Chapter 5: d
The house was a monolith of pale stone, set back from the street behind a high wall topped with iron spikes. A single lantern glowed above a heavy oak door. Marko unlocked it, pushing it open into darkness. He reached inside, flicked a switch. A dusty chandelier in the entrance hall sputtered to life, casting a dim, watery light over marble floors and dark wood paneling. The air was cold and still, smelling of furniture polish and disuse.
Vanja stepped inside, her boots clicking softly. The opulence was startling, jarringly out of place. A grand staircase swept upwards, a threadbare Serbian kilim runner held in place by brass rods. A mirror in a gilded frame reflected her surprised face, ghostly in the poor light. “Whose is this?” she asked, her voice hushed.
He closed the door, the heavy thud final. He didn’t look at her, hanging his coat on a wrought-iron stand. “My father’s.”
“A policeman’s father lives like this?”
Marko finally met her gaze. “My father is a banker. In Belgrade. He bought this as an investment before things… deteriorated. He hasn’t been here in five years.” He walked past her, his footsteps echoing. “It’s maintained by a local woman twice a week. Dusty, but functional.”
“So it’s just us here,” she said, not moving from the spot.
“Yeah.” He paused at the foot of the stairs, looking back at her. The shadowed hollows of his face made him look carved from stone. “Just us.”
She followed him up the stairs, the silence between them thicker than the dust. He led her to a room at the end of a long corridor. It was a bedroom, spacious and masculine. A large bed with a dark wood frame dominated the space, covered in a deep red duvet. Heavy drapes were drawn across the windows. A desk was piled with books and papers. It felt lived-in, unlike the tomb-like downstairs.
“You stay here. Not in the barracks,” she observed, leaning against the doorframe.
“The barracks are for soldiers. I prefer walls that don’t listen.” He walked to a sideboard, poured two fingers of amber liquid from a crystal decanter into a glass. He didn’t offer her one. He drank it in one swallow, his throat working. “Bathroom’s through there. There’s hot water, if the boiler’s on.”
She stepped fully into the room, setting her bag down by the bed. The tension wasn’t just sexual now; it was a live wire of shared isolation, of forced proximity with the one person who represented the greatest threat to her freedom. “When are they coming? The Germans.”
“In three hours. They’re at the Hotel Prima, getting settled.” He placed the glass down with a soft click. “Maybe try to get some sleep.”
She let out a short, breathy laugh. “I can’t. Not now.”
He nodded once, a sharp dip of his chin. He understood the adrenaline. He was swimming in it too. He leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. The pose emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the solidness of him. The flickering light from a single bedside lamp played over the planes of his face.
“What do you want to do then?” he asked. His voice was low, stripped of its official cadence. It was just a man’s voice in a quiet room.
The question hung there, enormous and simple. All the chess moves, the lies, the careful journalism, the shadow of Bahri Nika—it all narrowed to this point. To the few feet of ornate carpet between them. Her heart was a hard, quick drum against her ribs. She looked at him, at the cold, handsome face of her jailer, her reluctant protector, the embodiment of everything she was ostensibly against and yet inextricably drawn to. The attraction was a vile, potent thing, made stronger by the danger.
She didn’t answer with words. She reached for the hem of her sweater, a thick, cream-colored cable-knit, and pulled it over her head. Her hair tumbled free. She dropped the sweater on the floor. Then her hands went to the button of her jeans. The zip was obscenely loud in the quiet room. She pushed them down over her hips, stepping out of them, kicking them aside. She stood before him in just her bra—a lace confection of Swiss engineering—and a pair of simple black panties. The room was cold; her skin prickled into gooseflesh. Her nipples were hard peaks against the lace.
Marko didn’t move. His eyes, black in the low light, traveled over her with a slowness that was itself a violation. He took in the full, heavy curves of her breasts, the dramatic cinch of her waist, the swell of her hips and the long, taut lines of her thighs. He breathed in, a deep, controlled pull of air.
