Chapter 4: The Morning After
The grey dawn light bled across the ceiling, a slow stain. Vanja watched it creep. Her body was a map of aches—the deep, tender throb between her legs, the pull of muscles in her thighs, the faint sting on her neck where his stubble had scraped, and the sharper pain where his teeth had marked her. His arm was a lead weight across her waist, his breath a steady, warm rhythm against the back of her neck. She was pinned, not just by his limb, but by the sheer, impossible reality of the night.
She carefully lifted his arm, sliding out from under it. The cool air hit her sweat-damp skin, raising goosebumps. She stood naked by the bed, looking down at him. In sleep, the lines of control and anger were smoothed away. He looked younger, almost like the brother she’d known before the fame, before the distance. The blond lashes fanned against his cheeks. For a second, a vicious tenderness clawed at her throat. She crushed it.
She walked to the en-suite, her reflection in the dark mirror a pale, bruised ghost. Purple marks bloomed on her breasts, her hips. She turned on the tap and splashed cold water on her face, avoiding her own eyes. When she returned, he was awake.
He was propped on one elbow, the duvet pooled at his hips. His blue eyes were clear, watchful, stripped of any morning fog. He’d been waiting. The vulnerability was gone, sealed behind a neutral, impenetrable mask. His gaze tracked her, from her tousled hair down over her marked body, then back to her face. It wasn’t possessive. It was assessing. The footballer analyzing the pitch.
“The car is here at nine-fifteen,” he said, his voice gravelly with sleep but devoid of warmth. “We’ll leave for the airport then.”
Vanja didn’t reply. She stopped at the foot of the bed. The tension was a live wire, humming between them. Last night’s frantic energy had curdled into something heavier, more dangerous. She climbed onto the mattress, crawling slowly up the length of it on her knees. The sheets were cool against her shins.
He didn’t move, just watched her approach with that same detached intensity. When she reached him, she swung a leg over his hips, straddling him. The duvet was between them, a thin barrier. She could feel the hard ridge of his cock already stirring beneath the fabric. Her own body, sore and used, responded with a traitorous pulse of heat.
She leaned forward, placing her hands on his chest. His skin was hot, his heartbeat steady and slow under her palm. She rocked her hips, a slow, grinding slide over the length of him through the duvet.
“You said we’re going,” she murmured, her face inches from his. “You didn’t ask.”
“It’s not a negotiation.” His hands came up to rest on her thighs, his thumbs tracing circles on her inner skin. A casual, claiming touch.
“Everything’s a negotiation now.” She sat up, back straight, and hooked her fingers into the top of the duvet. She pulled it down, exposing him. He was fully hard, thick and flushed against his stomach. She wrapped her fingers around him, feeling the velvety skin over the iron-hard core. A shiver ran through him. The mask cracked, just for a second, showing the raw hunger beneath.
She positioned him at her entrance, already slick from her own unwanted arousal. She didn’t hurry. She met his gaze as she sank down onto him, a fraction of an inch at a time, making them both feel every bit of the stretch, the exquisite, sore fullness.
A low groan escaped him. His hands flew to her hips, fingers digging in. “Fuck, Vanja.”
She seated herself fully, taking him all the way, and paused, letting her body adjust to the renewed invasion. She leaned forward again, her breasts brushing his chest, her mouth at his ear. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” she breathed, her voice a venomous whisper. “To own me? To tuck me away in your Munich fortress? Well, this is what you get. You don’t get to just pack me up. You get this. Every morning. This fucking… complication.”
She began to move. Not the frantic riding of the night before, but a slow, deliberate, grinding rhythm. She rolled her hips, circling, making him feel every ridge and contour inside her. It was less about pleasure than possession. A savage demonstration.
His control shattered. With a growl, he flipped her onto her back in one powerful motion, looming over her, his cock still buried deep. He drove into her, a hard, punishing thrust that knocked the breath from her lungs.
