Chapter 7: The General's Reward
The door to the master bedroom was ajar, a sliver of lamplight cutting across the hall’s worn runner. Vanja paused, the memory of his teeth on her shoulder a phantom sting. She pushed it open.
General Kovač stood by the hearth, silhouetted against the dying fire, a glass of rakija in hand. He turned, and the light carved the severe, handsome lines of a face twenty years older than hers—a fact she hated because it did nothing to dampen the low, unwelcome heat between her legs. “You came back,” he said, his voice a gravelly rumble. “I knew you would.”
“You called,” she replied, leaning against the doorframe, feigning a nonchalance she didn’t feel. His smile was a predator’s, knowing and utterly confident.
He set his glass down with a definitive click. “Take off your clothes. Slowly.” She complied, her fingers working the buttons of her blouse with deliberate slowness, letting the fabric whisper to the floor. His eyes, dark and evaluating, tracked every revelation of her skin. “Those tits,” he murmured. “God, they’re perfect. Come here.”
She crossed the room, the cold air raising goosebumps on her bare skin. He didn’t touch her at first, just drank her in, then his hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb rough against her lip. “Open,” he commanded softly, and she took his thumb into her mouth, sucking gently. A low groan escaped him. “That’s my girl. Such a good fucking mouth.”
His kiss was nothing like Adem’s. It was consuming, possessive, all tongue and teeth and the sharp taste of liquor. He walked her backward until her knees hit the bed, and she tumbled onto the velvet cover. He loomed over her, unbuckling his belt. “You’re going to scream for Daddy tonight, aren’t you, dušo?” The Serbian endearment, twisted into his filthy context, made her cunt clench.
“Yes,” she breathed, the word barely audible.
“Louder.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
He freed his cock, thick and already leaking, and she hated how her body responded, how wet she was for him. He knelt on the bed, dragging her hips to the edge. “Look at this pretty pink pussy, all slick for me.” He spat into his palm, slicking himself, then rubbed the broad head through her folds. “Daddy’s going to wreck it.”
He entered her in one relentless, filling thrust, and Vanja’s back arched off the bed, a sharp cry torn from her throat. It was too much, a delicious, brutal stretch. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he grunted, beginning a deep, punishing rhythm. “Take it. Take all of Daddy’s cock.”
Each drive punched the air from her lungs. Her nails scrabbled at the blankets. He leaned down, his mouth at her ear, his breath hot. “You gonna cum already, you greedy little slut? I can feel you fluttering around me.” She could only nod, a frantic movement. The coil in her belly was wound impossibly tight. “Cum then. Cum on your Daddy’s dick.”
The permission, the crude command, shattered her. Her orgasm ripped through her, a blinding wave of pleasure that made her vision whiten. She clenched around him, milking his length, her cries echoing off the beams. He didn’t stop. He fucked her through the tremors, his pace becoming erratic, more brutal.
“Again,” he demanded, his voice ragged. “I want to feel you go again.” His hand slid between their bodies, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing harsh, perfect circles. The overstimulation was agony and ecstasy. “That’s it, baby, just let go. Daddy’s got you.”
A second crest built, faster, more intense than the first. She sobbed as it broke, her whole body convulsing under his, another hot flood of release soaking where they were joined. “Good girl,” he snarled, his own control fraying. “Such a good fucking girl for Daddy.” His thrusts lost all rhythm, becoming shallow, frantic jerks.
He buried himself to the hilt, his roar muffled in the hollow of her throat as he came, pulse after hot pulse filling her. They stayed locked like that for long minutes, his weight a solid anchor, their sweat cooling on the sheets. Finally, he slipped out and collapsed beside her, pulling her against his chest.
His fingers traced idle patterns on her arm. “You hate that you like it,” he stated, matter-of-fact. “That I’m old enough to be your father. That I’m the enemy.”
Vanja stared at the canopy, the aftershocks still trembling in her thighs. “Yes.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her. “That’s what makes it so good.” He shifted, pulling the blanket over them. “Sleep. I want you here in the morning.”
