Chapter 28: Weeks later
Weeks later.
Morning light streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Sascha’s Monte Carlo penthouse, painting golden stripes across the sweat-damp sheets tangled around Violet’s bare legs. The citrus-salt musk of their night together still clings to the air, thick enough to taste if she dares to inhale too deeply.
Violet lies perfectly still, her cheek pressed into the damp patch of sheet Sascha’s head just vacated. The golden morning light spills across the mattress in geometric patterns, catching motes of dust that drift like tiny constellations. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Mediterranean sparkles under a cloudless sky, but all she can see is the ceiling—the same one where Sascha once traced lazy circles over her stomach while Andrey kissed her collarbone into submission.
A soft knock sounds at the door.
Violet’s eyelashes flutter against her cheekbone.
The knock at the door is so soft she might have imagined it, but the scent of fresh coffee filtering under the door frame tells her it’s real. And unwelcome.
“Come in,” she calls, rolling onto her side to gather the sheet around herself like a shield. Her voice is still thick with sleep, the edges of yesterday’s confessions lingering in the air between her lips.
The door edged open slightly, and Andrey’s broad silhouette fills the doorway. He’s dressed in loose gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, the reddish stubble along his jaw glinting gold in the morning light.
A steaming mug of coffee is clasped between his calloused hands, the scent cutting through the citrus-salt musk like a blade.
Violet watches as he steps inside, the muscles in his back shifting beneath his olive skin. He’s barefoot, the red-gold hair on his legs catching the light like copper wire. His blue eyes flick from the rumpled sheets to her face, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Morning,” Andrey says in that low Russian cadence, his voice rough with sleep and something warmer. The mug of coffee trembles slightly in his grip. “Did you sleep well?”
Violet swallows hard, pulling the sheet higher against her chest trying to pretend she hasn't just got her period.
She keeps her voice steady.
"I slept well."
She forces a smile that feels too wide, too forced. The citrus-salt musk of their combined sweat still lingers in the air between them, thick and heady. She can feel the telltale cramping starting again deep in her lower abdomen, a dull throbbing that makes her breath catch. She shifts slightly in the bed, trying to hide the wince that wants to escape.
Andrey’s smile falters for just a second as he studies her face, something sharp flashing in his eyes before he schools his expression back into neutral. His blue eyes flick to the small dark stain on the sheets where Violet had been lying, his eyebrows lifting almost imperceptibly.
The fresh coffee scent cuts through the citrus-salt musk of their shared sweat, grounding him in reality.
Before he can speak Sascha's rough voice comes from behind him in the hallway. "Bring that coffee in here Andrey. Violet likes it with a splash of cream."
Andrey's gaze never leaves Violet's face as he moves further into the room, the coffee mug still held carefully between his hands. The citrus and salt musk clings to every inch of his exposed skin, a living reminder of what they shared just hours before.
Violet's breath catches as her fingers tighten on the sheet, her nails digging in unconsciously.
The dull cramping has sharpened into something more insistent now, radiating out from her lower abdomen in sharp pulses that make her stomach clench. She forces her breathing to remain even, but the way Andrey’s gaze lingers on her face—scrutinizing, evaluating—makes her skin prickle beneath the sheet.
The citrus-salt musk clinging to the air between them feels suddenly suffocating.
“Here,” Andrey says, his voice dropping into that low Russian register as he steps closer. The coffee mug is still gripped between his calloused hands, the steam curling up around his forearms.
He kneels at the edge of the mattress so their faces are closer, his blue eyes studying her face with an intensity that makes her throat tighten.
“You don’t look like you slept well,” he murmurs, the Russian accent wrapping around the words like dark velvet. His gaze dips to the small damp spot on the sheet where Violet had been lying moments before, the dark stain impossible to ignore. The citrus-salt musk of their combined sweat still clings to the air, thick enough to taste.
Violet shifts slightly again, her fingers tightening on the sheet as another wave of cramping rolls through her lower abdomen.
“You don’t look like you slept well,” Andrey murmurs, his voice dropping into that low Russian register as he kneels at the edge of the mattress so their faces are closer. His blue eyes flick to the small damp spot on the sheet again, his eyebrows lifting almost imperceptibly before he forces his gaze back to her face.
Violet’s breath catches as she forces a small smile, her cheeks warming despite herself. “I slept fine. Just…processing everything.”
The coffee scent cuts through the citrus-salt musk between them, sharp and grounding.
Violet shifts again, hiding a wince as another wave of cramping tightens her lower abdomen. She subtly pulls the sheet tighter around herself, fingers curling into the damp fabric.
Andrey watches her carefully, his blue eyes lingering on the way her knuckles whiten around the sheet. His expression softens slightly as he places the coffee mug on the nightstand with deliberate care.
“You don’t need to be brave with us,” he murmurs, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like warm velvet. He reaches out slowly, tucking a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear with calloused fingers.
His touch is gentle, the callouses on his fingertips catching on her soft skin in a way that makes her shiver despite the warmth flooding her cheeks. The citrus-salt musk of their combined sweat still clings to the air between them, thick enough to taste.
"It's just... cramps," Violet admits in a voice that wavers despite her efforts to keep it steady. She glances down at the sheets, then quickly back up, her teeth pressing into her lower lip. "Nothing to worry about."
Andrey's gaze follows hers to the telltale dark stain on the sheets, but he says nothing about it. Instead, his thumb brushes lightly against her temple, spreading warmth across her skin.
"You’re allowed to not be okay," he says simply, his voice rough with a tenderness she’s rarely heard from him. The citrus-salt musk still clings to the air—thick, intimate—but now it feels different. Softer.
The floorboards creak in the hallway, and Sascha fills the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly blocking out the morning light. He’s wearing low-slung sweatpants, the kind that do nothing to hide the powerful lean of his thighs, and nothing else. His golden eyes immediately lock onto Violet, scanning her face with an intensity that makes her pulse jump.