“You think this is a fucking transaction?” he snarled, his face a hand’s breadth from hers. His hips pistoned, setting a brutal, relentless pace. The headboard began a rhythmic thud against the wall. “You think I wanted this? To want my own sister like I’m some kind of animal?”
She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, meeting his fury with her own. “Yes! You did! The tracking, the jealousy, the fucking… the rage every time I looked at someone else. This is what was underneath it. This filthy, ugly want.”
He crushed his mouth to hers, the kiss more a collision than an embrace, all teeth and desperate tongue. His hands were everywhere, gripping her ass, palming her breast, his thumb pinching her nipple hard enough to make her cry out into his mouth. The pain sharpened the pleasure, blurring the lines until there was only sensation, a feedback loop of anger and need.
“You feel it,” he gasped against her lips, his rhythm fracturing, losing its discipline. “You feel how deep you’ve got me. You’ve ruined me.”
His words, raw and honest, tipped her over the edge. Her climax tore through her, a silent, convulsive wave that locked her muscles around him, milking him. He let out a choked, broken sound and followed, pouring into her with a series of deep, shuddering thrusts that slowly stilled into a heavy, spent stillness.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight a welcome anchor. Sweat slicked their skin together. The room smelled of sex and salt and defeat. After a minute, he rolled off, onto his back, one arm thrown over his eyes.
The clock read 7:48.
“We have to shower,” he said, the words flat. “We have to get ready.”
Vanja got up. Her legs felt unsteady. She walked to the shower, turning it on hot. She stood under the spray, letting it sluice over the bites and bruises, the evidence of his claim. She heard him enter behind her. He didn’t touch her. They washed in silence, a pragmatic, grim ritual. He passed her the soap. She rinsed her hair.
They dressed like strangers preparing for a business trip. He in dark jeans, a simple grey sweater, a baseball cap low over his eyes. She in the clothes from last night, feeling the dried remnants of their earlier encounters stiff on her inner thighs. He handed her a clean, oversized hoodie of his from a drawer. It smelled like him. She put it on.
At 9:10, a soft chime echoed from the penthouse door. Ragnar checked his phone. “That’s Stefan. The driver. He’s early.”
He grabbed a single, sleek black duffel bag he’d packed for her—when, she didn’t know. He hadn’t asked her what she wanted. He just knew. Another form of control.
He paused at the bedroom door, looking back at the rumpled bed, the scene of their mutual ruin. His jaw tightened. Then he turned and walked out.
Vanja followed. The penthouse felt alien in the sterile morning light. The kitchen island was just a piece of stone. The window was just glass.
Stefan, a man in a tailored black suit, stood impassively in the entrance hall. He gave a slight nod. “Mr. Jakobsen. The car is downstairs. Private terminal as arranged.”
“Thank you, Stefan,” Ragnar said, his voice all smooth, professional courtesy. The transition was complete. The monster from the bedroom was gone, replaced by the public figure.
They rode the elevator down in silence. It was mirrored. Vanja avoided looking at their reflection, at the tall, imposing man and the woman swimming in his clothes, her hair damp, shadows under her eyes.
A black Range Rover waited at the curb, engine purring. Stefan opened the rear door. Ragnar gestured for Vanja to enter first. A chilling, polite gesture. She slid across the leather seat. He got in beside her, leaving a careful foot of space between them.
As the car pulled into London’s morning traffic, Ragnar took out his phone. He typed a message, his thumb moving swiftly. He showed her the screen before sending.
To Lukas Veidl: You’ve made your point. Stay away from her. Any further contact, any hint of a threat, and I will come for you myself. Not with lawyers. You know what I mean. – R.
He sent it, then powered the phone off completely. He looked out the window at the passing streets, his profile sharp and unreadable.
“That’s it?” Vanja asked, her voice sounding small in the quiet cabin.
“It’s a warning shot,” he said, still not looking at her. “It won’t be enough. But it changes the game. Now he knows it’s personal. Not just business. That makes him more dangerous, or more careful. We’ll see.”