She lay awake long after his breathing deepened, feeling his spend leak between her thighs, the scent of sex and smoke clinging to her skin. The strategic part of her mind, cold and clear, began cataloguing every detail of the room, every careless word he’d sighed in his exhaustion. The rest of her felt utterly, dangerously spent.
The rest of her felt utterly, dangerously spent. Sleep finally pulled her under, a black void without dreams, where the scent of him and sex and gun oil was the only truth.
A hard shake gripped her shoulder. "Vanja." Kovač’s voice was a rasp, stripped of the previous night’s performative cruelty. Gray dawn light seeped around the drapes, etching the room in cold, sober detail. "Wake up."
She stirred, her body protesting with a dozen aches. "What time is it?"
"Early." He was already dressed, pulling on his boots, his face a grim mask. "I have to move. Command meeting in Mitrovica." He looked at her, his gaze assessing. "You’re coming with me."
That woke her fully. She sat up, the blanket pooling at her waist. "Why?"
"Because I fucking said so." He stood, walking to the window and peering through the slit in the curtains. "And because a clever girl who speaks Albanian might be useful today." He turned back, his eyes dropping to her bare breasts, but there was no heat in it now, only calculation. "Get dressed. The car leaves in ten minutes."
The drive east was a silent, jolting torture in a mud-spattered jeep. Kovač chain-smoked, staring at the ravaged landscape—burned-out homesteads, fields gone to weed. Vanja watched him, the way his jaw worked, the tension in his hands. The man who had called himself ‘Daddy’ was gone, replaced by a coiled spring of a soldier.
He finally spoke as they neared the outskirts of the city. "You’ll wait in the officers’ club. A captain will be there. Davor. Keep him entertained." He glanced at her, a flicker of the old menace returning. "You know how."
The club was a converted hotel ballroom, stale with the smell of cheap coffee and cheaper whiskey. Captain Davor was young, baby-faced, with nervous eyes. He was clearly tasked with babysitting her. He bought her a coffee they both knew she wouldn’t drink.
"Quiet today," Davor offered, trying for conversation.
"Are they always?" Vanja asked, letting her knee brush against his under the small table. His cheeks flushed. The game was tedious, automatic. Her mind was across town, wondering what intelligence Kovač was trading in that meeting, what troop movements were being decided.
Davor leaned in, lowering his voice. "They say the Albanians are consolidating near Glogovac. The General is… agitated." He was trying to impress her, to seem important. It was pitiful. She gave him a smile, all lips and no eyes, and asked him about his home in Belgrade.
Kovač returned two hours later, his anger a physical wave that preceded him. He dismissed Davor with a curt nod and took Vanja’s arm, his grip vise-tight, steering her back to the jeep. "Fucking politicians," he spat once the doors were closed. He didn’t elaborate. He just drove, fast and reckless, out of the city and onto a remote forestry track.
He killed the engine deep in a skeletal pine grove. The silence was absolute. Then he turned on her. "Get in the back."
There was no pretense of seduction this time. It was pure, furious displacement. He unzipped his trousers, his cock half-hard with tension rather than desire. "Suck it," he commanded, his voice flat. "Now."
Vanja moved, kneeling on the worn back seat. She took him in her mouth, the taste of salt and stale fabric. He didn’t touch her head, just stared out the windshield at the gray trees, his breathing harsh. He fucking used her throat, short, abrupt thrusts, a mechanical release. She worked him, her own mind cold and far away, counting the streaks of mud on the window.
He came with a stifled grunt, his hips jerking once, twice. She swallowed, the act itself a kind of inert intelligence. He tucked himself away, running a hand over his face. "They’re cutting our support. Talking about negotiations." He laughed, a sour, broken sound. "After everything."