He takes in the way her fingers are still curled tight around the damp sheet, the way her cheeks have bloomed pink, the way she's trying to act like everything is normal when the evidence of her discomfort is written all over her.
Sascha crosses the room in three long strides, not stopping until his knees press into the mattress beside Violet. His hands come up without thinking, one settling on her hip, the other brushing her hair back from her face in the same tender gesture she’s come to associate with him.
The citrus and salt of their sweat is still clinging to the air, but now it’s mixed with something new: the creamy scent of coffee, the faint floral note of whatever body wash he must have used in the guest bathroom. Sascha’s touch is a brand, warm and grounding.
"You’re allowed to not be okay," he says again, just like Andrey did, but with that low German accent that makes her stomach flip in a way she knows she shouldn’t be feeling right now. His thumb traces the shell of her ear, sending shivers down her spine despite the dull ache sitting heavy in her lower stomach. The citrus-salt musk clinging to the air between them has shifted, softened.
Violet swallows hard, her throat working against the effort to keep her voice steady.
“Guys…” she begins, her fingers still curled tight around the damp sheets. The words feel too heavy, too real. She forces herself to meet their eyes—Andrey’s steady blues, Sascha’s golden depths. “I’m on my period.”
The silence that follows is thick enough to cut with the coffee knife left on the nightstand. Violet braces herself. She expects disgust, discomfort, the carefully neutral expressions men wear when they’ve discovered something messy and female. Instead, Andrey’s eyebrows rise in something like surprise, then his mouth quirks into a slow, appreciative smile.
“Of course you are,” he murmurs in that rough Russian cadence, his thumb still tracing circles against her temple. “That explains why you were so quiet last night.”
Sascha’s golden eyes darken with understanding, his thumb pressing gently against her hipbone through the sheet.
“Of course,” he repeats softly, the German word curling around the moment like a promise.
Andrey exhales slowly, his chest rising and falling against the edge of the mattress. He reaches for the mug of coffee on the nightstand, holding it out to Violet with both hands. “Drink this before it gets cold,” he says, his voice rough with an emotion Violet can’t quite name.
She takes the mug with trembling fingers, the heat seeping into her palms instantly. The coffee is the perfect shade of creamy—just how she likes it—and the scent of dark roast grounds mixes with the lingering citrus-salt musk of their bodies.
Violet takes a slow sip, the warmth of the ceramic mug seeping into her palms. She watches Sascha and Andrey exchange a look over the steam rising from the coffee, something unspoken passing between them.
The initial shock has faded, replaced by a quiet understanding. Violet can feel the weight of their gaze on her, not with pity, but with something almost reverent.
Andrey’s thumb still traces slow circles against her temple, grounding her. "You should stay in bed," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low Russian register. "Rest. We'll bring you breakfast."
Sascha nods in agreement, his golden eyes never leaving her face.
"We'll make you something warm," he says, his voice low and steady. "Toast with honey. Tea. Whatever you want."
Violet swallows the mouthful of coffee she's been nursing, the warmth doing little to ease the tension coiling in her stomach. The dull cramping is still there, but it's easier to ignore with their hands on her—even if they're just tucking the sheet around her shoulders like she's made of spun sugar.
She takes another sip, watching them both over the rim of the mug. Andrey's blue eyes are warm, his russet stubble catching the light as he studies her with an intensity that makes her pulse flutter.
His calloused fingers leave the gentlest trace against her temple as he tucks another loose strand of brown hair behind her ear. The citrus-salt musk still clings to the air between them, but now it’s mixed with something softer—the creamy coffee scent, the floral hint of Sascha’s body wash, the faint sweetness of honey from the kitchen.
Violet takes another slow sip, the warmth of the ceramic mug doing little to ease the tension coiling in her stomach. The dull cramping is still there, but it’s easier to ignore with their hands on her—even if they're just tucking the sheet around her shoulders like she's made of spun sugar.
Violet takes another sip of coffee, watching them both over the rim of the mug. Andrey's blue eyes are warm, his reddish stubble catching the light as he studies her with an intensity that makes her pulse flutter.
"Tea," she says finally, her voice soft but clear. "With extra honey. And maybe some ginger."
Sascha nods once, his golden eyes never leaving her face. He turns on his heel with the easy grace of someone who's used to being followed, his bare shoulders catching the morning light as he strides toward the door.
Violet can't help but watch the way his sweatpants hang low on his hips, the lean muscles of his back shifting beneath the olive skin.
Andrey lingers for a moment longer, his thumb still tracing that slow circle against her temple. "Ginger is good for cramps," he murmurs, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like warm velvet. His free hand finds the edge of the sheet, tucking it more securely around her shoulders as if she's made of something fragile.
Violet watches him go, the muscles in his back shifting beneath the olive skin as he disappears through the doorway.
She lets her gaze linger on the empty space for just a moment too long, her lips parting as though she might call him back—though she doesn’t know what she’d say if she did.
The room feels suddenly too quiet, the citrus-salt musk of their combined sweat fading with every passing second, replaced by the faint herbal notes of the tea Andrey is no doubt preparing in the kitchen. Sascha’s absence leaves a void that seems to echo in the empty spaces between her breaths.
Violet exhales slowly, the sound trembling slightly as she sets the half-empty mug of coffee onto the nightstand. The ceramic clinks softly against the wood, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet.
She shifts again, the sheet rustling against her bare legs, and winces as another wave of cramping tightens her lower abdomen. It’s sharper this time, more insistent, making her stomach clench.
The citrus and salt of their shared sweat still clings to the air—thick and intimate—but now it feels distant, like a memory fading into the morning light. Violet’s fingers curl into the damp sheet, her nails digging in unconsciously.
The cramping twists again, sharper this time, making her stomach clench. She forces herself to exhale slowly through her nose, willing the discomfort to retreat like a wave receding from the shore.
