Chapter 16: Steam and Submission
The heat in the Karelia’s private sauna was a physical weight, dense and smelling of wet cedar and the faint, expensive amber oil that Roman favored. Vanja stood alone in the sunken chamber, steam curling around her ankles. Through the frosted glass wall, the Baltic Sea was a blurred, grey expanse. She pressed her palms flat against the polished oak bench, trying to leach some coolness from the wood, but it was warm from the hidden elements below.
Her skin was slick, beaded with moisture that wasn’t all from the steam. The encounter in Dubrovnik, Niko’s knowing smile, the shocking revelation on the gangway—you carry my son—it all churned inside her like a sickness. Her hand drifted to her stomach, still flat, but now feeling like a carved-out vault holding a secret too heavy for its walls.
The door sighed open.
A swirl of cooler air cut through the mist, followed by the solid, undeniable shape of Roman. He entered as he did everything—without announcement, claiming the space by sheer presence. He wore only a towel slung low on his hips. The steam seemed to part for him. His eyes, the colour of a winter fjord, found her immediately, pinning her to the spot.
“You hide in steam,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the humid air. “Like a ghost.”
“I’m not hiding,” she replied, the defiance a brittle thing. She turned to face him, lifting her chin. The movement made her long, damp hair cling to the small of her back. “I’m thinking.”
He took a step closer, his bare feet silent on the heated marble. “About what?” Another step. “About the man in Dubrovnik? The one who saw you and wanted?”
She said nothing. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
“He saw what I see,” Roman murmured, now just a breath away. His hand came up, not to grab her, but to trace the line of her collarbone, the swell of her breast above the towel she wore. “A prize. A beautiful, breeding vessel. Flesh made for possession.”
His fingers hooked under the edge of her towel. A sharp tug, and it pooled at her feet. The air, hot as it was, felt cool on her naked skin. She stood before him, exposed, her golden-green eyes wide. He let his own towel drop. He was already hard, his cock a thick, assertive curve against his thigh.
“You belong to this family now,” he stated, a final edict. “Your body. Your decisions. The life inside you. It is all Abramovic property.” His hand closed on the back of her neck, not painfully, but with an absolute, inescapable authority. He turned her, pressing her front against the warm, smooth cedar wall. “Do you understand?”
She swallowed, her cheek pressed to the wood. “Yes.”
“Louder.”
“Yes, I understand!”
“Good.” His other hand slid between her legs from behind, his fingers parting her folds with a crude, intimate familiarity. She was already wet—a traitorous, humiliating slickness born of fear and a dark, unwelcome thrill. He made a sound of approval, a low hum in his chest.
He spat into his palm, the sound obscenely casual in the hushed room. He slicked himself, the head of his cock nudging against her entrance. He didn’t ask. He didn’t coax.
He just pushed.
Vanja cried out as he breached her, a sharp, stretching fullness that stole her breath. The cedar wall was solid and unyielding against her palms and cheek. He seated himself to the hilt in one ruthless, deep stroke, his hips flush against her ass.
“Такой тесный,” he grunted in her ear. So tight.
His hand left her sex and wrapped into her hair, fisting the damp strands, pulling her head back at an awkward angle. He began to move. Slow, at first, a torturous drag out and a punishing push back in. The slap of his flesh against hers was loud in the tiled room, a rhythmic, wet echo of his possession.
“This cunt,” he growled, his breath hot on her neck. “This sweet, greedy cunt. It swallows me. It knows its owner.” He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. Each one drove her forward against the wall, jolting her whole body. “You will drip with my seed while you carry his child. You will be full of us. Always.”
His words were filth, a dark incantation. They should have revolted her. But the relentless, deep friction, the sheer dominance of his claim, was igniting a fire in her core. Her body arched back into him, seeking more, deeper. A moan escaped her lips, muffled against the wood.
He heard it. His grip in her hair tightened. “You like it,” he accused, panting. “You like being used. Being claimed. Tell me.”
She shook her head, a frantic denial lost in the steam.
He slammed into her, a brutal thrust that made her gasp. “Tell me!”
“Yes!” The word was torn from her, ragged and true. “Yes, god, yes.”
He swore in Russian, a string of guttural, beautiful obscenities. His free hand snaked around her hip, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed hard, fast circles, the pressure rough and perfect. The dual sensation was too much—the deep, filling thrusts and the frantic stimulation on her most sensitive nerve. The coil in her belly wound impossibly tight.