He got out, lit a cigarette, and smoked it leaning against the hood. Vanja straightened her clothes, the bitterness on her tongue another kind of data point. When he got back in, the scent of cold air and smoke clinging to him, he spoke without looking at her. "Adem Jashari," he said, the name a bullet in the quiet cab. "You know of him."
Her blood went still. "I’ve heard the name. A resistant, they say."
"A fanatic," Kovač corrected, starting the engine. "In Drenica. His whole family is a nest of vipers." He put the jeep in gear, the wheels spinning in the mulch. "We’re going to burn that nest out. Soon." He finally looked at her, his eyes searching for something—fear, approval, anything. "Does that frighten you, your people being targeted?"
She met his gaze, her face a perfect blank of polished ice. "I’m here with you, General. Not with them." The lie was smooth, automatic. It was the most true thing she’d said all day.
He held her look for a long moment, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. The rest of the drive passed in a blur of grim silence. When they returned to the lodge, he went straight to the radio room, barking orders. Vanja climbed the stairs to her room, each step heavy.
She locked the door and leaned against it, the professional chill evaporating. Jashari. Drenica. Burn the nest. The images from Adem’s smoky quarters flashed—his scarred hands, the map, the desperate tenderness of his mouth. A low, animal sound of panic caught in her chest. She had to get a warning out. But the lodge was a cage, and Kovač’s eyes were everywhere.
A knock came, soft but insistent. "Vanja?" It was Kovač’s voice, closer than it should be, right outside her door. The handle turned, but the lock held. "Open the door."
The command was quiet, devoid of its earlier rage, which was somehow worse. It was the tone of a man expecting immediate compliance, a man who owned the space he stood in. She didn't move, her breath held fast in her lungs.
"I know you’re in there. I can hear you breathing." A pause. The wood creaked as he leaned his weight against it. "I’m not asking. Unlock it."
This was the real test, the one after the fucking and the fury. Refusal was a luxury her mission could not afford. She turned the lock.
He entered, filling the small room. He had a bottle and two glasses in one hand. He placed them on the bedside table, the glass chiming softly. "Couldn't sleep," he said, as if this were a normal conversation. He poured two fingers of amber liquid into each glass. "Drink with me."
She took the proffered glass, their fingers brushing. He didn’t sit, just studied her in the weak light from the hallway. "You were quiet today. After."
"I was useful," she corrected, taking a sip. The rakija burned a clean trail down her throat.
"Useful," he echoed, a smirk touching his lips. "That's one word for it." He drank his own measure in one go, his eyes never leaving hers. Then he set the glass down and closed the distance between them. His hand rose, not to strike or grab, but to cradle the side of her neck, his thumb stroking her jawline. "You’re thinking about what I said. About Drenica."
"Aren't you?" she countered, holding his gaze.
"Always." His other hand came up, mirroring the first, so he held her face. "It’s the only thing to think about." He leaned in, and she expected another punishing kiss. Instead, his forehead rested against hers, a shock of startling intimacy. "This war makes ghosts of us all," he whispered, the words raw and unvarnished. "Even the living."
He kissed her then, but it was different—slow, deep, searching. It tasted like regret and rakija. His hands slid down her back, over the curve of her ass, pulling her against him. She could feel the hard line of his renewed erection through his trousers. A part of her, the strategist, screamed at the inconsistency, the dangerous vulnerability. The rest of her was a woman in a lonely, terrible place, and his mouth was warm.
"Take this off," he murmured against her lips, tugging at her sweater. She obeyed, raising her arms, the cool air hitting her skin. He made a sound of pure want at the sight of her breasts, bending his head to take a nipple into his mouth. He sucked, hard, his tongue lashing the peak, and a bolt of sharp pleasure went straight to her cunt.
He walked her backward until her knees hit the bed. "On your hands and knees," he said, his voice thick. He was already unfastening his belt, the leather slithering loose. Vanja positioned herself, presenting herself to him, the submission a tactical move that made her wetter. "Fuck, look at that," he groaned, running a possessive hand over the round swell of her ass. "That perfect ass. That pretty little hole."
