We are taking book requests on our companion website. You can request books here. Make sure, you are following the rules.

Broken Whispers: Chapter 8


Dimitri calls on Tuesday afternoon to tell me we hit another dead end with the Albanians, making the sour mood I’ve been in for days even worse. I stand up from my desk, walk to the wall of windows overlooking the street below.

After Sisi came to collect Lena for a sleepover, Bianca went into the gym, carrying her ballet shoes and her phone. A few minutes later, a soft sound of a classic melody reached my office. That was four hours ago. I’ve tried to ignore it and do some work, but images of her dancing kept popping into my head, and I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.

I’ve also been trying to avoid her for the last two days, because every time I see her, I have this maddening urge to grab her, drag her to my bedroom, and fuck her senseless. Before I married her, I had sex regularly. Each of my partners knew my rules, the main one being no touching. But Bianca . . . I wanted to touch her everywhere.

I don’t know if Bianca would be up for it. She looked so shocked when she saw my arm. It lasted just a fraction of a second, and if I wasn’t paying attention, I would have missed it because she collected herself right away. My chest and back are in a much worse state than my arms, and I have no idea how she’ll react upon seeing that. She’ll see me without a shirt eventually. Maybe I should start wearing T-shirts in front of her, let her see my arms better so she can be somewhat prepared. I take the hem of my shirt and pull it up to my chest, regarding the scarred skin and trying to imagine looking at it through her eyes. Nope, nothing can prepare her for that.

As bad as it is, my right eye is so much worse. That, she’ll never see.

The music coming from the gym changes to a slow rock ballad, and I can’t ignore the mad craving to see her dancing one second more. At the gym door, I take care to be as quiet as possible as I open it and then lean onto the doorjamb to watch her. She’s wearing black leggings and an oversized top that falls off one shoulder. Her hair is piled atop of her head in a messy knot. Her feet are bare, the ballet slippers lying discarded next to the wall, as she glides across the room in a complicated set of steps and jumps. She finishes in a beautiful pirouette.

I wait for her to turn around, but for several minutes, she just stands there, looking at the wall in front of her with her hands pressed to her lower back. When she finally turns, her eyes are red, and tears are falling down her face. She flinches when she notices me, then quickly looks away and starts walking toward her ballet slippers. She winces every couple of steps, her right hand still pressed at her lower back. That’s when it comes to me. The reason why her parts in the plays got shorter over the last few months. Why she decided to leave the troupe. I remember the poster that said it was her last show. I thought it meant for the season. It didn’t.

It takes me several large strides to reach her and scoop her in my arms. She doesn’t resist, just hooks her arms around my neck and places her head on my shoulder, still facing me. The tears are still falling, but the expression on her face is strangely blank. If not for tears and red eyes, no one would know she’s crying. I carry her to the living room and sit down on the couch, holding her close to my chest. It’s strange, how much I enjoy having her body pressed into mine. There is a folded blanket on the side, so I take it and cover her, tucking it around her chin and legs. She feels so small snuggled into me, like a kitten.

I don’t know how long we sit like that. Probably close to an hour passes, because the night starts falling and the room gets darker. She’s been so still, I started to wonder if she fell asleep, but then her hand moves, tracing lines on my chest. At first, I think it’s a random pattern, but then I notice the repetition of the shapes. She’s drawing letters with her finger, and it takes me a few moments to catch up. It’s not that hard, just two short words, but I still wait for her to repeat the pattern a few more times to be sure I caught it right.




I notice the exact moment when Mikhail realizes what I’m drawing in his chest, because his body tenses. Just in case, I do it one more time and trace the letters.


He doesn’t do anything at first, but then I feel his finger caressing my cheek. I hook my hand around his neck and rise to a sitting position, straddling him with my legs. Only the outline of his face is visible in the darkness. Night had fallen outside, and none of the lights in the room are on. There is enough light coming through the window for me to see his head bending down, and the next moment, his lips crash onto mine.

It’s not light or subdued, but a claiming. His hands cradle my face. The skin of his palms is hard and calloused, but the way he holds me, as if I’m something precious, is heartbreaking. I bury my fingers in his hair and let myself be devoured by his sinful lips while the fire of desire consumes me. He breaks the kiss and starts trailing kisses down my chin, and I lean into him, feeling his hardness pressing into my core while my breath comes in short quick bursts. I reach for the hem of my top and take it off, then proceed to unclasp my bra, but my hands are shaking too much so I slip it off over my head.

