Chapter 23: The Prince's Cure
The journey west was a five-hour blur of grim silence and grim landscape. Andrey drove the armored staff car, his eyes constantly scanning the mirrors. Alexsi sat in the back with Mila, who slept fitfully against his shoulder, jolting awake with a sharp intake of breath every time the car hit a pothole. The dressings needed changing once, in the filthy bathroom of a diesel-stinking truck stop, Alexsi’s large frame blocking the door while Andrey worked with quick, sure hands. No one spoke much. The road did the talking, a long gray ribbon leading away from the capital’s ornate poison.
Alexsi’s private quarters were in the officers’ block of the western garrison, a fortress of concrete and steel carved into the side of a pine-covered mountain. But his rooms were not what Mila expected. He carried her over the threshold, a gesture that felt oddly formal, and she caught her first breath of the place. Not damp stone and disinfectant, but warm oak and beeswax. A wood stove glowed in the corner, its iron belly pulsing with heat, pushing back the deep cold that seeped from the mountain rock. The air was layered—pine resin from the stacks of wood, the faint, clean scent of lavender soap, the earthy pages of old books lining makeshift shelves. One wall was dominated by a massive window, black as pitch now, but promising a vast view. The only decoration was a single oil painting of a frozen river under a bruised winter sky.
“This is you?” she murmured into his neck as he set her down carefully on a deep, worn leather sofa piled with wool blankets.
“For eight years,” he said, kneeling to pull off her boots. His fingers were careful on her ankles.
Andrey dumped their bags—the Prince’s medical case, Alexsi’s kit, a small satchel of Mila’s things hastily packed by a terrified maid. He went straight to the stove, fed it two more split logs, and closed the iron door with a soft clang. The room seemed to sigh, embracing the heat. “Secure,” he said, more to himself than them. He checked the window locks, the deadbolt on the heavy door. His ritual.
The silence here was different. Not the holding-of-breath silence of the dacha, but a deep, outdoor quiet, punctuated by the crackle of fire and the occasional groan of the building settling against the cold. It was the first silence that didn’t feel like a threat.
For three days, they existed in a slow, careful orbit around her pain. The burns began the angry work of healing, itching and pulling. The deep bruises bloomed into sickly greens and yellows. Andrey managed her medication, waking her gently in the dark to swallow pills, checking her temperature with the back of his hand against her forehead. Alexsi cooked simple, strong food—barley porridge, stews that simmered for hours on the stove’s flat top. He cleaned. He read military reports in a low chair by the fire, his presence a steady, quiet fact.
Mila slept. And when she wasn’t sleeping, she watched. She watched Andrey strip and clean his sidearm at the oak table, his hands moving with unconscious precision. She watched Alexsi stare at the frozen river painting, his face blank, but his thumb rubbing back and forth over his own knuckle. She saw the way they moved around each other—a wordless ballet of shared space. Andrey would hand Alexsi a cup of tea just as he reached for it. Alexsi would shift his reading chair an inch to the left so Andrey could pass to the kitchenette without asking. A look, a tilt of the head, a grunt that was a full conversation.
On the fourth evening, she was bathing. The bathroom here was small, utilitarian tile, but Alexsi had carried in a deep copper tub used for melting snow, and they’d filled it with steaming water. She was allowed to soak, provided she kept her bandaged arms resting on the rolled edges. The door was ajar a crack, for steam and safety. She heard their voices, low, in the main room.
“...needs to see Goranin tomorrow. Border patrol schedules,” Alexsi said.
“I’ll take her down to the infirmary. Get Kostya to look at the one on her rib. It’s too red,” Andrey responded. A pause. The sound of a glass being set down. “She’s watching us, Alyosha.”
“I know.”
“She needs to see it’s still here. What we are. That it didn’t break.”
A longer silence. “How?” Alexsi’s voice was taut. “I don’t want to scare her.”
“Then don’t be scary. Be us. Just… let her see.”