He didn't enter her right away. He teased, the broad head of his cock nudging against her soaked entrance, sliding up through her folds to circle her clit, then back down. She pushed back against him, a wordless plea. "You want it?" he growled.
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I want your cock, General." The title, here, now, was filthier than any pet name.
"Good girl." He guided himself into her with one solid, filling thrust. She cried out, her back bowing. He felt huge like this, deeper. He set a ruthless, possessive pace from the start, each drive punching a gasp from her lungs. His hands gripped her hips, surely leaving bruises, holding her in place for his use.
The slap, when it came, was sharp and sudden on her ass cheek, a bright sting that morphed into a deep, radiating heat. She yelped, clenching around him. "That's it," he encouraged, his rhythm never faltering. "Squeeze my dick just like that." He spanked her again, on the other side, and the pleasure-pain blurred into something unbearable and electric.
"You gonna come on my cock, you Serbian slut?" he grunted, his own breath coming in ragged bursts. "Do it. I want to feel you lose it." His words, the brutal, perfect friction, the degrading thrill of it all, tipped her over. Her orgasm crashed through her, violent and consuming, her inner muscles spasming around his invading length in helpless, rhythmic pulses.
Her climax pulled his from him. With a final, deep grind, he buried himself to the hilt, a raw, open-mouthed groan tearing from his chest as he pulsed inside her, hot and endless. He collapsed forward over her back, his weight pinning her to the bed, his face buried in her hair.
They stayed like that, joined, for long minutes, the only sound their ragged breathing slowing into unison. Finally, he softened and slipped out. He rolled onto his back beside her, one arm thrown over his eyes. The room was dark save for the sliver of light from the hall.
"Stay," he said, the word not a command but something quieter. A request. He reached out blindly, his hand finding hers on the sheet, his calloused fingers threading through hers. It was the most disarming thing he had ever done.
Vanja lay beside him, staring at the ceiling, feeling his come leak from her. His grip on her hand was tight, almost fearful. The warning for Adem screamed in her mind, urgent and deafening. But the man beside her, this brutal, lonely ghost of a general, held her anchored in the dark. She closed her eyes. For now, there was no move to make. Just this terrible, waiting silence.
Just this terrible, waiting silence.
It broke with his snore, a sudden, guttural sound. His grip on her hand went slack. Vanja waited, counting the rhythm of his breathing until it was deep and regular. Then she slid her hand free, the movement glacial. The mattress groaned as she shifted her weight away from his heat.
She stood on cold floorboards, watching him. In sleep, the harsh lines of command softened into something ordinary, tired. It made her hate him more. She pulled on her discarded sweater and crept from the room, leaving the door ajar.
The lodge at night was a tomb of shadows. Each creak of the old timber was a gunshot in the quiet. She moved not to her room, but downstairs, past the empty dining hall to a small, cluttered office used by the junior officers. A field radio sat on a desk, its dark plastic face faintly dusted with ash.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was insanity. But Adem’s face, the weight of his head on her shoulder after he’d whispered her name like a prayer, filled the dark. Burn the nest. She couldn’t let that happen.
She powered the set on, the click deafening. The channel selector turned with stiff, tiny clicks. She prayed the frequency Adem had given her months ago, a number buried in her memory like a shard of glass, was still active. Her fingers, steady now, keyed the microphone in the precise, coded rhythm they’d arranged—a student’s dit-dah-dah from a half-forgotten poetry class.
Static hissed back, a white noise void. She repeated the sequence, her thumb pressing the button until it ached.
The static broke. A single, clipped acknowledgment returned. Received.
She brought her lips close to the grill, her voice a breathless, urgent scrape. “The forest fire spreads to Drenica. The woodsmen are coming with gasoline, not water. Soon. You hear me? They are coming for the nest. Soon.” She released the button, her entire body trembling.
She waited. One second. Two. A longer burst of static came, then a voice, filtered and thin but unmistakably his. “I hear you.” That was all. The connection died into empty hiss.