“Is this part of your research, Vanja?” he asked, his voice gravelly.
“No,” she said, her own voice surprisingly steady. “This is what happens when you put a fox and a snake in the same cage with nothing to do for three hours.”
A faint, cruel smile touched his lips. He pushed off from the desk. “I’m not the one in the cage.”
“Aren’t you?”
In two strides he was on her. His hands came up, not to embrace her, but to fist in her hair at the nape of her neck. He gripped tight, forcing her head back, exposing her throat. His other hand clamped on her waist, fingers digging into her soft flesh. He yanked her against him. She could feel the rigid outline of his erection through his trousers, pressed against her belly.
“You think this is a game?” he whispered against her ear, his breath hot. “You think this is some flirtation? You are a problem I have been told to manage. A pretty, irritating problem.”
“So manage me,” she hissed back, arching into him, a deliberate grind of her pelvis against his hardness.
A low growl erupted from his chest. He kissed her, but it wasn’t a kiss. It was an assault. His mouth was hard, demanding, his tongue forcing its way past her lips. It tasted of whiskey and dominance and bitterness. She kissed him back with equal ferocity, her teeth scraping his lip, her own tongue fighting for territory. It was a battle with no winner, only mutual consumption.
He released her hair only to wrench the strap of her bra down her shoulder. The clasp gave way under his rough twist. Her breasts spilled free, full and heavy, the pale skin glowing in the lamplight. He broke the kiss to look down at them, his eyes blazing. He cupped one in his calloused hand, his thumb brushing roughly over the taut nipple. She gasped.
“Such a fucking contradiction,” he muttered, squeezing, his grip bordering on pain. “All this softness. Hiding a liar’s heart.”
He bent his head and took her nipple into his mouth. He didn’t suckle; he devoured. His tongue was rough, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak, biting just enough to make her cry out. The sharp pain melted instantly into a spear of raw pleasure that shot straight to her core. She tangled her hands in his short, dark hair, holding him to her, pressing herself deeper into the heat of his mouth.
His free hand slid down, over the curve of her ass, gripping a handful of flesh through her panties. He kneaded it, hard, then hooked his fingers into the fabric and ripped. The cotton tore with a sick, satisfying sound. He shoved the ruined garment down her thighs. She stumbled, kicking them away, now utterly bare before him.
He straightened up, breathing heavily. “On the bed. On your back.”
The command brooked no argument. She moved, the backs of her knees hitting the edge of the mattress. She fell back, the duvet soft beneath her. She watched him, her chest heaving, her sex throbbing, already wet and exposed.
He unbuckled his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a deadly hiss. He unbuttoned his trousers, shoved them and his briefs down just enough to free his cock. It sprang out, thick and brutally erect, the head flushed a dark red. He was big, intimidatingly so. He didn’t stroke himself. He just looked at her, sprawled on the bed, her legs slightly parted, her body offered.
“You want to be managed?” he said, his voice a dark rasp. He moved between her legs, using his knees to push them wider apart. He leaned over her, one hand planted next to her head, the other guiding the blunt head of his cock through her slick folds. He notched it at her entrance, applying pressure. “This is how you get managed.”
He drove into her with one brutal, deep thrust.
Vanja cried out, a raw, guttural sound torn from her throat. There was no gentle acclimation, no tender buildup. He filled her completely, a stretching, burning invasion that stole the air from her lungs. He was immovable inside her, a rod of heat and iron.
“Fuck,” he grunted, his eyes squeezing shut for a second as he felt her tightness clamp around him. “Christ, you’re tight.”
He began to move. It was not lovemaking. It was a physical argument, a pounding, relentless rhythm. He withdrew almost completely, then slammed back into her, the impact jolting her up the bed. His hips pistoned, a machine of pure need and fury. Each thrust hit a deep, internal spot that sparked white behind her eyelids.