Mila sank lower in the water, her heart thudding slow and hard against her ribs. Let her see.
She finished her bath, drying herself with the soft, worn towel Alexsi had left warmed by the stove. The silvery dressings were holding. She looked at herself in the fogged mirror—a pale, bruised ghost with huge dark eyes. She wasn’t the girl from the border anymore. She wasn’t the broken thing in the marble tub. She was something in-between, fragile but acutely aware. She pulled on one of Alexsi’s old cotton undershirts. It swam on her, falling to mid-thigh, smelling faintly of him—soap and winter air.
She pushed the door open. The main room was lit only by the fire and a single lamp by Alexsi’s chair. He was still there, a report open on his lap, but he wasn’t reading. He was looking at the fire. Andrey was on the floor by the stove, leaning against the stone hearth, sharpening a long field knife on a whetstone. The rhythmic shhhick-shhhick filled the quiet.
They both looked up as she entered.
“Feel better?” Andrey asked, pausing his motion.
She nodded, padding barefoot to the sofa. She curled into the corner, pulling a blanket over her legs. The fire was so hot it almost hurt, in a good way. She watched the flames dance. She could feel their eyes on her, a gentle, measuring weight.
“Come here,” Alexsi said, his voice quiet.
She looked at him. He had closed the report and set it aside. He wasn’t smiling, but his gaze was open, an invitation. He patted the space on the wide ottoman in front of his chair.
She stood, the blanket falling away, and went to him. She settled on the ottoman, her back to the fire, facing him. His knees were on either side of her. He didn’t touch her.
Andrey resumed sharpening the knife, the sound slower now, less rhythmic. Watching.
“You’re afraid of me,” Alexsi stated. It wasn’t an accusation.
“No,” she said, and realized it was true. “Not of you. Of… disappointing you. Of being a burden in a way that… breaks what you have.”
“You could never,” he said, the words absolute.
“He’s right,” Andrey’s voice came from the hearth. “You’re not a burden. You’re the point.”
She swallowed, her throat tight. She looked at Alexsi’s hands, resting on his thighs. Strong, capable hands that had killed for her, that had dressed her wounds with unbearable tenderness. She remembered the feel of them on her skin in the bath—clinical, yes, but also possessive. A claim of care.
Hesitantly, she reached out and placed her hand over his. His skin was warm, dry. His fingers twitched, then stilled. He turned his hand over, palm up, and let her lace her fingers with his. A simple join. Her heart hammered.
“I want…” she started, then stopped, her courage faltering.
“Say it,” Andrey murmured, his voice a low vibration in the fire-lit room.
“I want to be with you. Both of you. Not just… in the room. I want to feel like I belong here. In this.” She gestured weakly between them with her free hand.
Alexsi’s gaze was dark, intense. “How?”
She took a shaky breath. “Touch me. Not like a patient. Like I’m yours.”
The shhhick-shhhick of the whetstone stopped. The room held only the pop and crackle of the fire.
Alexsi’s other hand came up, slow, giving her every chance to pull away. He brushed the backs of his knuckles along her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw. His touch was feather-light, questioning. A shiver ran through her, but not from fear. From a sharp, awakening hunger. She leaned into his hand.
“See?” Andrey said, very softly. “Not scary.”
Alexsi’s thumb stroked her lower lip. His eyes followed the movement. “You are sure?”
“Yes.”
He leaned forward, closing the small space between them. His kiss was nothing like she expected. It was soft, a mere press of his lips against hers, warm and dry. He paused, letting her feel it, letting her decide. She made a small sound in her throat and kissed him back, increasing the pressure. He responded, his mouth moving over hers with a controlled hunger that made her stomach tighten. His hand cupped the side of her neck, his thumb stroking her pulse point.
It was Andrey who broke the spell, not with a word, but with movement. He stood, the knife and stone forgotten on the hearth. He came to stand beside Alexsi’s chair, looking down at them. His expression was unreadable, all hard planes and shadow.