Vanja killed the power. The silence rushed back in, thicker now, pregnant with consequence. She wiped the microphone with her sleeve, erased any trace of her touch from the dials. Then she froze.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs above. Slow, deliberate. Heading down.
There was no time to get clear. She ducked behind a large armoire filled with moldy ledgers, pressing herself into the corner where wall met cobweb. The footsteps entered the room. Boots on hardwood. She saw his legs first—Kovač’s trousers, the same ones from the bed.
He walked to the desk. He placed a hand on the radio, feeling for residual warmth. Vanja held her breath. He stood there for an eternity, then muttered something in Serbian too low to catch. He turned and left, his footsteps receding back up the stairs.
She didn’t move for five full minutes, until the cold from the floor seeped into her bones. When she finally slipped out and back to the upper hall, his door was closed. She went to her own room, closed the door, and slid to the floor, her back against the wood.
Dawn was a gray smear at the window when the pounding started. “Vrantz! Up!” It was not Kovač’s voice. It was Davor’s, tight with panic.
She opened the door. The young captain’s face was pale. “The General wants you. Now. In the communications room.”
Her stomach turned to ice. Had he found something? A trace? She followed him, her face a mask of neutral curiosity. “What is it?”
“He’s in a rage,” was all Davor said, avoiding her eyes.
Kovač stood before the larger, main tactical radio, a headset clamped to his ear. A stream of Serbian, furious and fast, poured from him. He ripped the headset off and threw it at the wall. It clattered to the floor. He saw Vanja, and his eyes, bloodshot and blazing, pinned her where she stood.
“They knew,” he seethed, the words dripping with venom. “Our reconnaissance patrol near Glogovac. Ambushed. Wiped out. It was a fucking trap. They were waiting.” He stalked toward her, a predator with a fresh wound. “How did they know, Vanja? How could those peasant shits have known?”
He was a breath away, his scent—sweat, rage, and her—filling her space. This was the moment. The accusation hung between them, sharp as a blade.
Vanja met his fury not with flinching fear, but with a cold, direct challenge. She lifted her chin. “Maybe your politicians talk more than you think. Or maybe your ‘peasant shits’ are not the stupid animals you believe.” She let her gaze drop, deliberately, to his rumpled shirt, then back to his face. A reminder of where he’d been all night. “Or perhaps, General, you just got outplayed.”
The slap cracked across her cheek with stunning force, snapping her head to the side. Pain, bright and hot, bloomed on her skin. She tasted blood inside her lip. She slowly turned her face back to his, a smile touching her swollen mouth. It was the wrong reaction, and she saw it unsettle him.
He grabbed her throat, not to choke, but to hold, his fingers pressing into the tender flesh. “You have a smart mouth for a woman whose usefulness is hanging by a thread.”
“Is it?” she rasped against his grip, her golden-green eyes fearless. “You seemed to find a use for it last night. And you will again. You’re angry, not stupid.” She saw the conflict in him—the suspicion, the bruising pride, the raw, ungovernable want. “The mission failed. That is a military problem. Don’t make it a personal one with me.”
He stared at her, his thumb stroking the pounding artery in her neck. The rage ebbed, replaced by a colder, more calculating intensity. He released her. “Get out. Be ready to travel at noon. We’re moving positions.”
She walked away, feeling his eyes on her back all the way down the hall. In her room, she locked the door and spat a mouthful of coppery blood into the basin. She examined her cheek in the clouded mirror—a red, hand-shaped brand. A badge. She had gotten the warning through. Adem had listened. He had acted.
And Kovač’s suspicion was now a live wire in the air, sparking and dangerous. The game had just become infinitely more perilous. She washed her face, the water stinging the fresh mark. A strange, grim exhilaration fizzed in her blood. She had moved a piece on the board. The consequences would come, and she would meet them. She began to pack, her movements efficient, ready. The waiting was over.