The bedroom door creaks open again, and Sascha steps back inside carrying a tray. The scent of toasted sourdough and fresh ginger hits her first—crisp and warming, exactly what she needed but hadn’t realized until this moment. Behind him, Andrey follows carrying a steaming ceramic pot, the ginger tea’s aroma curling into the air like a promise.
Violet watches as they move, their bare feet silent against the wooden floor.
Sascha’s golden eyes flick to her momentarily, checking in before he sets the tray down on the bed beside her. The warmth from the tray seeps into the sheets around her legs, a small comfort against the persistent ache in her lower abdomen.
Andrey kneels at the foot of the mattress, his broad shoulders blocking out the light for a moment as he pours the ginger tea into a delicate china cup. The steam rises in slow curls, carrying the sharp, spicy scent of fresh ginger that cuts through the lingering citrus-salt musk of their shared sweat. He hands her the cup first, his calloused fingers brushing against hers for the briefest second, grounding her.
The heat of the ceramic sears her fingertips just enough to remind her she’s alive, present—real, despite the dull ache radiating from her lower stomach. The ginger tea's pungent aroma fills the air between them, sharp and medicinal and comforting all at once.
Violet takes a slow sip, the liquid burning her tongue just enough to distract her from the cramping that tightens her abdomen. The warmth spreads through her chest like a slow, soothing balm, easing the tension coiled there. She watches as Sascha settles onto the edge of the mattress beside her, his thigh pressing against hers through the sheet—a deliberate, grounding presence.
He's brought a small silver tray loaded with precisely arranged breakfast items: thick slices of toasted sourdough glistening with golden honey, fresh strawberries that look impossibly red against the white porcelain, and a small ramekin of what smells like fresh jam. His golden eyes meet hers briefly, and in that single glance, there's a world of promises.
That Sascha is the kind of man who would memorize a woman's preferences down to the exact shade of honey she prefers in her tea. That he would notice the way her fingers tremble around the cup. That he would care enough to bring the perfect breakfast to her bedside.
The ginger tea burns going down, but Violet doesn't care. She takes another sip, welcoming the warmth that spreads through her chest, pushing back against the dull ache in her lower abdomen. The sharp spiciness of the ginger cuts through the last traces of citrus-salt sweat clinging to the air, cleansing it, purifying it somehow.
Violet exhales through her nose, the tension in her shoulders easing fractionally as the heat spreads through her torso.
Sascha lifts the tray onto the bed between them, setting it carefully down so the tiny feet don’t scratch the sheets. The wood protests softly under the weight, the sound intimate in the hushed morning.
Violet watches as he arranges everything with deliberate precision – the toast precisely positioned with the honey drizzled in careful patterns, the strawberries fanned out in an almost obsessive circle, the jam spoon angled at exactly forty-five degrees. The man is clinically neat even when delivering breakfast to a woman who’s been thoroughly fucked barefoot in a Monte Carlo penthouse.
Violet watches the play of muscle beneath golden skin as Sascha settles onto the mattress beside her, his thigh pressing against hers through the sheet in a way that feels less like hospitality and more like claiming. The citrus-salt musk of their shared sweat has finally faded, replaced by the sharp green aroma of fresh ginger and the rich, buttery sweetness of honey.
Andrey kneels at the foot of the bed, his broad shoulders creating a human shield against whatever might intrude on this moment. The ginger tea has lost its edge of pain—now it’s just warm and familiar, like a familiar voice cutting through static.
Violet takes another slow sip, the liquid soothing her throat before it spreads through her chest.
The ginger burns just enough to distract from the persistent cramping that still tightens her lower abdomen. She watches Sascha’s hands as he carefully adjusts the tray between them, his fingers moving with that same deliberate precision she noticed when he arranged the toast.
His thumb brushes against her knee as he settles back against the headboard, the contact sending a jolt through her that isn’t entirely from the cramping. The sheet has slipped lower, exposing the slope of her shoulder, and she feels the heat of his gaze there before it travels upward.
Andrey returns from the ensuite with a small glass bowl filled with warm washcloths, steam curling from the top.
He kneels beside the mattress, the geometric morning light striping his back as he hands Violet the bowl first. The steam carries the sharp, clean scent of eucalyptus that cuts through the lingering citrus-salt musk of their shared sweat.
"You don't have to," Violet murmurs, but her voice wavers because the truth is she wants to feel clean, wants to erase the evidence of everything that came before this moment. The cramping pulses again, more insistent this time, making her stomach clench.
Sascha's thigh presses more firmly against hers through the sheet. "Let us," he says simply, his German accent curling around the words like a command she can't resist.
His calloused fingers brush the damp hair from her forehead, leaving a trail of warmth that lingers even after he pulls away. The citrus-salt musk that once clung to the air has faded completely, replaced by the sharp eucalyptus and the sweetness of honey still clinging to their skin from breakfast.
Violet watches as Andrey dips one of the washcloths into the warm water, his broad shoulders blocking most of the morning light as he wrings it out with careful precision. The muscles in his back shift beneath his olive skin, the reddish stubble along his jaw catching the light.
Andrey kneels beside the mattress, the geometric morning light striping his shoulders, the steam from the bowl curling up to mix with the faint floral and citrus notes still clinging to the air. His calloused fingers brush the damp hair from her forehead, leaving a trail of warmth that lingers even after he pulls away.
"I—" she starts, then stops, the words catching in her throat. Her fingers tighten around the warm washcloth Andrey just placed in her hands, her knuckles whitening despite the heat radiating through the fabric. She swallows hard, the ginger tea she drank earlier burning pleasantly in her stomach. Neither of them speaks, letting the silence stretch just long enough that the only sound in the room is the distant hum of Monte Carlo waking up outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Andrey's thumb traces slow, soothing circles against the inside of her wrist where her pulse still fluttered erratically. The eucalyptus steam curls between them, sharp and medicinal, cutting through the last traces of citrus-salt sweat that still clung to their skin.