The room filled with the sounds of them: the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bedframe, his ragged grunts, her choked moans. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into the hard muscle of his ass, trying to pull him deeper, to match his savage pace. She scratched her nails down his back, through the fabric of his shirt, wanting to mark him, to make him feel this too.
He fucked her like he hated her. Like he was trying to exorcise her from his jurisdiction, from his thoughts, by burying himself to the hilt in her body. He leaned down, his mouth at her ear. “This what you wanted? Huh? This what your little act was for? To get a police captain’s cock in your cunt?”
“Yes,” she gasped, the admission shocking her even as it spilled out. “Fuck yes.”
He slammed into her harder, his pace becoming erratic, frantic. One hand snaked between their bodies, his thumb finding her clit. He pressed down, circled roughly, the friction almost painful in its intensity. It tipped her over the edge.
Her orgasm hit like a seizure, a violent, cresting wave that tore through her. She arched off the bed, a silent scream on her lips, her inner muscles clenching and fluttering around his driving cock in rhythmic pulses. The pleasure was so acute it bordered on agony, wiping her mind clean of everything but the feel of him pounding into her milking depths.
The sensation pushed him over. With a final, deep grunt that was almost a sob, he buried himself as deep as he could go. She felt the hot, sudden pulse of his release inside her, jet after jet, flooding her. He shuddered through it, his whole body rigid above her, before collapsing onto his forearms, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. He was heavy, his breath scorching her neck.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their harsh, mingled breathing. The smell of sex, of sweat and musk and his cologne, filled the opulent room. He was still inside her, softening. Slowly, he pulled out. The loss of him felt immense, a sudden, shocking emptiness. A trickle of his release slid down her inner thigh.
He rolled off her, onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. He didn’t touch her. He just lay there, one arm thrown over his eyes. She lay still, the cold air hitting her damp skin, making her shiver. The reality of what they’d just done—raw, wordless, vicious—settled over her like ash.
After a time, he swung his legs off the bed, his back to her. He pulled his trousers up, fastened them. He didn’t look at her. “The bathroom’s there,” he said again, his voice flat, drained of all emotion. “Clean up. We have two hours before we need to leave.”
He walked out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.
Vanja lay in the rumpled duvet, staring at the intricate pattern of the plaster ceiling rose. Her body hummed with aftershocks, a treacherous, glowing warmth completely at odds with the cold void opening in her chest. She had gotten what she’d tacitly asked for. She had let the snake into her bed. And now, covered in the proof of it, she felt no closer to understanding him, or controlling her situation. She felt only a profound and terrifying clarity: the game had just changed, and the rules were written in the bruises already forming on her skin and the scent of him that now lived deep inside her.
The clarity was a cold knot in her stomach. She rose, her muscles protesting, and walked naked across the room to the bathroom. The tiles were icy underfoot. She ran the water until it steamed, scrubbing herself with a rough washcloth until her skin burned, but the feeling of him, the ache and the wetness, seemed embedded deeper than soap could reach. She dressed in silence, pulling her clothes back on, each layer feeling like a feeble armor.
Marko was in the kitchen downstairs, drinking coffee from a plain white mug. He had changed his shirt. He didn’t look at her when she entered. “There’s coffee,” he said, gesturing to the pot on the stove.
“We should go,” she said. Her voice sounded foreign, hollow.
“We have time.”
“I’d rather not be here.”
This made him glance up. His eyes were empty, professional. The man from the bedroom was gone, sealed away. “Suit yourself.”
The drive to the station was silent. The meeting room was brightly lit, a stark contrast to the shadowed bedroom. Three Germans waited, two men and a woman, their equipment cases at their feet. They looked tired, jet-lagged, and vaguely wary. The commander, Pendic, was there, beaming with bureaucratic pride.
Introductions were made. The lead journalist, a man named Klaus, shook Vanja’s hand, his eyes widening slightly at her appearance. When she responded to his German in the crisp, accentless dialect of Basel, his eyebrows shot up. “You are Swiss?” he asked, surprised.
