that I was separating myself from him intentionally but we both got what we wanted – a good fuck.

Between the sheer distance and the white-out conditions of the blizzard, my tracks were being erased almost as soon as they were formed. Dmitry was good—hell, he was better than most—but he wasn't a ghost. By the time he realized I’d slipped the leash, I’d be a memory in the snow.

The encounter with Dmitry had been exactly what I needed—a visceral, grounding distraction—but the Kremlin didn’t wait for sex and a good old fashioned fucking. I pushed the engine to its screaming limit, the vibration rattling my teeth. I needed to reach the capital. I was still three days out, a lifetime in this weather.

When the engine finally sputtered and died, the silence that rushed in was deafening. I worked with frozen fingers, pouring the reserve fuel into the tank, my breath coming in ragged plumes. I knew that I was near Boris and his cabin. Boris was an outlier, a man who lived on the fringes of the internal intelligence circles, known for two things: his cooking skills and a legendary reputation of having an enormous dick among the women of the service that I worked with. The reputation was his dick was larger than most. I knew where I needed to go – not for the food, maybe for the sex but definitely for warmth.

Thirty-five minutes later, the silhouette of the cabin appeared like a jagged tooth against the grey sky. I cut the engine, dragged the ATV behind a dense thicket of pines, grabbed my bags and stumbled toward the door. My boots felt like lead.

I knocked. The door creaked open, and the heat from within hit me like a blow.

Boris stood there utterly and unashamedly naked. The rumors hadn't been exaggerations; he was built like a siege engine, and the rumors of his dick were now fact….he hung almost to his knees. He didn't look surprised to see a frozen, desperate woman at his doorstep.

"May I come in?" I rasped, my voice cracking from the cold.

He stepped back, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. "Of course, Your Imperial Highness."

I didn't waste time. I dragged my bags inside, the door thudding shut against the howling gale, and began stripping. The wet, freezing layers hit the floor in a heap. I hung them near the roaring fireplace, the steam rising from the wool as the feeling began to return to my skin in painful stabs.

I turned back to him, the firelight dancing off his massive frame. "I need to get some sleep," I said, my eyes tracking the heavy sway of him as he moved. “But I also need to warm up and eventually eat.”

"I could join you," Boris offered, his voice a low rumble. "You’re still shivering. I could warm you up."

I looked him up and down, my pulse beginning to override the exhaustion. "Does that offer include that monster dick of yours?"

His grin widened. "It does."

"Good," I said. "Rearrange my guts, Boris. Make me forget the snow."

He laughed, a deep, hearty sound, and led me into the bedroom. There was no hesitation. He reached for a jar of lube on the nightstand, coating his dick. At his request, I leaned over the heavy oak desk, my palms flat against the wood, spreading my legs to welcome the intrusion.

"Highness," he said, the word a gravelly vibration.

“You call me that one more time, Bo, neither one of us will be getting lucky nor getting fucked tonight,” I warned, my fingers digging into the edge of the desk.

"Understood, Marie," he rumbled.

The first thrust was a total takeover. He rammed into me with a singular, violent force that bypassed pleasure and went stone to a primal shock. I gasped, certain I could feel the crown of his dick pressing against my lungs. He held there for a moment, letting me stretch, letting me feel every inch of the displacement.

"God," I choked out, my eyes rolling back. "You're a monster."

"You asked for it," he whispered, his breath hot on my neck.

Then, he began to move.

It was slow at first—methodical, agonizingly deep grinds that made my head light. But as my body adjusted, Boris increased the tempo. He began to pound, his hips hitting mine with the sound of a hammer on an anvil. The women were right; he was a stallion.

The harder he drove into me, the more the world outside—the Kremlin, Dmitry, Tom, Doc, Vic and the frozen wastes—faded into nothing. I screamed, the sound echoing off the log walls, and the noise only seemed to fuel him. He was relentless, a force of nature that rivaled the storm outside. We moved in a frantic rhythm, his climaxes hitting me in waves as I came repeatedly against his dick. He gripped my hips with hands like iron vices, plowing into me with everything he had, leaving me senseless and shattered in the best possible way.

“Fuck, Marie,” he screamed as his grip tightened on my hips as he continued to pound his dick in me.

“You can fuck me harder and faster than this, Bo,” I moaned. “I’m not fragile!”

Three thrusts later, Boris screamed my name and unloaded his last load of cum in me and I came on his dick. He nibbled on my neck as I asked if he was up for another round.

“Are you really up for another round?” he asked. “Most women can’t handle what we just did!”

“I’m not most women, Bo,” I said. “I’ve had a very stressful two weeks and the only thing that seems to help is getting fucked.”

“Yeah?” he asked as he started thrusting in and out of my beyond swollen pussy. “I get how this helps!”

Boris and I spent the next few hours fucking in his bedroom; on his bed, the couch, the floor, on his computer chair and his bean bag chair – a relic from the 1990s. when he finally pulled out of my pussy, he screamed my name and came in me once more.

“Shower?” I asked as I got up from the bean bag chair and started heading to the bathroom.

“How are you able to stand right now?” he asked.

“It’s damn near impossible because I spent three days before arriving here getting fucked as well as for a few hours straight before I arrived at that place,” I said. “But I need the exercise.”

“Hey, Marie?” he whispered.

“What’s up?”

“You’re on birth control right? And up to date on it?”

“I am and I believe so. Why?”

“Your tits look twice the size than I’ve seen in the past.”

“Oh,” I said as I continued to the bathroom.

I did the math as I was showering….I was a week and a half late in taking the Depo injection. I had the IUD just in case but it should still be good as it’s about a year old at this point. I then realized that I’m only this horny and craving dick 24/7 when I’m ovulating. Then I realized that I was ovulating. Fuck!!

I knew that abortions here are legal but I don’t know how long I’d be here or how much more sex I would have. At this point, I knew I was going to wind up pregnant or I was already pregnant.