Chapter Text
She shouldn’t be here.
Mr. Morzova’s house is too cold, too imposing at night with its wrought iron gate, ancient brick drawing a dark line to the sky. It was a family estate settled outside the city, located on a remote, sizable chunk of land; allegedly under the care of the Morozovas for centuries now. Alina wasn’t family—not anymore, as of eight hours ago—and she didn’t belong here, no matter how feverently she wished she could.
So: she shouldn’t be here. At her (almost) father-in-law’s house.
And definitely not in her shortest dress.
Alina raps the front door before she can lose her nerve. Again. It had taken three tries just to get out of her car; her hands trembling so badly she’d been afraid she’d drop her keys. Keys to the apartment she shared with—
She swallows an ugly, wet sob. No. She’d sworn no more crying. It wouldn’t change anything.
And besides. She had other plans.
A long moment passes in unbroken silence: Alina wilts beneath it. The door was heavy, made of solid wood. She couldn’t even knock properly enough for him to hear. The damn house had no interest in cooperating with her. More evidence that she wasn’t enough, wasn’t ever enough—
“Alina?”
Her head jerks up from staring at her scuffed heels: Mr. Morozova is peering out from the cracked door, brows raised as he takes in her disheveled appearance. She’d made an attempt to be presentable in her little black dress—her anniversary dress, how cruel—and stockings, her only pair of matching lingerie hidden beneath her layers.
But Alina knew her eyes were red and swollen, hair limp from nervous hands twisted over and over in her paltry attempt at curls. Even her nails were bitten to the buff. It would be obvious to him, the man who meticulously observed everything, that she was…unworthy. Of it all.
Any lingering moroseness about her appearance gets worse as she takes Mr. Morozova in: handsome, devastating, charming, as he always was. Significantly older than she, but time had merely tempered his good looks into something lived-in. Neat beard, slicked hair, an escaped curl resting on his forehead. It’s late, but he was a night owl: still dressed for work, though the immaculate tailoring was slightly dampened by an unbuttoned collar, crisp white shirtsleeves rolled up his forearms. The exposed skin makes her mouth go dry.
“This was a mistake,” she mutters, licking her lips. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Morozova.”
“What happened.”
“Nothing, I’ll just—“
A hand shoots out, clasping tight around her wrist. Alina startles, eyes growing wide at the sight of his large fingers curled against her skin. It’s obscene, the heat that bleeds through his touch.
A beat. “I should leave,” she whispers, unable to look away.
He’s frowning now, the line between his brows pronounced, but his thumb rubs a circle into her wrist. A gesture meant to soothe: Alina imagines she looks much like a deer prepared to bolt at the slightest noise.
“A drink first, perhaps,” he opens the door a little wider with a creak, the darkness behind him beckoning her in.
Alina swallows, blinking up at him, pulse thumping. Going in meant not turning back. If she had her way tonight, there’d be no salvaging things with her fiancé—but Saints, Mal had made sure of that already, hadn’t he? Late nights at the office. Lipstick stains that weren’t her shade. Perfume lingering in his passenger seat upholstery that made Alina’s stomach turn.
Why was she here? Because Alina knew herself better than anyone, even the parts she didn’t like. The stubborn, self-maiming part of her that couldn’t let go of her first love. And unless she did something just as unforgivable, she’d wind up back in Mal’s arms, quietly, hopelessly discontent.
It was time to change that.
“Come in, Alina,” Mr. Morozova coaxes, with a gentle squeeze. “I insist.”
Right. Manners. Mr. Morozova wasn’t the type you ignored orders from.
She nods, biting her lip, allowing herself to be drawn inside, slightly bereft when he releases his hold. Her—well, he wasn’t really her father-in-law anymore, was he?—puts a hand on the small of her back, leading her towards the dim lamplight down the hall, their footsteps, two of hers for every one of his, echoing loudly in the relative silence.
In the past, Alina had visited before, touted around as a cherished fiancée among priceless Morozova heirlooms. Not often enough to find her way around the house in the dark, apparently. She’s forced to trust him—moreso with her unpracticed feet in heels—stumbling a little closer against his chest as they walk down the hallway.