Violet's breath catches before she forces the words out in a rush. "I thought you wouldn’t want to be near me while I have my period." The words land between them like stones dropped into still water, their ripples spreading through the quiet morning. She keeps her gaze fixed on the washcloth in her hands rather than meet their eyes - a reflex from past relationships where this admission would have been met with discomfort or worse, disdain. The warmth of the washcloth does little against the persistent cramping that tightens her lower abdomen.
Sascha's thigh presses more firmly against hers through the crisp cotton sheets, the contact grounding her in a way that surprises her.
"I thought you'd both be disgusted or turned off like previous boyfriends of mine have been." Violet says nervously.
"Disgust does not exist in this bed," he says, his German accent wrapping around the words like steel wrapped in velvet. His golden eyes lock onto hers with an intensity that makes her breath catch, the kind of look that has had opponents forfeiting matches rather than meet his gaze.
Andrey exhales through his nose, the sound rough with something between amusement and frustration. His blue eyes darken as he studies her face, his reddish stubble catching the morning light like copper wire. "We are not those boys," he says simply, his Russian accent making the words sound like a vow. He dips the washcloth back into the warm eucalyptus water, ringing it out with careful precision between his calloused palms. The steam rises in slow curls, carrying that sharp green scent between them like an unspoken promise.
Violet swallows hard against the sudden thickness in her throat, her fingers tightening around the warm washcloth.
"Are you sure you're not weirded out?" Violet asks.
Her teeth press into her lower lip, the gesture automatic, a nervous tic she’s had since adolescence. The washcloth in her hands is warm enough to sting slightly against her fingertips, the eucalyptus steam rising between them like ghost fingers brushing against her cheek. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Monte Carlo sparkles under a cloudless sky, but all Violet can see is the way Sascha’s golden gaze darkens at her question, the intensity of it making her stomach clench—not from pain this time, but something else entirely.
Sascha exhales slowly through his nose, the sound barely audible but heavy with something unreadable.
His thigh presses more firmly against hers through the sheet, the heat of his body seeping through the fabric and grounding her in a way she hasn’t let herself rely on before.
The ginger tea has long since gone cold on the nightstand, its steam now merely a memory. The eucalyptus scent still curls between them, sharp and medicinal, but it’s mingling with something else—something distinctly masculine and warm, the kind of scent that lingers on skin long after the source is gone.
"You think too much," Sascha says at last, his voice rough with an accent that makes the words feel like a caress.
His calloused fingers trace slow circles against the inside of her wrist, the touch so gentle it’s almost reverent. The geometric morning light stripes his back, turning the golden tan of his skin into something luminous, something sacred. "And yet not enough."
Violet’s breath hitches. She wants to look away—wants to retreat back into the safety of her own thoughts where she can overanalyze every syllable, second-guess every gesture—but the way his thumb presses against the pulse point at her wrist holds her captive. The citrus-salt musk of their shared sweat has long since faded, replaced by the sharp eucalyptus and the buttery sweetness of the honey still clinging to her lips.
Violet’s fingers tremble around the warm washcloth, her knuckles white despite the heat radiating through the fabric.
“You're still you, krasavitsa,” Andrey said, his Russian accent wrapping around the endearment like velvet. “Your period doesn't change how much we love you.”
The words landed like a physical touch, more potent than the warmth of the washcloth pressed against her skin. Violet’s breath hitched, her pulse jumping at the first time either of them had used the word *love*. The eucalyptus steam curled between them, sharp and medicinal, but now it carried something else—something fragile and new.
Sascha’s thigh pressed more firmly against hers through the sheet, the heat of his body seeping through the cotton like a promise.
His golden eyes darkened as they locked onto hers, the intensity in them making Violet acutely aware of how exposed she felt—naked beneath the sheet, vulnerable in a way she hadn’t been all morning. The citrus-salt musk of their combined sweat was long gone. In its place lingered the sharp eucalyptus, the warm ginger from the tea, and the faint sweetness of honey still clinging to his lips.
Violet swallowed past the knot in her throat, the washcloth still clutched tight in her hand. “I didn’t expect…” She trailed off, shaking her head slightly. The cramping had softened, but the emotional weight of the moment settled over her like a second skin.
Violet’s fingers trembled around the warm washcloth, her pulse jumping at the unspoken word hanging between them. *Love*.
Andrey’s thumb brushed against the inside of her wrist, slow, deliberate, grounding.
"Violet," Sascha murmured, his voice low and rough with that German accent that always made her stomach flutter. His golden eyes held hers, unreadable, yet full of something so tender it hurt. "You don’t need to explain. Just breathe."
She exhaled shakily, her breath mingling with the eucalyptus-scented steam curling between them.
The washcloth in her hands had long since lost its warmth, but she still clutched it like a lifeline. The persistent cramping had dulled to a dull ache, no longer sharp enough to steal her focus completely. Instead, her attention was riveted on the two men before her—the way Andrey’s reddish stubble caught the morning light as he studied her, the way Sascha’s golden eyes burned with an intensity that made her skin prickle despite the sheet wrapped around her shoulders.
"You don’t need to explain," Sascha repeated, his voice rough, his German accent wrapping around the words like a caress.
"We're here for you, the good parts and the not so good ones."
Andrey adds, his thumb tracing slow circles against her inner wrist, the callouses catching just enough to ground her.
Violet feels the bed dip slightly as Sascha shifts closer, his thigh pressing against hers once more. The sheet has slipped lower, exposing more of her collarbone to the cool morning air, and she can feel the heat of his gaze there before it travels up to meet hers.
"You're still beautiful," Sascha says, his voice dropping into that velvety German register that makes her stomach clench. "Even when you're all crumpled and flushed and real."
The word *real* hangs between them, heavy and new.
Violet’s breath catches, and for a fleeting second, she forgets to overthink, forgets to retreat. The cramping in her abdomen fades into the background entirely—replaced by the warmth of Sascha’s thigh against hers, the steady slide of Andrey’s thumb over her pulse point, the eucalyptus steam curling around them like an embrace.
