"So, you grew up in a foster family?" Lisa asked, glancing at Ildar in the rearview mirror, curiosity lacing her voice.
"Yep. Two brothers and two sisters," he replied with quiet pride. "All adopted, just like me."
"Wow. That's a pretty big family," I said, unable to keep the hint of envy from my tone. I'd always dreamed of having a younger sister—or even a brother. "Your parents must've had more than a big wallet, then. A big heart, too."
Ildar shrugged. "About the dead, you either speak well—or not at all," he said softly, and the melancholy in his voice made my chest tighten. He and I were roughly the same age, give or take, but the thought that he'd already lost two sets of parents—first his birth parents, then the ones who'd chosen him—sent a chill down my spine. Rationally, I knew that everyone faces that final goodbye someday, but lately, reminders of how fleeting our existence is seemed to multiply around me at an alarming rate.
I'd never been close with my own family. I kept my distance whenever I could. With the kind of lineage I carried, sometimes it was easier to pretend that Lisa was the only person who truly existed for me. But life had a way of reminding me otherwise—through calls from debt collectors and other agencies looking for the "next of kin" of people who couldn't manage their own obligations.
Both my parents had fallen apart years ago, consumed by the same sickness—an addiction that had long since burned out my desire to drink, no matter the occasion. Holiday, celebration, grief—it didn't matter. I wanted no part of it.
You really don't get to choose your parents. But you can choose not to let them into your adult life when you've run out of strength—when the wounds are so deep that even hearing their names brings nothing but pain. I didn't believe I'd ever be able to truly let anyone in again, or trust, knowing how many empty promises I'd heard and how many times I'd crashed against the walls of reality.
And yet she entered my life—Lisa. Pure and white as the first snow. A queen I would follow hand in hand through every circle of hell and back again, just to relive it all and learn once more what true closeness feels like.
I looked at her the way one might look at the most precious gem in the Diamond Fund—dazzled, reverent, afraid to breathe too hard in her presence. But in the back of my mind, a vile whisper stirred, hissing that there had to be a catch. That Lisa, too, was only pretending—just like everyone who had ever gotten close enough to hurt me.
If she did have a secret, its shadow stretched so far it vanished when it touched the light—when she was near me again. And after all, I wasn't entirely honest with her either. I hadn't told her everything I suspected about what had happened after that night in Moscow. My memories blurred; anxiety tangled them even further. Sometimes, when it hit hard enough, the red tint of Lisa's fur-lined jacket would seem to shift before my eyes—turning into something disturbingly like blood. And on my tongue, that taste again—metallic, saline, unmistakably real. The mind paints its horrors vividly, even when reason insists you've never known the flavor of iron.
I was so lost in thought that I missed most of the ongoing conversation in the car. My eyes, restless, kept returning to Lisa's face—her flawless skin, her calm, unyielding composure. I still couldn't quite believe that I was the one allowed to touch her, to claim even a fragment of her warmth.
She was my reward for every torment endured. My long-awaited prize on loan. My guiding star in the darkness where hope had long since burned out.
I wanted, more than anything, to pull her into my arms right then—but if I did, we'd likely crash, no matter how skilled Lisa was behind the wheel. So I kept still, simply watching her hands: the way her palm slid along the soft leather as she turned the wheel, commanding the machine to obey her will; the way her long fingers wrapped around the steering grip with effortless control.
So delicate at first glance. So deceptively fragile.
And yet—if you looked deeper—you could feel it.
That quiet, absolute power, pulsing somewhere beneath the surface.
She bit her lower lip, waiting impatiently for the light to turn green—and, God, how I wanted to do the same to her in that moment. To feel the softness of her mouth, to taste her, to lose myself in the warmth of her breath. To take everything Lisa was willing to give, and drown in the sweetness of her touch. Her long, elegant fingers—those of a pianist—always knew how to draw the right note from my throat.
The thought alone made the air inside the car unbearably hot. My shirt clung to my skin, and all I wanted right then was to tear it off—first mine, then hers. To stop the car, free her from that light summer dress, slip one strap off her shoulder and then the other, covering her skin with slow, reverent kisses.
God damn it. What a shame we weren't alone in the car.