As a result, a welcome warmth radiates from his chest when they brush together. Alina is not above appreciating it, in this drafty old house. Besides: he smells like he always does. Expensive. Refined.
Something too delicious to be good for you.
It does not go unnoticed that he’s still a head taller than her even in these shoes. The knowledge sends a pleasant shiver up her spine in a way it never has with any other man.
Mr. Morozova hums in her ear, noting her reaction. “You must be cold.”
Alina bites her tongue, blushing. “I’m fine.”
He gives her a sardonic look, but says nothing, gesturing for her to sit as he turns to a bar cart. She’s surprised to find they hadn’t gone to the living room, but rather his study—this new space far less impersonal. Not just the fire crackling away in the grate, but the cherrywood desk, the silver antique samovar, stacks of books lying haphazardly on inlaid shelves. The room has a sense of life and comfort to it that suggested it was where he spent most of his time, lacking the robust formality of the rest of the estate.
She realizes with a jolt she might’ve liked this house more if she’d known this space was here all along. Perhaps just another reason to believe it had never been right for her to be welcomed as anything other than an outsider.
Alina almost smiles upon seeing his laptop—the only evidence Mr. Morozova lived in the 21st century—perched beside a thick stack of notes. The elegant loops of his handwriting are scrawled across paper, the top one only half filled. Clearly interrupted by some wretch at his doorstep.
“I have whiskey. Unless you’d prefer wine from the cellar.”
“Whiskey sounds great, actually.”
“That’s my girl,” his mouth twitches into a half smile, turning away to pour.
The effect of the praise is frighteningly instantaneous. Alina sucks in a breath, wrapping her arms around herself, struggling to stay afloat as it goes directly to her head.
When he turns around, holding two crystal glasses of dark amber liquid, his eyes are nearly black.
“You won’t sit.”
“Too tense.” She shakes her head, taking the offered glass gratefully. Alina tips it back before she can think better of it, savoring the burn—darting her tongue out to catch the last drop.
Mr. Morozova stiffens. Slight. Subtle. Only caught if you knew what to look for.
Good thing Alina is an apt pupil.
“Can I have another?” She asks shyly, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. Liquid courage had its appeal. Alina had always harbored an innocent crush on the man—his charming, cool magnetism, his alluring brand of confidence. Now she felt like just a girl, standing beside him. Inconsequential.
He tilts his head again. “No,” he replies. “Not until you tell me what happened.” His gaze drops meaningfully to her left hand: a noticeably absent ring on her fourth finger.
She grits her teeth, the sting still fresh. This wasn’t supposed to be how it worked. She was supposed to come here, flirt with Mr. Morozova, convince the older man to sleep with her, and dig the proverbial knife into Mal’s gut as her last stand before moving out and moving on. It didn’t have anything to do with feelings.
Alina didn’t know if she could bear telling him the truth: that she wasn’t enough to keep her own fiancée’s attention. Crying on his shoulder about her failings wasn’t exactly a recipe for seduction.
“Mal,” she breathes out his name with more resignation than malice, “and I are over, Mr. Morozova.”
His eyebrows raise, eyes carefully trained on her face, expression inscrutable.
“Ah.”
What? Alina squares her shoulders, forcing herself to speak. “Yes. Maybe—for some time now. I just didn’t see it. Or I was purposely ignoring it. I’m not sure but he—he...I’m. I’m not going back,” she stammers, shaking her head. “This time for real.”
“ This time ?” He repeats icily, knuckles white, apparently keen to threaten the structural integrity of the glass still in his hand. Alina could swear the shadows of the room grow heavier. “Alina. I won’t ask again. What happened.”
She tilts her chin, daring Mr. Morozova to contradict her words. “He can keep his ring if he’s going to fuck other women. I don’t want it.”
“Just as well.”
“I—huh?”
His next words are a surprise, spoken with startling conviction, his eyes bright and present: “Well, he was never good enough for you, Alina. You must know that.”
She grimaces, uncomfortable with the implication she was worth anything at all. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—give you the impression I came here to be coddled.”
“Then what did you come here for, Alina?” he takes a step forward, backing her up against the edge of his desk. Her heart races, pulse jumping in her ears. Saints, had he always been this tall? She was going to have a cric in her neck from trying to keep eye contact.