“Cum for me,” he commanded, his voice ragged with his own impending release. “Cum on my cock, you perfect, fucking whore. Show me how much you love it.”
His words were the final trigger. Her orgasm shattered through her, a silent, convulsing wave that made her knees buckle. She clenched around him, her inner muscles fluttering violently, a pulsing, milking rhythm that tore a ragged shout from his throat.
He held her up, his arm like an iron band across her hips, and fucked her through her climax, his own control fraying. With three more jagged, frantic thrusts, he buried himself as deep as he could go and let go. A hot, rushing flood filled her, marking her inside. He groaned, a long, low sound of absolute conquest, his body shuddering against hers.
For a moment, they stayed like that, locked together, the only sounds their ragged breathing and the soft hiss of the steam generator. Condensation dripped from the ceiling, landing on her overheated skin like cold tears.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. The immediate sense of emptiness was profound. He released her hair, his hand smoothing down her back in a gesture that was almost tender. Almost.
He stepped back. She heard him pick up his towel. She didn’t turn around. She couldn’t.
“Clean yourself up,” he said, his voice once again calm, detached. “We have guests for dinner. The Baranovs from Petersburg. You will wear the blue dress.”
Then the door opened and sighed shut. He was gone, leaving her alone in the steam with the evidence of him cooling on her inner thighs. Vanja slid down the cedar wall, her back hitting the warm wood, her legs giving way. She drew her knees to her chest, her face buried in her hands. The tears came then, hot and silent, mixing with the condensation on her skin. She cried for the violation, for the pleasure, for the life inside her that was now a chain linking her to these men forever.
But mostly, she cried because when he’d asked, she had told the truth.
Yes.
She pulled herself up on trembling legs. She walked to the plunge pool, its water a dark, cold mirror. She stepped in, the shock of the chill a welcome violence, washing his scent, his claim, from her skin. She scrubbed until her skin was pink and raw. But she knew, as she looked at her reflection in the water, shattered by ripples, that some marks didn’t wash off. They sank into the bone, becoming part of the structure. She climbed out, dripping and shivering, a ghost made solid, ready to put on the blue dress and play her part. The prize. The vessel. The property.
The dinner was flawless. Vanja moved through the penthouse in a simple black dress that seemed to drink the light, her laughter a warm, melodic counterpoint to the clink of crystal and the low hum of important conversation. She spoke impeccable French with the diplomat’s wife, debated antitrust law in sharp, clear German with the industrialist, and disarmed a notoriously prickly sculptor with a perfectly timed observation about his early work. She was, as Roman had known she would be, the perfect wife for this new, legitimate chapter.
Max watched her from the head of the table, his incredible blue eyes fixed on her with a possessiveness that had softened into something more profound. She was his world. The knowledge of it was a quiet thunder in his chest. He saw the calculation in Roman’s occasional glances, the approval, but Max’s gaze was pure, unfiltered reverence.
Later, after the last guest had been ushered out amidst promises and handshakes, the silence of the penthouse felt dense. Vanja leaned against the back of a sofa, her polished composure fissuring.
“I’m tired,” she said, her voice thinner than usual.
She took a step toward the hallway, and the world tilted. The rich colors of the Persian rug swam before her eyes. She felt the weightless drop for only a second before strong hands caught her.
Roman had her, his grip firm under her arms. “Easy.”
He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, cradling her against his chest. Max was immediately there, a hand on her cheek. “Vanja?”
“Just dizzy,” she murmured, her head lolling against Roman’s shoulder.
He carried her to their shared bedroom, the vast space with its dark walnut and linen. Max followed, pulling back the covers. Roman laid her down with a gentleness at odds with his usual severity.
“Fetch some water,” Roman said, not looking at Max.
Max returned with a glass. Vanja sipped, her color still pale. “I’m okay. Just need to sleep.”
They watched as her eyes fluttered closed, her breathing deepening almost instantly. Roman pulled a chair close to the bed. Max remained standing, a sentinel by the window.
“You’re worried for her,” Roman stated, his voice low.
Max didn’t turn. “I’m… you’re not?”
Roman looked at the vulnerable line of Vanja’s neck against the pillow. “She is stronger than you think.”