He finally turned his head, his blue eyes meeting hers. The mask was back, but she could see the fatigue at the edges, the faint, bruised look of a man who had stared into an abyss and found his own reflection.
“Welcome to the new rules,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
The car sped toward the airport, carrying them away from the city, deeper into the knot they had tied, with no idea how to unravel a single thread.
The car sped toward the airport, carrying them away from the city, deeper into the knot they had tied, with no idea how to unravel a single thread.
Rain began to streak the windows, blurring London into a grey wash. Vanja watched the city melt. She felt hollowed out, a shell filled only with the lingering ache of him and the low hum of dread. Ragnar’s phone, powered off, was a black slab on his thigh. Its silence felt louder than any ringtone.
“He’ll have seen the message by now,” Ragnar said, not looking at her.
“And what does that achieve?” Her voice was flat. “You just painted a target on your back. Made it personal, like you said. For what?”
“For you.” The words hung in the air, simple and devastating. He finally turned his head. The professional mask was slipping again, worn thin by fatigue and something darker. “It was always personal. I just stopped pretending.”
The Range Rover slid through a private gate, bypassing all terminal traffic. It stopped beside a sleek, silver Gulfstream, stairs deployed. The engines whined in the damp air. Stefan opened the door. Ragnar exited first, putting his cap on, shoulders squaring for any watching cameras. He didn’t offer her a hand. Vanja climbed out, the hoodie swallowing her hands.
They boarded the jet. The cabin was all cream leather and polished walnut, coldly luxurious. A lone attendant nodded. “Welcome, Mr. Jakobsen. We are cleared for immediate departure. May I offer you—”
“Nothing. Privacy, please.” Ragnar’s tone brooked no discussion. The attendant vanished behind a door.
Vanja took a seat by a window, as far from him as the space allowed. Ragnar tossed his bag onto a sofa and stood in the aisle, a giant in the confined space, pulsing with restless energy. He watched as she pulled the hoodie’s strings tight, hiding her face.
“You can’t hide in my clothes,” he said.
“Watch me.”
The jet began to move, taxiing with a gentle lurch. Ragnar stumbled slightly, bracing a hand on the seatback beside her head. He didn’t move it. His proximity was a physical pressure. She could smell the clean, sharp soap from their shared shower over the deeper, familiar scent of his skin.
“Last chance,” he murmured, his breath stirring her hair. “To get off this plane. To walk away from what happens next.”
She looked up at him. His blue eyes were storms. “Is that what you want?”
“No.” The word was raw. “God help me, no.”
He sank into the seat beside her, his large body overwhelming it. The jet accelerated, pressing them back. As the wheels left the tarmac, his hand found hers on the armrest. He didn’t intertwine their fingers. He just covered it, his palm hot and heavy, pinning it in place. She didn’t pull away.
For an hour, they sat in that suspended silence, hands trapped together, watching England dissolve beneath a blanket of cloud. The attendant did not reappear. The world shrank to the cabin’s hum, the heat of his skin, the unspoken things crowding the air.
Vanja’s phone, tucked in the hoodie pocket, vibrated.
Once. Then twice in quick succession.
A different, sharper tension seized Ragnar. His grip on her hand tightened painfully. “Don’t.”
“It could be my department,” she said, but her blood had gone cold.
“It’s not.”
She wrestled her hand free and pulled the phone out. The screen glowed in the dim cabin. Two new messages. Both from an unknown number.
The first was a photo. It showed the entrance to Ragnar’s London building, taken from across the street at night. The timestamp was 03:47 a.m.—right in the wretched heart of their night.
The second was just text.
Unknown: He took you in at 3:42. You were wearing the silver dress. You looked unsteady. He looked… possessive. Five hours later, you leave in his clothes, walking close. A fascinating timeline. Does the press office have a script for this, or shall we improvise? – L.V.