“Little Alina, in her very best dress, showing up on my doorstep without a ring. Pretending to be a myshka when she most certainly is not.”
Her throat bobs. Now or never, she thinks, leaning her weight back and grasping the hem of her dress. Her palm is clammy but she pulls the fabric up regardless, feigning a bravery she doesn’t feel. Just enough to reveal the band of her lace garter.
“I came here to...make an offer.” The air feels thin. She might pass out from sheer humiliation if this plan doesn’t work. Surely Mr. Morozova, beneath that sleek, dangerous veneer, was still a man.
His eyes slide down her body slowly, pupils black. Brazen, unrelenting lust clouds his features when he reaches her thigh, his lips parting soundlessly.
“I know how you look at me,” she says softly, emboldened by his rapt attention. “I’m not imagining it. This could be...mutually beneficial.”
“ Mutually beneficial ,” he repeats each syllable in that mesmerizing, lazy way of his, the sound nearly indecent. He downs the rest of his drink. “So, my idiot son makes the worst mistake of his life and I get to fuck you—as some sort of revenge-plot, is that it?”
She nods, unable to meet his eyes. Suddenly she’s glad for the strength of the table digging into her spine. Alina’s not sure she’d still be standing without it.
“Oh, lapushka,” he sighs, reaching out to tuck some of her hair behind her ear. The gesture is so gentle it frightens her. “What are we going to do with you?”
No, that isn't the reaction she’d been hoping for, or expecting—no ravishing, no fire. Maybe it was hopeless. Always had been. Her vision starts to blur with sticky tears. “Don’t—don’t be kind. I can leave,” she snaps.
A hand seizes her jaw, jerking her face up to meet his.“You misunderstand, Alina. I’m proposing a counteroffer,” he smirks down at her, smoothing his thumb across her lips. “Stay the whole weekend. Here, with me. And I’ll fuck you precisely how you’re asking for.”
Her knees go wobbly—with relief? Or shock or terror, it’s hard to tell. She can’t think, her brain full with the sound of the word fuck on his lips. “ Oh .”
“Yes, oh. I’m not some simpering boy lacking self-control, Alina. If I’m going to bed you, I’ll do it properly. Thoroughly . One night isn’t enough.”
The room is warm. Sweltering, even. Hadn’t she been cold not even ten minutes ago?
“And,” he draws her forward, pulling her against the line of his chest. “You’re going to be loud for me. Make all the pretty noises I’ve been imagining you make when you come, hm? Because I’ll make you come, milaya, if you’re good for me . Until you can’t stand it.”
Her thighs press together with a whimper. Alina must be gaping at him like a very unsexy fish. It was unthinkable—this man, her almost father-in-law, saying these illicit things, dropping words like snares meant to trap her in his arms.
“Now,” his hand brushes her throat, fingers tensing against her windpipe just enough to make her dizzy. Leaning so, so close until all she can smell or see or hear is him. Was it possible? To drown in somebody else? “Do you know why I’m going to fuck your pretty little brains out, pet?”
“B-because,” she gasps, nails digging into the wood of his desk. Nothing made sense anymore. Maybe she was dreaming a very nice dream. Or a nightmare. Where had all her steely resolve gone? “I dont know—I don’t—um, Mal—“
“Because,” he places a gentle kiss on her forehead, at odds with the relentlessness of his words, his firm grip on her body. “You deserve it. Simple as that, Alinochka.”
Her eyes squeeze shut. This could not be happening. Things like this didn’t happen to Alina Starkov. Attractive men with generational wealth did not offer to make her orgasm for an entire weekend. Especially not ones old enough to be her father. Especially especially not her cheating ex-fiancé’s father.
She is, however, more turned on than she’s ever been in her life. The very evidence of that was currently drenching her nicest underwear. Something lace she’d bought for Mal to admire—who’d only asked how much did that set you back when she’d taken off her clothes. When she’d been taught it was better not to daydream about being called beautiful , because she’d only ever be disappointed.
“Look at me, Alina.”
She does, without question, eyes fluttering open instantly, mind blissfully empty of Mal’s transgressions. Mr. Morozova had that effect. On her. On everyone.
“So,” his head cocks, apparently delighted by her obedience. “Do we have a deal, Miss Starkov?”