“Are you sure, Bianca?” Mikhail whispers in my ear and then places a kiss on the side of my neck.

Is he crazy? I’ve been imagining this for days. I place my mouth on his chin and bite him lightly.

It’s like he had been restraining himself up until that point, waiting for my confirmation. He jumps up from the couch with me in his arms, and carries me toward his bedroom. All the while, I try my best to unbutton his shirt. I manage to undo the first two buttons, but there are at least five more, and I can’t concentrate on undoing all of them. Instead, I thrust my hands into the opening, grab both sides of the shirt, and yank them apart with all my might. The material tears. Buttons spring free and fall to the floor.

Mikhail lies me down on the bed, pulls off my leggings and panties, and starts unbuttoning his pants. Too slow. I need him inside me now or I’ll go mad. I stand up on the bed, and the moment his pants are off, I jump back into his arms and hook my legs around his waist.

I’ve never been this bold with a man before. Marcus once said that I should get counseling because I was cold and unaffectionate. He was right. I’ve never really enjoyed sex with him or others. For years, I thought something might be seriously wrong with me since none of my partners could turn me on. Sex being necessary for a relationship, I just went with it because it was expected, and faked the orgasm.

Frigid. I thought I was frigid. Apparently not, because I’m so wet that if I could think rationally, I would be embarrassed.

Holding me under my thighs, Mikhail turns around and presses my back onto the wall. He is saying something in Russian, and even though I don’t understand a word, just hearing his rough voice in my ear makes my insides melt. God, I want to feel him inside of me so badly, my whole body is trembling.

“My little ballerina,” he utters as he kisses my neck. “It would be much easier if you weren’t so beautiful.”

Mikhail positions himself and slowly lowers me onto his cock. He’s not even halfway inside me, and I’m already spasming around his huge length. When he buries himself fully inside of me, I gasp and my body shudders. The feel of his hard cock inside of me and the rough wall against my back brings me just to the brink of an orgasm as he stretches me in the best way possible.

He whispers foreign but seductive words in my ear while his big hands squeeze my butt cheeks. His lips kiss the sensitive spot on the side of my neck as he finally begins to move. With each thrust he seats himself further inside of me, hitting a spot that no man has ever hit before. Slow at first, and then faster. I bury my nails into his skin as his thrusts increase in force, and I can feel my body begin to tingle with my impending orgasm. It’s crazy. Intoxicating. The absolute destruction of my body and mind. He pounds into me like a man possessed, each slam of his hips into mine causes my back to hit the wall, stealing my breath. I come and Mikhail is right behind me.

I’m so spent I can’t gather the strength to unwind my arms from Mikhail’s neck, so I just tuck my face into the crook of his neck and let him carry me to the bed. The last things I remember before falling asleep are hushed words and a feather-light kiss in my hair.




I tug Bianca closer to me, marvelling at the feel of having her finally in my arms as I watch her face illuminated by the moonlight. I trace the contour of her eyebrow with a finger, then her small nose and pouty lips. She is so beautiful, it fucking hurts. It feels like sacrilege to have her bound to someone like me, or to have my bloodstained hands touching her—hands that have killed and maimed so many. She deserves better. A house with a picket fence and a carefree life with a normal man. An honest man who wouldn’t have to lie to her or hide the bad things he does when he goes to “work.” A man who would never come home covered in blood.

She deserves to be able to go to a restaurant without being stared at while people around her whisper to each other, discussing why the fuck she is with someone like me. I grew accustomed to the stares and hushed whispers years ago. They don’t bother me in the least. But I don’t like Bianca being the object of gossip. If I was a better man, I would have sent her away, annulled the marriage, and set her free. I guess I’m a bad man, because I don’t plan on letting her go.

How am I going to tell her I hid the fact that I know sign language? That instead of making her situation easier, I only made it harder? How can I explain my selfishness? Will she hate me for it?

I won’t lie to myself by thinking that Bianca is attracted to me, I’m not delusional. She was in a bad place tonight, vulnerable, probably lonely, and craving human contact. And I was the only one here. In the morning, she will likely regret what happened between us, so I’ll enjoy these stolen moments. It’ll have to be enough. I put my head on the pillow behind hers, bury my face into her hair, and hold her even tighter.


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.


not work with dark mode