Page 77 of Cruel Demands

He begins to push inside me. As I stretch for him, I let out a sound I’ve never heard from myself, and he clamps a hand over my mouth.

He gathers the length of my hair in one hand and pulls my head back while he pushes the rest of himself inside me. “No more men, Taylor. Tell me who you belong to.”

“You, I belong to you.”

His grip tightens in my hair. “And tell me who your pussy belongs to.”

“You, Mikhail. It’s yours. Take me.”

My body tightens, and the release comes hard enough that I have to press my wrist against my mouth. I groan his name into my flesh over and over.

For a few seconds, there’s nothing. No Russia. No money. No office. No Mikhail. Just breath. I lie there with my skirt twisted around my hips, my heart beating too fast, my hand still trapped beneath my clothes.

Then it all returns.

I pull my hand free, roll onto my side, and finally drink the water.

I leave sticky fingerprints on the glass.

17

MIKHAIL

By the end of Taylor’s second week, she no longer looks like a visitor. She moves through the office as though she has quietly memorized its pulse. She knows which secretary will answer immediately and which one must be called twice. She knows the deputy minister prefers documents printed even when they’ve already been sent electronically. She has learned that Oleg forgets every meeting not physically written into his calendar and that Viktoriya will agree to almost anything if asked before her first coffee.

More impressively, she has learned when not to speak. Americans often struggle with silence. They rush to fill it, terrified that an empty space in conversation means they have lost control. Taylor uses silence like a blade.

I watch her from my office as she stands beside Oleg’s desk, waiting while he explains something to her in Russian. He speaks too quickly and uses three unnecessary idioms, likely because he enjoys reminding her that she is foreign. She lets him finish. Then she responds in careful Russian, correcting the date he has given her. Oleg frowns and checks his computer. Taylor is right. Her mouth curves slightly, but she doesn’t gloat. She returns to her own desk as though she has done nothing unusual.

I look back at the briefing document in front of me. I have read the same paragraph four times. This is becoming inconvenient.

I had assumed she would struggle longer. Not because she is unintelligent. I understood quickly that she was not. But intelligence is not the same as usefulness, and academic confidence often collapses when confronted with real pressure. Students believe deadlines are serious because their professors deduct points. They do not understand deadlines that cost elections, contracts, or lives.

Taylor understands faster than most. She asks questions once. She remembers the answers. When someone gives her contradictory instructions, she doesn’t panic or choose whichever person holds the higher title. She finds the source of the contradiction and resolves it.

She’s also good with people, though she doesn’t possess the polished, artificial warmth of a professional diplomat. She doesn’t smile constantly or flatter anyone. She listens. She notices details. She speaks to drivers and ministers with the same dry patience, though she’s considerably less afraid of the drivers.

My phone vibrates against the desk. Arkady. I look at the message without opening it.

We found another transfer connected to Orlov’s transport office. Call me.

It’s the third message he has sent this morning. I turn the phone face down and return my attention to Taylor.

I’m still pretending to read half an hour later when I leave my office to get coffee. As I step out of the break room, Viktoriya’s sharp voice cuts across the main office. “No, no, no.”

I stop in the corridor with one hand still on the door. Viktoriya is standing at her desk with one hand pressed to her forehead. Her face has gone pale. Several people look up.

Taylor turns in her chair. “That sounds promising.”

Viktoriya ignores the remark. She clicks furiously through something on her monitor, then reaches for the telephone, her fingers opening and closing uselessly above it. “The Governor’s Winter Education Benefit.”

“What about it?” Taylor asks.

“The venue is gone.”

Taylor waits. Viktoriya looks at her as though she has announced a death in the family. “The ballroom was double-booked.”

“For the same night?”