But Max heard the unspoken concession in his father’s tone. He was worried, too.
When Vanja woke, the room was bathed in the dull, pearlescent light of a London dawn. Her head was clear, the fatigue replaced by a hollow ache. She turned and found them both there, awake, watching her from opposite sides of the bed.
She blinked. “Stop being creepy.”
A faint smile touched Max’s lips. Roman’s expression remained unreadable.
Vanja sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist. She pushed it aside entirely and stood, her naked body pale in the grey light. She walked to the en suite bathroom without a backward glance.
“I’m going to shower.”
Both men tensed, a simultaneous stiffening of posture. The unspoken offer hung in the air.
She paused at the threshold, looking back over her shoulder. Her golden-green eyes were clear, sharp. “Alone,” she said, and closed the door firmly.
The lock clicked, a soft, definitive sound.
The shower ran. Steam began to fog the bottom of the glass door. Inside, Vanja braced her hands against the cool marble wall, letting the scalding water beat down on her neck and back. She could feel the ghost of their stares on her skin, the lingering weight of their constant, consuming attention. She needed the silence. The empty, singular space.
When she emerged, wrapped in a towel, her hair in damp waves, the bedroom was empty. She dressed in simple underwear, soft leggings, an oversized sweater. Padding out to the main living area, she found them at the large table, a spread of financial reports between them. The scene was domestic, almost deceptively calm.
Max looked up first. “Feeling better?”
“Yes,” she said, moving to the kitchen to make tea.
Roman watched her, his eyes tracking her movements. “You need to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat anyway.”
She ignored him, steeping her tea. The silence stretched, thick with unnamed things. Max pushed his chair back and came to her, his hand resting on the small of her back. He kissed her temple. “You scared me.”
“I’m fine,” she whispered, leaning into him for a moment.
But the fine was fragile. It shattered an hour later. She was reading on the vast sofa, curled into its corner, when a wave of nausea hit her, swift and violent. She clamped a hand over her mouth and bolted for the bathroom.
This time, they both followed.
She was kneeling on the cool tile, retching over the toilet, when Max’s hand gathered her hair back. Roman wet a cloth. The tenderness was unbearable.
When the sickness passed, she sat back, trembling, against the wall. Roman pressed the damp cloth to her forehead.
Max crouched in front of her, his face etched with genuine fear. “This isn’t just fatigue, Vanja. You’ve been pale for days. You need a doctor.”
She shook her head, but the protest died in her throat. She felt weak, truly weak, for the first time since the Karelia.
“I’ll call Steiner,” Roman said, his voice leaving no room for argument. Dr. Steiner was their private physician, discreet and expensive.
Two hours later, Dr. Steiner, a man with gentle eyes and a no-nonsense manner, finished his examination in the privacy of the bedroom. He asked Vanja a series of questions about her cycle, her diet, her energy. He took blood.
He asked the men to step out. When they returned, his expression was unreadable.
“Well?” Roman’s voice was a balde
The morning light was harsh and revealing, slicing through the gaps in the blinds to stripe the tangled bodies on the king-sized bed. Vanja woke pinned, a pleasant, heavy warmth anchoring her limbs. Roman’s arm was a lead weight across her ribs, his breath stirring her hair. On her other side, Max was curved against her back, his fingertips resting possessively on the swell of her hip.
She stirred, and they awoke as one entity, a shared consciousness of want.
“Good morning, princess,” Max’s voice was a sleep-roughened growl against her ear. His hand slid from her hip to her stomach, then lower, cupping her. She was already slick, her body remembering the night before, anticipating the now. He nudged her thigh with his knee. “Roll over.”
Roman was already moving, his blue eyes dark with instant, predatory focus. As Vanja shifted onto her hands and knees, feeling the cool linen under her palms, Roman moved to kneel before her. He held his thick, rigid cock in his hand, tapping it against her lips. “Open,” he commanded, his voice quiet and utterly sure.
She did, taking him into her mouth, the salty taste of him and her mingling on her tongue. She heard Max shift behind her, felt his hands spread her ass cheeks, and then the blunt, insistent pressure of his crown at her entrance.
“Fuck, she’s dripping,” Max muttered, and with one smooth, powerful thrust, he buried himself inside her pussy, filling her utterly. A muffled moan vibrated around Roman’s shaft.