Alexsi broke the kiss, but kept his forehead resting against hers. He looked up at Andrey, a silent communication passing between them. Then Alexsi shifted back in his chair, creating a space. An invitation.
Andrey knelt. Not on the ottoman, but on the floor beside it, putting himself at her level. He looked at her, his blue eyes catching the firelight. “Your rules, little fox. Always. You say stop, everything stops. You understand?”
She nodded, breathless.
“Use your words. Tell me what you want.”
She looked from his fierce, handsome face to Alexsi’s solemn, waiting one. The hunger in her coalesced, sharp and clear. “I want you to kiss me.”
A faint, wild smile touched Andrey’s mouth. He didn’t hesitate. He leaned in and captured her lips with his. Where Alexsi was control, Andrey was deliberate possession. His kiss was deep, wet, and unapologetically carnal. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting her, claiming her. A moan escaped her, swallowed by him. One of his big hands came up to cradle the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her damp hair.
Alexsi watched, his hand still holding hers, his grip tightening just slightly. When Andrey finally pulled back, Mila was gasping, her lips swollen.
“Good?” Andrey asked, his voice rough.
“Yes.”
Alexsi tugged gently on her hand. “Stand up.”
She rose, her legs unsteady. The old cotton shirt felt suddenly thin, insubstantial. Alexsi stood with her, his bulk towering over her. He didn’t kiss her again. Instead, he looked at Andrey, who gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
Then Alexsi’s hands went to the hem of her shirt. He gathered the soft material in his fists and slowly, so slowly, drew it up over her body. She raised her arms, wincing only slightly as the motion pulled at the dressing on her rib. The cool air hit her skin, followed by the intense wash of heat from the fire. The shirt dropped to the floor.
She stood naked before them, her injuries on full display—the stark dressings, the rainbow of bruises, the vulnerable lines of her underfed body. She fought the instinct to cover herself, forcing her hands to stay at her sides. She saw their eyes travel over her, not with clinical assessment, but with a raw, hot appreciation that had nothing to do with pity and everything to do with want.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” Andrey breathed, still on his knees before her. He didn’t touch her. He just looked, his gaze a physical caress.
Alexsi’s finger traced the edge of a dressing on her collarbone. “Does this hurt?”
“No,” she whispered.
“Tell me if it does.”
Then he bent his head and kissed the unburned skin just beside the dressing, his lips warm and soft. The gesture was so tender it made her eyes sting. His mouth trailed down, over her breast, avoiding the wounded flesh, finding her nipple. He took it into his mouth, sucking gently, his tongue swirling. A jolt of pure electricity shot straight to her core. She cried out, her hand flying to his hair, gripping the short, thick strands.
Andrey moved then. He pressed his face against her stomach, his stubble rough on her skin. He kissed a bruise on her hip, not hiding from it, but acknowledging it, claiming it too. His hands slid up the backs of her thighs, strong and warm. “You’re dripping wet for us already,” he muttered against her skin, his voice thick with approval. “So fucking responsive.”
She was. She could feel the slick heat between her legs, an urgent, aching emptiness. The fear was gone, burned away by a need so profound it overrode everything—the memory of other hands, other mouths. These hands, these mouths, were hers.
“Bed,” Alexsi growled, releasing her nipple with a wet pop. He straightened, and in one smooth motion, lifted her into his arms. He carried her the few steps to the large bed draped in crimson. He laid her down in the center, the linens cool against her back.
Andrey followed, stripping off his sweater and undershirt in one violent motion. His torso was a map of old scars and hard muscle, a pale, powerful landscape in the firelight. He knelt on the bed, crawling over her, caging her with his arms. He kissed her again, deep and filthy, his tongue plunging into her mouth. She could smell him—leather, smoke, sweat. Pure Andrey.
She heard the soft sounds of Alexsi undressing. Then the bed dipped as he joined them. He lay on his side next to her, propped on an elbow, his body a long, hot line against hers. He was naked.