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That’s not how I thought our first time would be. I assumed she would want to wait until the wedding or even after that. Would want romance and candles and rose petals spread over the bed. Not a quickie in the front of my truck in the middle of the night with men stationed within viewing distance.

She looks back when she reaches the door, nods once, and then disappears into the house.

I try not to think about how my cum will be running down her thighs. I ignore the pull of disappointment that I didn’t plug her up and make sure she couldn’t lose any of it. I try not to look into that line of thinking too much.

***

Dawn bleeds into the darkness, and the shift changes at six.

Garick’s men swap out by the gate in pairs. One of the new ones walks up the drive with two paper cups and taps on my window. Mid-thirties, shaved head, a scar through his eyebrow. I’ve seen him at the gym in Pilsen once or twice.

I wind the window down.

“Kolya,” he says, and hands me a coffee. “Garick says thank you. For the call.”

“Tell him he’s welcome.”

“Belov won’t hold a cup for a month,” he says. “Volkov’s on the steps of Rusakov’s club. Everybody in the city’s heard by now.” He takes a sip of his own coffee. “Quiet night after that.”

“Who did Volkov?”

Kolya looks at the house again.

“Not my story to tell,” he says, and walks back down the drive.

I sit with that for a while.

***

At seven, the front door opens.

Galana comes down the steps in a long cardigan and fluffy socks, carrying a plate covered with a cloth in one hand and a thermos in the other. She crosses the drive like she’s not sure whether I bite.

I get out of the truck before she reaches it, so she doesn’t have to lean in.

“Leftover blini,” she says, holding out the plate. “I warmed them up. And there’s tea in there. Eva says you take it with lemon.”

I’ve never told Evaria how I take my tea. I’ve never told anyone. Last night was the first time anybody made me a cup in years, and I drank it the way she made it.

“Thank you,” I say.

Galana nods. She doesn’t leave. She stands on the cold drive with her arms wrapped around herself, looking up at me with red-rimmed eyes that look like they’ve been crying since the funeral and haven’t yet found a reason to stop.

“She’s still asleep,” she says. “Eva. She never sleeps past six. Ever. She’s always the first one up.”

I don’t know what to say to that. So I don’t say anything.

“Can I ask you something?” she says, looking more nervous than I’m comfortable with.

“Yes.”

“When Papa asked you.” She swallows. “Did you get to say no?”

I think about Yaroslav in that parking lot. You’ll meet her like a man. Not like a buyer.

“Yes,” I say. “I said no the first time.”

“And he let you?” Confusion creases her brows.