“That’s it,” Roman groaned, his fingers tangling in her hair, controlling the pace as she bobbed her head. “Take it all.”
Then Max began to move, pulling out almost completely before slamming back in, each thrust jolting her forward, forcing her to take Roman deeper. The sensation was overwhelming—stretched, filled, owned from both ends. The wet, filthy sounds of their joining filled the room, punctuated by grunts and choked gasps.
“Think you can come just from this, kotik?” Roman rasped, watching her face. “Just from getting fucked full while you suck my cock?”
Max’s rhythm became punishing, his hips pistoning against her ass. “She’s close, I can feel her,” he gritted out. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise. “Come for Daddy, Vanja. Come on his dick while I fill your cunt.”
The dual commands, the brutal fullness, the degrading perfection of it shattered her. Her climax ripped through her with a silent scream, her body clamping down violently around Max’s pounding length, her throat fluttering around Roman.It triggered theirs. Roman’s release flooded her mouth, hot and bitter, as Max drove into her one last, searing time, shouting as he emptied himself deep inside her.
They collapsed into a sweaty, spent heap, a knot of limbs and slowing breaths.
The fatigue that followed was different. It wasn’t the pleasant lethargy of sexual satiation; it was a bone-deep exhaustion that coffee couldn’t touch, a nausea that lingered past noon. It had been weeks of this. Roman watched her push a piece of toast around her plate, her face pale.
“You’re seeing the doctor today,” he stated, brooking no argument.
Two hours later, she sat on a crisp paper-lined table in a luxurious private clinic, Roman a looming, silent presence in the corner, Max pacing by the window. The elderly obstetrician, Mrs. Abramovic, studied the ultrasound monitor, her expression unreadable.
“The nausea, the fatigue… it is more intense than typical early pregnancy, yes?” Mrs. Abr said, her eyes still on the screen.
Vanja nodded, her heart thudding. “Yes. Is everything… normal?”
The doctor turned the monitor towards them, pointing with a stylus. “See here? And here? Two gestational sacs. Two heartbeats.” She smiled faintly. “You’re expecting twins. That’s why your symptoms are stronger than usual.”
The world tilted.Twins? She asked, her voice small. “Twins?”
“Yeah,” the doctor said, printing out grainy images. “Congratulations.”
Roman was suddenly beside her, his hand on her shoulder, his grip tight. Max had stopped pacing, his face a mask of stunned calculation.
A week later, the penthouse was filled with a different energy. Masha, Roman’s daughter and Max’s younger sister, had exploded into the space like a sunbeam, her laughter echoing off the walnut panels. She was a whirlwind of fashionable draping and sharp-eyed affection.
She held the ultrasound prints, her eyes wide. “This is the best! Twins!” she squealed, wrapping Vanja in a hug that smelled of rose perfume and then planting a loud, smacking kiss on Max’s cheek. She turned to Roman, her expression impish. “Dad! You’re going to be a grandpa at forty-eight. How does that feel?”
Roman rolled his eyes but a genuine, small smile touched his lips. “Like I need a stronger drink.”
It was decided Masha would stay with Vanja for the week while Roman and Max flew to New York to finalize the hostile takeover of a tech firm. “Keep her off her feet,” Max ordered Masha, his kiss to Vanja’s forehead surprisingly tender. “Eat.Sleep. That’s your job.”
The men left, and a strange, quiet peace descended. Masha was a surprisingly adept caretaker, ordering nutritious meals, filling the apartment with flowers, and regaling Vanja with scandalous family stories that made her laugh until she cried.Vanja was happy. Truly, deeply happy. The terror of the news had morphed into a fragile, glowing wonder. Their children.Growing inside her. But alongside the happiness was a profound, relentless exhaustion. She slept fourteen hours a day, waking only to eat bland foods and then nap again on the oversized sofa, wrapped in a cashmere blanket, while Masha worked on her laptop nearby.
She was happy, but so very tired. Her body was no longer just her own; it was a vessel, a life-support system times two. As she drifted off to the sound of Masha’s typing and the distant hum of London traffic, her hands resting on her still-flat stomach, she felt both utterly conquered and more powerful than she’d ever been. They had marked her, claimed her, filled her. And now, they had left a part of themselves behind to grow in the dark, a permanent change. She belonged to them completely. And, she realized with a slow, sinking certainty, she wouldn’t have it any other way.