Chapter 4: The Innocent Game
The shower ran for a long time. Misha listened to it, curled into a tight ball on the damp silk, until it shut off. He heard the rustle of a towel, the click of a hairdryer briefly, then silence. He held his breath, waiting for Ilia to come back, to say something else.He didn’t. Misha heard the soft pad of bare feet moving to the suite’s main room, the distant clink of glass, the low murmur of a television news channel turned down.He was being left alone.It was a dismissal in itself.
Slowly, aching, Misha sat up.The room smelled of sex and Ilia’s sandalwood soap. His own clothes from last night were a sad pile on the floor by the door—the black pants torn at the knee, the thin sweater smelling of stale adrenaline and ice rink. He couldn’t put those on. The idea of wrapping himself in that fabric, of walking out of this room smelling like yesterday’s fear, was unbearable.
He slid off the bed, his legs unsteady.The cool air raised goosebumps on his skin. He walked silently to Ilia’s walk-in closet, a cavern of tailored suits, crisp dress shirts, and shelves of watches that gleamed like mineral deposits.The space smelled overwhelmingly of him—clean, expensive, powerful. Misha ran his fingers along the sleeve of a white dress shirt.It was soft, heavy cotton. He took it off the hanger.Putting it on felt like stealing a relic. The shoulders engulfed him, the hem falling to mid-thigh. He left it unbuttoned at first, then fastened it clumsily, missing a button so the fabric gapped.He didn’t fix it. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror. With his tousled hair, his bruised-looking eyes, the shirt hanging open at his throat, he looked like a child playing dress-up.Or a victim. The vulnerability was so complete it felt like a costume.Maybe it was. Maybe this was the only language he had left—to show Ilia the ruin he’d made, to present it as an offering.See?I’m broken.Be careful with me.
He padded out of the bedroom, his bare feet silent on the polished wood floor.
Ilia was on the balcony, a square of gray morning light framing him. He wore dark sweatpants and nothing else, leaning against the railing with a white porcelain cup in his hand. The city below was waking up, a river of tiny headlights flowing soundlessly between the glass towers. From behind, he was a monument of muscle and quiet command.Untouchable.Misha’s heart hammered against his ribs. He crossed the room, stepped through the open glass door. The morning air was crisp, biting his exposed skin.He didn’t speak. He walked up behind Ilia and pressed himself against the solid warmth of his back, sliding his arms around his waist, resting his cheek between Ilia’s shoulder blades. He felt Ilia’s entire body stiffen, a reflex of surprise or irritation.Ilia didn’t shrug him off. He took another slow sip of his coffee, set the cup down on the railing with a definitive click. Then he turned, dislodging Misha’s hold.His face was neutral, assessing. He looked Misha up and down—the shirt, the bare legs, the pleading eyes.
Misha looked up, his lower lip beginning a traitorous tremble.He willed the tears to form, to glisten. “Please,” he whispered, the word barely audible over the distant city hum. “Please be gentle with me today.”
Ilia studied him.His expression didn’t soften, but it changed. A flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps, or a hunter recognizing a new kind of trap. His hand came up, calloused palms and strong fingers, and cupped Misha’s jaw. His thumb brushed over the damp track of a tear Misha hadn’t even felt escape. The touch was, for a second, almost tender.“You want gentle?” Ilia murmured. His voice was low, a dangerous softness smoothing its edges.
He took Misha’s hand, not roughly, and led him back inside. He guided him to the low, wide sofa of deep burgundy leather and sat him down. Misha’s hope was a wild, fluttering thing in his chest, clawing its way up his throat. Ilia knelt on the floor in front of him, his movements deliberate, slow. He undid the mismatched buttons of the shirt, pushed it open, then off Misha’s shoulders.The air was cool on his skin.
Ilia’s hands were warm. He traced the line of Misha’s collarbone, then leaned in and pressed his lips to the hollow of his throat.A kiss so light it was just breath. He kissed a path along Misha’s shoulder, down his sternum, his mouth a ghost of pressure.Misha trembled, a full-body shudder. He let his head fall back against the couch, eyes closing.This was it.This was the gentleness he’d craved. It was terrifying in its novelty. Ilia’s mouth moved lower, feather-light kisses dusting over his stomach, the sensitive skin of his hips. His fingers barely skimmed Misha’s inner thighs.It was an exquisite torment. Misha gasped, his body arching off the leather, seeking more of that delicate contact.The hope blossomed, painful and bright.
In that instant of desperate seeking, Ilia’s hands changed. The gentle tracing became a firm grip, pinning Misha’s hips to the couch. Ilia looked up, his eyes now dark and intent, all softness evaporated. “Gentle,” he said, the word flat, “doesn’t mean you get to control this.”
He moved up, covering Misha’s body with his own, and pushed inside him with a single, unyielding thrust.
Misha cried out, a sharp sound of betrayal as much as pain.The illusion shattered like cheap glass. The careful tenderness was just another layer of the game, a demonstration that even Misha’s most fragile hopes were subject to Ilia’s whim.There was no preparation, no easing.Just possession.
Tears flooded his vision again, blurring the stark lines of the ceiling. Ilia set a relentless, deep rhythm, his face buried in the curve of Misha’s neck. It was rough, it was demanding, it was exactly what Misha had feared and, devastatingly, exactly what he needed. His hands came up, not to push away, but to clutch at Ilia’s broad shoulders, his fingers digging into the hard muscle. He took the punishing pace, each thrust a confirmation of his own terrible worth.This was the gentleness he would get. The gentleness of being used, of being needed for this one raw, ugly thing.
When it was over, Ilia rested his weight on him for a moment, breathing heavily into his hair. Then he stood up, leaving Misha sprawled on the leather, exposed and spent. Ilia walked to the kitchenette, pulled a bottle of water from the fridge, and drank half of it in one go.
“We have that sponsor breakfast at ten,” he said, his back turned, voice perfectly normal, as if discussing the weather.“You should shower.Your clothes are in my second drawer. Don’t wear the ripped ones.”
Misha lay still, watching the ceiling come back into focus. The leather was cold and sticky beneath him. He heard Ilia’s phone buzz, heard him answer it with a crisp, “Malinin.” The world had already moved on.
He pushed himself up, every movement an effort. He gathered the white shirt from the floor, holding it to his chest as he walked back to the bedroom.The shower this time would be his own. The clothes would be borrowed.The day would be a performance.He was not done with yet. He clung to the words, the only warmth left in the hollowed-out space inside him. They felt less like a promise now, and more like a sentence he was learning to serve.