She swallows, the motion making her throat work against the thickness there. "I just... I didn’t think you’d still want to touch me. Like this." Her voice is softer now, less hesitant. The washcloth in her grip has gone lukewarm, but she doesn’t let go.
The eucalyptus steam has thinned into wisps that drift toward the ceiling, carrying away the last traces of their shared sweat and tension. Violet’s pulse still jumps under Andrey’s thumb, but the cramping in her lower abdomen has settled into something manageable—a dull, distant reminder rather than a sharp ache. It’s easier to exist in the quiet space between their breaths.
Andrey exhales slowly, the sound rough with something she can’t name. His blue eyes flick from her face to where Sascha’s thigh still presses against hers, then back again. There’s an unspoken question hanging there, one she doesn’t have the words to answer—not yet.
"A little blood doesn't scare us. Does it Sascha?" Andrey says calmly, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like thick velvet.
Violet watches the slow rise and fall of Sascha's chest, the way his golden eyes flicker between her face and where their thighs press together beneath the sheets. She can see the tension in the set of his jaw, the way his fingers curl into the mattress at his sides. The eucalyptus steam has completely faded now, the silence between them stretching so thin it feels like it might break.
When Sascha finally speaks, his voice is rough with that familiar German roughness. "Of course not," he says, his thigh pressing more firmly against hers.
The heat of his body seeps through the thin cotton sheet, warming her in more ways than one. His golden eyes lock onto hers, and she feels the intensity of his gaze like a physical touch.
Violet’s breath catches as she watches him, her fingers still curled around the lukewarm washcloth. The eucalyptus scent has faded completely, leaving only the faint traces of ginger tea and honey lingering in the air between them.
She exhales slowly, the sound trembling slightly as she sets the washcloth aside. The cramping has dulled to a dull ache, manageable now that she’s wrapped in their warmth.
Andrey’s thumb traces slow circles against her inner wrist, grounding her.
"You're allowed to be human," he murmurs, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like dark velvet. His blue eyes meet hers with a tenderness that makes her chest ache. "You don't have to perform perfection for us."
Violet swallows hard, the ginger tea she's been nursing long since gone cold on the nightstand. The steam from the eucalyptus washcloths has completely faded, leaving only the faint herbal and citrus notes clinging to the air between them. The washcloth itself lies forgotten on the bedcovers, damp and crumpled.
The silence between them stretches, comfortable rather than awkward.
"If you want pleasure then we can give it to you even now if you're comfortable." Sascha murmurs, his voice dropping into that low velvet register that made Violet's stomach flutter.
Andrey's hand still rests on her wrist, his thumb tracing slow circles there. His blue eyes are warm as they meet hers, crinkling at the corners slightly as he offers a small smile.
"You don't need to do anything but feel," Andrey adds, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like warm silk.
Violet's breath catches at the suggestion. The warmth of their bodies still presses against hers through the sheets, grounding her in the present moment despite the persistent dull ache in her lower abdomen.
"Is that even possible while I'm um... bleeding?" Violet asks nervously.
"
The question hangs in the air between them, fragile as the last wisps of eucalyptus steam curling toward the ceiling. Violet's fingers have stilled against the damp washcloth, forgotten now that Andrey’s thumb has begun tracing slow, deliberate circles against her inner wrist. The cramping in her abdomen has softened into a dull warmth, but it’s nothing compared to the sudden rush of heat flooding her chest at the thought of their touch—not despite the blood, but precisely because of it.
Sascha exhales through his nose, the sound barely audible but heavy with something unreadable.
His thigh presses more firmly against hers through the sheet—the heat of his body seeping through the fabric like a promise.
"It's possible," he murmurs, his voice rough with that German accent that always made her stomach flutter. His golden eyes hold hers, unreadable yet full of promises. "If you want it."
Andrey nods, his thumb tracing slow circles against the inside of her wrist, the callouses catching just enough to ground her in reality. "We're not fragile men," he says, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like dark velvet. "Pleasure isn't something that stops for biology."
The eucalyptus steam has completely faded now, leaving only the faint citrus and ginger notes clinging to the air between them. Violet's breath catches at their words, the suggestion sending a rush of heat through her chest that pushes back against the persistent dull ache in her lower abdomen.
She hesitates, then nods slowly, her fingers tightening around the damp washcloth for just a moment before she sets it aside with deliberate care. The eucalyptus-scented steam has long since faded into the morning air, leaving only the faint traces of their shared sweat and the lingering sweetness of honey on their skin.
Sascha’s golden eyes darken at her nod, his thigh pressing more firmly against hers through the thin sheet as he leans closer, his voice dropping to that low velvet register that always made her stomach flutter. "Good girl," he murmurs, his German accent wrapping around the words like a promise. The citrus-salt musk that once clung to the air has long faded, replaced by the clean herbal scent of eucalyptus and the faint sweetness of honey still clinging to his lips.
Violet’s breath catches at his praise, the words wrapping around her like silk. The dull ache in her lower abdomen still pulses, but it’s somehow easier to ignore now that she’s wrapped in their warmth. The silence between them stretches, thick and comfortable.
Sascha’s thigh presses more firmly against hers through the sheet, the heat of his body seeping through the cotton like a brand. His golden eyes darken as they lock onto hers, the intensity of his gaze making her skin prickle despite the sheet wrapped around her shoulders. “Good girl,” he murmurs again, his voice rough with that German accent that always makes her stomach flutter.
"How do we do this?" Violet asks unsure ly, her fingers still curled against the mattress, knuckles pressed tight to the sheet. The eucalyptus-scented steam has fully faded now, leaving only the faint sweetness of honey and the underlying citrus-musk of their combined skin lingering in the air between them. The cramping in her lower abdomen pulses again, but it's softer now, easier to push aside.
Sascha exhales slowly through his nose, the sound barely audible but heavy with intention. His golden eyes flicker from her face to where their thighs press together beneath the thin cotton sheet.