Vanja’s breath hitched. She felt the color drain from her face. Ragnar took the phone from her limp fingers. He read the messages. A muscle in his jaw began to tick, a relentless, rhythmic pulse.
He didn’t rage. The fury he’d exhibited in the penthouse was gone, replaced by a glacial, focused calm that was infinitely more terrifying. He stared at the photo, zooming in on the blurred figures of them entering the lobby.
“He was watching.” Ragnar’s voice was detached, analytical. “He had someone there all night. This isn’t a warning shot back. This is a blueprint.”
“For what?”
“For ruin.” He handed the phone back to her. “He’s not just threatening to release it. He’s documenting the narrative. The timeline, as he says. To make any denial look like a lie.”
Vanja felt a nausea that had nothing to do with the flight. “So what do we do?”
Ragnar unclipped his seatbelt and stood. He paced the narrow aisle once, twice, a caged predator. Then he stopped in front of her. “We remove his power.”
“And how do we do that?”
A dark, reckless light ignited in his eyes. It was the same look he’d had just before he flipped her onto the mattress. A look of total surrender to a terrible idea. “We make the truth unsalable. We give them a story so much bigger, so much uglier, that his little timeline becomes a footnote.”
Vanja shook her head, not understanding. “What are you talking about?”
He leaned down, placing his hands on the armrests of her seat, caging her in. His voice dropped to a rough whisper. “He’s selling a scandal. A brother and sister sneaking around, a tawdry little secret. But what if it’s not a secret? What if it’s not tawdry?” He brought his mouth close to her ear. “What if it’s a fucking disaster? A violent, obsessive, fucked-up mess that no reputable outlet would touch for fear of being sued for exploitation? We don’t hide from the camera, Vanja. We stare right into it and show him something so dark he can’t profit from it.”
He pulled back, searching her face. “We control the narrative by making it unbearable to publish.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs. “You’re not making sense.”
“I am.” He straightened up, his gaze burning into her. “When we land, there will be cameras. They’re always there. We’re going to give them a show. Not a cozy one. A bad one. We’re going to fight.”
Before she could process it, he moved. He grabbed the front of the hoodie, his fists curling in the fabric, and hauled her upright out of the seat. She gasped, stumbling against him.
“What are you doing?”
“Starting now,” he growled, and his mouth came down on hers.
This kiss wasn’t passion or anger. It was performance. It was brutal and hungry, all teeth and claiming tongue, designed to be seen. He walked her backwards, shoving her against the polished wood of the galley door. His body ground into hers, leaving no space for doubt.
One hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back to deepen the kiss. The other hand slid under the hoodie, under the waistband of her jeans, cupping her ass roughly, pulling her up onto her toes. She could feel every hard inch of him through his jeans. A shocked, unwanted thrill sparked in her gut.
He broke the kiss, breathing hard. His lips were wet, his eyes glazed with a frantic intent. “They want a story?” he said, loud enough to carry. “Let’s give them a fucking epic.”
He spun her around, facing the door. He pressed himself against her back, his erection a rigid line against her. With one ruthless tug, he yanked her jeans and underwear down to her thighs. The cool air hit her skin.
“Ragnar, no—not like this—” Panic laced her voice.
“Yes. Like this.” His words were a hot slur against her ear. His hand slid around her hip, his fingers diving through her curls, finding her wet and slick despite her fear. He groaned. “See? Your body knows the script.”
He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging against her. He didn’t ask. He pushed in, a slow, inexorable invasion that stole her breath. She was still sore, tight from the morning, and the stretch was breathtaking. A whimper escaped her.
“Quiet,” he whispered, but it wasn’t a command. It was a plea. He sank the rest of the way in, filling her utterly. He held there, buried to the hilt, both of them trembling. Then he began to move.
It was a ruthless, driving rhythm, each thrust slamming her into the unyielding door. The sound was obscene—skin on skin, the wet slap of his body against hers, her choked gasps. He kept one arm banded across her chest, holding her upright, the other hand splayed on the door for leverage.