“Yes. A journalist, like you.”
“And you are working here, with the Serbian police?” The question was polite, but laced with professional curiosity.
“I am conducting independent research on cultural patrimony,” she said smoothly, the lie now a well-worn glove. “Captain Stojanovic’s department has been kind enough to facilitate some logistical aspects. Commander Pendic thought my language skills might be useful for you today.”
The Germans exchanged glances, a silent communication of unexpected luck. Throughout the tour of the station, the staged interviews with carefully selected officers, Vanja translated with effortless precision. She softened the commander’s more aggressive statements, clarified tactical jargon, and when Klaus asked a pointed question about checkpoints in Albanian neighborhoods, she found a way to phrase it that elicited a rehearsed, non-incendiary answer from Pendic.
During a quiet moment, the German woman, a producer named Anja, leaned close. “It is a strange place for you, no? A Swiss woman here?”
Vanja met her gaze. “It’s important to see all sides. Even the uncomfortable ones. Especially those.” The sentiment, delivered in perfect German, seemed to resonate. Anja nodded slowly, her skepticism easing.
The filmed segment wrapped. The Germans were satisfied, their notebooks full, their tapes capturing the image of orderly, lawful authority they needed. Klaus shook Pendic’s hand, then Marko’s, and finally turned to Vanja. “A pleasure. You made this possible. Thank you for your… nuanced perspective.”
“Safe travels to Pristina,” she said.
They left, loading their van. Pendic clapped Marko on the shoulder, said something about a report, and departed. Suddenly, they were alone again in the empty, fluorescing hallway. The performance was over.
Marko looked at her. For a second, the mask slipped, and she saw not the captain, not the brutal lover, but a man assessing a complex and unexpectedly capable piece on his board. “You were perfect,” he said, the words quiet, almost reluctant.
A sharp laugh escaped her. It sounded brittle. “Yeah. Please. Take me home now. I’m tired.”
He smiled, a thin, acknowledging twist of his lips, and nodded.
The Lada was a confessional of humming engine and dashed yellow lines glowing in the headlights. Her thigh still ached from the grip of his hands. The silence stretched, taut and resonant with everything unsaid. Then, his right hand left the gearshift. He rested it, heavy and warm, high on her thigh, just beneath the hem of her skirt. His fingers spanned the soft inner muscle. Her heart, traitorous and frantic, began to hammer against her ribs.
He didn’t look at her. He just drove, his palm a brand through the fabric. He squeezed once, a brief, possessive pressure that made her breath catch, then returned his hand to the wheel as they turned onto her street. He pulled up in front of her building. The engine idled.
She unclipped her seatbelt. Time to perform, for whoever was watching. . She turned to him, her face a carefully arranged mask of cool professionalism. “Commander,” she said, her voice light, almost teasing. “Next time you need my help, do call a day in advance.”
She let the smirk play on her lips, saying nothing more, and pushed the car door open. She stepped out into the chilled night air, the movement deliberate. She knew the skirt hugged her ass, knew the lamplight would silhouette the curves he had mauled just hours before. She didn’t look back. She walked slowly toward the entrance, putting a slight, unconscious swing in her hips.
The car didn’t move. As she reached for her keys, she heard it—a low, thick, frustrated curse, muffled by steel and glass but unmistakable. The sound was a tiny, dark victory. She let herself in, the heavy door shutting out the night, and climbed the stairs.
In her apartment, the silence was absolute. She didn’t turn on the light. She stood in the dark, leaning her forehead against the cool glass of the window. Down in the street, the Lada’s taillights finally flared red, and he drove away. She peeled off her clothes, left them in a pile on the floor, and fell into bed. The sheets were cold. Her body was a map of tender places. She closed her eyes, and sleep came not as a relief, but as a sudden, deep, and absolute arrest.