Sascha’s voice drops into that low velvet register that always made Violet’s stomach flutter as he murmurs, “We remove what needs removing, and focus on what gives pleasure.”
Andrey nods, his thumb continuing its slow, grounding circles against the inside of her wrist. “You can still be pleasured—the blood isn’t what matters here,” he explains, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like dark velvet. “The cramps might even make it better—more intense for you.”
Violet swallows hard, the ginger tea long since gone cold on the nightstand. The eucalyptus steam has completely faded from the air between them, leaving only the faint citrus and honey notes clinging to their skin. The persistent dull ache in her lower abdomen pulses again, but for the first time, it’s not unwelcome—not when their words make it feel like something shared rather than endured.
"It's not too messy for both of you?" Violet asks , her voice barely above a whisper. The lingering eucalyptus scent has completely faded now, leaving only the faint traces of ginger tea and honey on the nightstand. The sheets beneath her still carry the damp stain, a reminder of something beyond her control, but the cramping in her abdomen has softened to a dull, manageable ache.
Violet watches Sascha and Andrey as they exchange a glance, something unspoken passing between them—an understanding that settles over the room like a second skin.
Sascha’s golden eyes darken as he meets her gaze again, his voice dropping into that low, velvety register that always makes her stomach flutter. "We’ll take care of you first," he murmurs, his German accent wrapping around the words like a promise. His thigh presses more firmly against hers through the thin sheet, the heat of his body seeping into her in a way that makes her pulse jump.
Andrey’s thumb continues its slow, grounding circles against the inside of her wrist.
“It’s not about messy,” he murmurs, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like thick velvet. “It’s about you.”
Sascha’s voice drops low, the German accent thick as melted butter over warm toast. His golden eyes lock onto hers, dark with intention. “About what you need.”
Andrey shifts closer, his broad shoulder pressing against Violet’s upper arm where she sits propped against the headboard. The eucalyptus steam has entirely faded from the air, replaced by the stronger, headier scent of their combined musk and the faint sweetness of honey still clinging to Sascha’s lips.
“We’ll take care of you first,” Andrey repeats, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like a promise. His thumb traces slow, deliberate circles against the inside of her wrist, grounding her in the present.
"I don't deserve this, I don't deserve both of you." Violet manages to say, the words catching in her throat as another wave of cramping tightens her abdomen. The persistent ache has shifted from sharp to dull but it's still there, a reminder of her body's traitorous betrayal. The sheets beneath her hips still carry the faint, warm stain of her period, a reality she can't ignore.
Sascha's golden eyes darken at her words, his fingers tightening around the mattress at his side. The citrus-salt musk that once clung to the air has long since faded, replaced by the sharp herbal notes of eucalyptus and the buttery sweetness of honey still lingering on their skin. His voice drops to that low velvet register that always makes Violet's stomach flutter.
“You deserve this more than either of us deserve you.” The geometric morning light catches the golden flecks in his eyes, turning them molten as his gaze burns into hers.
Andrey's thumb pauses in its slow circles against her inner wrist. “You don't think yourself worthy of care?” he asks, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like dark velvet. His blue eyes search hers with an intensity that feels like a physical touch. “That’s something we’ll need to fix, krasavitsa.”
Violet swallows hard, her breath hitching at the endearment rolling off his tongue.
The word *krasavitsa*—beautiful—sounds different in his rough Russian accent, like a secret whispered just for her.
She shifts slightly, the sheet rustling against her bare legs as another wave of cramping tightens her lower abdomen. The eucalyptus-scented steam has long since faded from the air, leaving only the warm citrus and salt musk of their combined bodies and the faint sweetness of honey still clinging to their skin.
"You two are making me feel things I don’t know how to handle," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.
Her fingers trace the edge of the sheet where it meets the mattress, the cotton cool against her skin despite the heat of their bodies pressed close. The lingering eucalyptus scent has faded completely, replaced by the warm, musky scent of their combined skin and the faint trace of honey they shared at breakfast.
Sascha's thigh presses more firmly against hers, the heat of his body seeping through the thin cotton fabric like a promise. His golden eyes darken as they lock onto hers, the intensity of his gaze making her pulse flutter erratically. "That’s the point," he murmurs, his German accent wrapping around the words like warm velvet.
His thigh presses more firmly against hers, the heat of his body seeping through the thin cotton sheet—a physical anchor against the emotional tide rising inside her. The citrus-salt musk that once clung to the air has faded completely, leaving only the clean herbal notes from the ginger tea and the faint sweetness of honey still lingering on their skin.
Violet exhales shakily, her breath hitching as another wave of cramping tightens her lower abdomen. It's sharper this time, more insistent, but the pain feels different now—less like betrayal and more like something they could weather together.
"Your period doesn't change how we feel about you. Besides we've read that sometimes pleasure can help cramps." Sascha explains, his voice dropping low as he shifts closer, the muscles in his bare torso flexing with the movement.
Andrey nods in agreement, his own broad frame crowding her other side as he reaches out, brushing his thumb along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh just above where the sheet ends. His touch is feather-light, but it sends a jolt through Violet that makes her gasp softly.
Between Sascha's thigh pressed against hers through the cotton sheet and Andrey's exploring hand tracing slow circles higher up her leg, Violet finds herself melting into the mattress despite the persistent ache in her lower abdomen.
The sheets beneath her hips still carry the faint, warm reminder of her body's cycle, but for the first time all morning, that thought doesn't send shame spiraling through her.
Sascha's voice drops to that rich German register that always makes her stomach flutter as he murmurs, "The pain can help focus on pleasure. And we want to give you pleasure more than anything." His golden eyes darken as they meet hers, the intensity in them making her breath catch.
Andrey's thumb continues its slow, deliberate path along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, his calloused fingers catching just enough to ground her in the present.