Lisa glanced sideways at me, a wicked smile tugging at her lips. She must've read everything from my face—if not from something else.
She knew me too well, and she was merciless about it. Her right hand slipped from the steering wheel as if by accident and came to rest on her dress. Making sure I was watching, she began to draw the fabric up, inch by excruciating inch. My world shrank to a single burning point—the slow revelation of her porcelain skin beneath the hem. She bared her knee, paused, then slid the dress a little higher. Every heartbeat was agony. My gaze darted from her face to her thigh and back again, silently begging for this exquisite torture to end, terrified to touch her before she allowed it.
I wanted her with every nerve in my body—and at the same time, I feared what might happen if I misread her, if I reached too soon and broke the fragile rhythm between us.
Sometimes, when we held each other, she would go still—her breath caught, her body frozen—and I never dared to ask what she was remembering in those moments. When I touched her, did she think of the man who had cornered her in that parking lot after the event?
I wanted to know what really happened that night—and at the same time, I dreaded the answer. Because deep down, I knew it was my fault. None of it would have happened if I had just met her afterward instead of staying home to prepare a surprise.
I reached toward her, my hand hovering halfway, waiting for her to give me that clear, unspoken yes. After a pause, she glanced at me again, eyes gleaming, and caught my hand in hers, guiding it to her thigh.
The rush of approval, of permission, set my whole body alight. I could touch her again. Feel the silk of her skin beneath my fingers. The pleasure was dizzying, consuming. I wanted more—needed more.
A polite cough from the back seat snapped me out of it. Heat flooded my face.
Damn it. I'd completely forgotten we weren't alone.
"Lovebirds," Ildar drawled, grinning broadly. "You couldn't wait just a few more minutes? We're almost there."
I blinked, disoriented, and looked around. The forest road had opened into a clearing where, in the distance, stood a wooden house with a wide veranda—surprisingly lively for such a remote place. Small tables with red-and-white checkered cloths dotted the porch, each crowned with a wicker basket of dried flowers.
Lisa steered the car around the building toward the guest parking lot. At the far end stood a large coach bus, blocking the view of the emerald pines beyond. She parked beside it, cut the engine, and slowly turned toward me, one hand draped casually over the steering wheel, the car key glinting between her fingers.
There was a silent plea in her gaze—something raw, electric—and I gave in to it completely.
"Pick a table and order something for everyone," I said quickly, my voice rougher than I intended. Then, with a slight nod, I gestured for her to get out of the car.
"Allergies?" Yesenia asked behind me, but the door shut before I could answer, leaving her question hanging in the air.
With long, determined strides I circled the car, seized Lisa by the hand, and led her toward the trees—ignoring propriety, ignoring our new acquaintances, ignoring everything but her. The world had narrowed to a single point, and it was her. If my white queen wanted something, she was going to have it—here and now.
We slipped past the bus and pushed through the thicket, branches brushing against our arms as fallen pine needles rustled beneath our feet. The path seemed endless, every step feeding the fire of impatience burning inside me. I turned to check if the road was still visible behind us, but before I could take another breath, Lisa wrenched her hand free and leapt at me.
Instinctively, I caught her by the thighs. Her legs locked around my waist, her body molding perfectly to mine as she steadied herself.
Her face hovered above me, her gaze warm, hungry, glimmering beneath the shadow of her lashes. Her slender fingers brushed against my cheek, sending a sharp, electric thrill down my spine, waking every nerve. Our lips met—first soft and tender, then deeper, more demanding. Her tongue moved against mine in a rhythm that made it hard to think, harder still to breathe.
God, it would never be enough. I wanted to touch her—every inch, every hidden place I hadn't yet explored. To find new ways to make her tremble, to draw new sounds from her lips. But with her wrapped around me like this, all I could do was cling to the silken curve of her thighs, desperate to merge with her completely, to slip beneath her skin and stay there.
I pressed her back against the nearest tree, pinning her between the rough bark and my chest. The movement drew a sound from her—half moan, half sigh—sweet as the taste of her mouth, and I drank it in, surrendering to the moment entirely.
Exquisite. Perfect. Mine.
"I want you," she whispered, almost pleading, tugging at my lower lip with her teeth—stripping away the last remaining restraint from the fragile temple of my self-control.