“This is what he wanted pictures of,” Ragnar panted, his voice ragged with exertion and self-loathing. “This is the real timeline. Me fucking my sister on a plane because I’m so goddamn sick over her I can’t think straight.”
He drove into her harder, faster. The pleasure was a sharp wire winding tighter and tighter, intertwined with pain and shame and a terrifying intimacy. She came suddenly, a silent, seizing climax that clamped down around him, her nails scraping the polished wood.
He followed with a shattered groan, his hips stuttering, pumping his release deep inside her. He collapsed against her back, his forehead on her shoulder, his breath heaving.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, joined, exposed, wrecked.
Slowly, he withdrew. He pulled her clothes up with a clumsy tenderness that contrasted violently with the act. He turned her around. Her face was pale, her eyes huge. He wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb, his own hand shaking.
“Now we land,” he said, his voice ruined. “Now we fight where everyone can see. We make it so ugly, so clearly destructive, that Lukas Veidl’s clean little photos look like a lie.” He brushed her hair back. “We get off this plane, and you shove me. You scream at me. You make a scene so big it drowns out everything else.”
Vanja looked at him, at this man who was her brother, her lover, her willing co-conspirator in mutual destruction. The hollow dread was gone, replaced by a terrifying, clear-eyed resolve.
“Okay,” she whispered.
The jet began its descent. Ragnar took his seat, his posture now one of sullen, withdrawn anger. Vanja stayed by the door, her arms wrapped around herself, the hoodie now a stained costume. She stared out the window as the Munich skyline emerged from the clouds.
The wheels touched down with a shriek.
The attendant emerged, his face carefully blank. “Welcome to Munich, Mr. Jakobsen.”
Ragnar didn’t acknowledge him. He stood, not looking at Vanja. “Remember,” he muttered, low enough for only her to hear.
The cabin door opened. The glare of a grey Bavarian afternoon flooded in. At the bottom of the stairs, a small cluster of paparazzi lenses glinted, waiting.
Ragnar descended first, head down, shoulders tense. Vanja followed, two steps behind.
A voice called out. “Ragnar! Over here! How was London?”
He ignored it, striding toward a waiting car.
Another shout. “Vanja! What brings you to Munich?”
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs. She saw Ragnar’s back, already turning away. She felt the ghost of his thrusts inside her, the sting of his grip in her hair. She saw the imagined flash of Lukas Veidl’s camera.
She took a deep breath, let the chaotic fury rise, and charged forward.
She caught up to Ragnar just as he reached the car. She grabbed his arm, spinning him around. Her face was a mask of pure, public rage.
“You don’t get to just walk away!” she screamed, her voice cutting through the airport noise. “You don’t get to decide everything!”
The camera shutters erupted, a rapid-fire cacophony.
Ragnar’s face twisted into a snarl for the lenses. “Get in the fucking car, Vanja.”
“No! You had no right!” She shoved him, both hands against his chest. It was like pushing a mountain, but he allowed the stagger, a calculated performance of instability.
He grabbed her wrist, his fingers digging in. “I said, get in.” He yanked her toward the open door, his动作 rough, perfect for the headlines.
She resisted for one more second, letting them capture her furious, tear-streaked face, her disheveled hair, the too-big hoodie. Then she let him manhandle her into the back seat.
He slammed the door. The car pulled away, leaving the shouted questions behind.
In the sudden, quiet interior, they sat apart, breathing heavily. The driver’s partition was up. Vanja leaned her head against the window, her performance adrenaline dissipating, leaving her cold.
Ragnar’s phone, now powered on, chimed once.
He looked at the screen. His expression didn’t change. He held it up for her to see.
A new message from the unknown number.
Unknown: An impressive performance. But the best scripts always have a third act. See you soon.
Beneath it was another photo. This one was from moments ago. Vanja shoving Ragnar, his face contorted, her own a portrait of fury. It was perfectly framed.
Lukas Veidl was in Munich.