"I...I want to try it but I've never done anything like this before." Violet says, her voice trembling slightly. The warm wash cloths have long since gone cold on the nightstand, forgotten now that Andrey's thumb traces slow circles against her inner thigh. The persistent dull ache in her lower abdomen pulses again, but it's different now—less sharp, more like a background hum against the heat of their touches.
His thigh presses more firmly against hers through the sheet—the heat of his body seeping through the fabric like a brand. His golden eyes darken as they lock onto hers, the intensity of his gaze making her skin prickle despite the thin cotton wrapped around her shoulders.
“Then we’ll guide you,” Sascha murmurs, his voice a low vibration that seems to bypass her brain entirely and go straight to her core.
Andrey’s thumb never pauses in its slow exploration, not even when Violet’s breath hitches at Sascha’s words. His calloused fingers continue their upward path, the rough skin catching against the smooth inner curve of her thigh in ways that send new sparks of heat through her.
Violet’s grip on the mattress tightens, her knuckles pressing into the soft fabric as she watches the two men kneel beside her—tall, powerful, entirely comfortable with the situation in a way she’s never experienced before.
The room is warm, the morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but all she focuses on is the slow, deliberate way Andrey’s thumb traces circles higher and higher on her inner thigh.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Sascha murmurs, his golden eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that makes her breath catch. His thigh presses more firmly against hers through the sheet, the heat of his body seeping into her like a promise. “Just let us take care of you.”
Andrey’s fingers finally meet the hem of her borrowed shirt—Sascha’s shirt, she realizes with a sudden rush of intimacy—and he slowly lifts it, exposing more of her skin to the morning air.
The fabric is soft against her arms as he peels it upward, the cool morning breeze making her skin prickle with goosebumps that have nothing to do with temperature.
“This is okay?” Andrey asks, though it’s clear from his movements that he’s already decided it is. His Russian accent wraps around the words like warm honey, thick and comforting. His blue eyes flicker up to meet hers as he pauses, giving her one final chance to say no.
Violet swallows hard, her pulse jumping under his steady gaze. The cramping in her lower abdomen has faded into something distant, overshadowed by the heat building low in her core.
Violet nods slowly, her throat too tight to form words as she watches them peel the shirt upward in slow motion—like time itself has stilled to let this moment breathe. The cool morning air meets her bare stomach, and she exhales shakily, her nails pressing into the mattress at her sides.
Andrey's breath is warm against her skin as he murmurs, "Such a good girl," his Russian accent wrapping around the words like dark velvet. His calloused fingers trace slow, deliberate circles around her navel, sending sparks of heat radiating outward.
The shirt clings to her shoulders as Andrey continues pulling it upward, baring her torso to the cool morning air while their combined body heat seeps through the sheets beneath her hips. The cramping in her abdomen has faded entirely now, replaced by something warmer, thicker—something that has nothing to do with biology and everything to do with the way Sascha's thumb traces slow circles against her inner wrist, matching the path of Andrey's exploration below. The eucalyptus-scented steam has long since dissolved into the room's atmosphere, but Violet can still swear she feels its ghostly tendrils brushing against her overheated skin.
The borrowed t-shirt that had seemed so comforting hours before now clings to her sweat-dampened back, the fabric riding up as Andrey lifts it inch by careful inch. The cool morning air meets her bare stomach in sharp contrast to the heat radiating between them, and she shivers despite herself. His calloused fingers trace slow, deliberate circles around her navel, sending sparks of heat radiating outward. The muscles beneath his touch twitch involuntarily as her stomach contracts around the persistent dull ache of her cramps, but she doesn't pull away.
Instead, Violet finds herself arching slightly into the heat of his palm, her breath catching as his fingers dip lower—just below the elastic of her borrowed panties—before pulling back just enough to tease.
"You're still tense, krasavitsa," Andrey murmurs, his Russian accent thick as he watches her reaction with those piercing blue eyes. The morning light catches the faint reddish stubble along his jaw, making it look almost golden in the soft glow. His other hand still rests against her wrist, thumb tracing slow, soothing circles there in time with the rise and fall of her chest.
Sascha shifts beside them, the mattress dipping slightly as he moves closer.
His golden eyes burn into Violet, dark with an intensity that makes her core tighten despite the lingering ache. "You're allowed to relax," he murmurs, his German accent wrapping around the words like silk. His thigh presses more firmly against hers, the heat of his body seeping through the sheet in a way that makes her forget the cramps entirely.
Andrey’s fingers finally slip beneath the waistband of her borrowed panties, his calloused touch sending a jolt through her that makes her gasp. The fabric is still damp from earlier, the cool morning air making it cling to her skin, but neither man seems to care.
Andrey’s fingers pause just beneath the waistband, giving Violet one last chance to stop this. His blue eyes search hers, crinkling slightly at the corners as if he’s smiling, though his expression remains serious.
Violet swallows hard, her breath hitching as another wave of cramping tightens her lower abdomen—but it’s different now. The pain is still there, dull and persistent, but it’s no longer alone. There’s heat building between her legs, a warmth that has nothing to do with the ginger tea or the eucalyptus steam that’s long since faded from the air.
She nods, her throat too tight to form words.
The borrowed shirt slips over her head, leaving her bare from the waist up, the cool morning air making her skin pebble with goosebumps. The sheets beneath her hips still carry the faint, warm reminder of her period, but she barely notices anymore.
Sascha’s gaze darkens as it traces over her exposed skin, his golden eyes drinking her in with a hunger that makes her stomach clench. His thigh presses firmer against hers, the heat of his body seeping through the thin cotton sheet like a brand. "You're perfect," he murmurs, his German accent wrapping around the words like warm honey.
His fingers trail down her arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake, before gently lifting her hand to his lips. The taste of honey lingers on his tongue as he presses a kiss to her palm, his stubble scraping lightly against her skin.
Andrey's fingers finally slip beneath the waistband of her borrowed panties, his calloused touch sending a jolt through her that makes her breath hitch. Instead, Andrey's thumb presses firmly against the sensitive bundle of nerves just above where he's about to touch, making Violet's hips jerk upward involuntarily.
The borrowed panties are still damp from earlier, the fabric clinging to her in ways that feel embarrassingly intimate, but neither man seems bothered by it.
"I've got you," Andrey murmurs, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like warm velvet as his fingers finally slide beneath the elastic waistband. The cool morning air meets the heat of his palm where it presses against her bare skin, making her shiver despite the warmth building between them.
The borrowed t-shirt lies abandoned on the floor beside the bed, forgotten now that Violet's bare skin meets their touch.
The morning light spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting her in gold as she arches instinctively into Andrey’s palm. The persistent dull ache in her lower abdomen still pulses faintly, but it’s woven into the background of this moment—the rich, throbbing heat between her legs demanding all her attention instead.
Andrey’s fingers explore with careful precision, his calloused touch sending sparks through her nerve endings that make her stomach clench and her hips lift off the mattress. The borrowed panties are still damp from earlier, the fabric clinging where it matters most, but neither man reacts to the evidence of her cycle—only to the way her body responds to them.
Violet’s breath hitches as Andrey’s fingers finally brush against her, his calloused touch sending a jolt through her that makes her back arch off the mattress. The sheets beneath her hips are still warm with the faint stain, but she barely notices anymore—only the heat of their bodies, the slow drag of Andrey’s fingers against her skin, the way Sascha’s golden gaze burns into her like a brand.
“Such a responsive little thing,” Sascha murmurs, his voice rough with that German accent that always makes her stomach flutter. His thigh presses more firmly against hers through the sheet, the heat of his body seeping into her in a way that feels like acceptance. Like worship.
That is how Violet feels beneath their hands.
The borrowed t-shirt lies forgotten on the floor, the eucalyptus-scented air long since faded from the room. Morning light streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting her bare torso in warm gold as she arches instinctively into Andrey’s touch. His fingers explore with careful, deliberate precision, calloused pads dragging in slow circles that make her hips lift off the mattress despite the lingering dull ache in her lower abdomen. The borrowed panties are still damp where they cling to her skin, but neither man reacts to the evidence of her cycle—only to the way her body responds to them.
Sascha’s voice drops to that low velvet register that always makes her stomach flutter. “Such a responsive little thing,” he murmurs, his German accent thick as melted butter.
His golden eyes darken as they trace over her exposed skin, worshipful. The sheets beneath her hips still carry the faint warm stain, the last lingering evidence of her period, but the sight of it no longer matters—not when his thigh presses firmer against hers through the cotton, the heat of his body seeping into her like a brand.
Andrey’s fingers never stop their slow, deliberate exploration. His calloused pads drag in tight, teasing circles, teasing rather than claiming, drawing Violet’s hips upward in helpless reaction.
"How does it feel Violet?" Andrey asks, his fingers pressing down to create just enough pressure against her sensitive flesh to make her thighs tremble.
His Russian accent wraps around her name like dark silk, the guttural tones sending shivers down her spine just as his calloused fingers send stuttering jolts of pleasure through her nervous system. The borrowed panties are still damp where they cling between her legs, the fabric cool against the heat gathering there. The morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows paints her bare torso in warm gold, catching every hitch in her breath.
Sascha’s golden eyes darken as he watches her reactions, his thigh still pressed firmly against hers through the sheet.
The borrowed t-shirt is long gone, cast aside when Andrey first bared her torso to the morning air. The eucalyptus-scented steam has completely dissipated, leaving only the warm citrus-musk of their combined bodies lingering in the air.
Violet exhales shakily, her breath hitching as another wave of cramping tightens her lower abdomen—but the pain is distant now, overshadowed by the heat building between her legs. She swallows hard, her throat too tight to form words as Andrey’s fingers continue their slow, deliberate exploration.
“Tell me how it feels,” Andrey repeats, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like dark velvet.
His fingers press down just slightly harder against her sensitive flesh, enough to make Violet’s thighs tremble involuntarily. The borrowed panties are still damp where they cling between her legs, the cool fabric contrasting sharply with the scorching heat building beneath his touch. The golden morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows catches the sheen of sweat already forming along her collarbone, her breath coming in shallow gasps that make her chest rise and fall rapidly.
Sascha shifts closer, his thigh pressing even more firmly against hers through the thin cotton sheet. The citrus-musk scent of their combined bodies fills the air between them, stronger now with the heat of their skin and the exertion of their shared attention.
Violet’s head falls back against the headboard with a soft thump, her nails digging into the mattress at her sides as another wave of cramping tightens her lower abdomen—and yet it’s nothing compared to the electric pulses shooting through her from Andrey’s touch.
“Tell me how it feels,” Andrey murmurs again, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like dark velvet. His fingers press down just slightly harder against her sensitive flesh, enough to make Violet’s thighs tremble involuntarily.
"So...good..." Violet replies, her voice shaky and breathless as her hips lift in helpless reaction. The borrowed panties are still damp between her legs, the contrast of cool fabric against scorching heat making every nerve ending flare under Andrey’s persistent touch. The borrowed t-shirt is long gone, leaving her bare torso exposed to the golden morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sheets beneath her hips still carry the faint, warm stain of her period, but she barely notices it anymore—only the electric pulses radiating from where Andrey’s calloused fingers work their magic.
His touch is deliberate, insistent, a contrast to the damp fabric clinging between her legs that does nothing to dull the heat gathering there. The borrowed panties chafe slightly as her hips lift involuntarily, the movement drawing a low, rough sound from Sascha beside her.
“Look at you,” Sascha murmurs, his voice dropping into that velvety German register that always makes her stomach flutter. His golden eyes darken as they trace over her exposed skin, lingering on the way her bare torso rises and falls with each ragged breath. The citrus-musk scent of their combined bodies fills the air between them, stronger now with the exertion of their shared attention.
Chapter excerpt truncated at the edge.