Ivan Press

Hilary

With all his starved swans and wounded pigeons and tittering canaries, Ivan would leave. That virgin he threw in her face down in Mexico, the one he fucked to ruin her for her inevitable mate -- he got up as soon as he was done with her and left, buttoning up his shirt and telling her, though not in so many words, to have a nice life. He'd leave them after he used them, and rarely think of them again. But Hilary: oh no. He followed her, needing to care for her after what he'd done with her as much as she may have needed it even then.

He's so fragile right now, in the aftermath. And yet he guards her, because she is even more broken than he is.

This is unusual, this hand laying atop his hand. Even at her most unguarded, her most near-human, it's a strange gesture from someone like her. She watches him, not really thinking about anything, just existing, her lips open very, very slightly as he's touching her cheek. He loves her; her eyes close in a slow blink. He does. They close completely as he leans over and rests with her like that.

She doesn't speak. She doesn't sigh. She just is: sleepy under the fur, satiated by the sex, warm, close, his, trusting, submitted to him -- she is all these things. She cannot describe them in words. It is enough -- and it is rare enough -- to simply feel them at all.

Their eyes are closed. They are quiet now, their breathing evening out, their sweat drying in the cool air. She is sated, sleepy, so utterly relaxed that he can feel it in the air. That bone-deep peace in her touches him as well. He is relaxing moment by moment. She is his. She is safe. They are here together, and some primitive part of him, so rarely tapped as to almost be vestigial, stirs to life and rumbles in contentment. The world seems far away; everything is well.

He thinks, with that part of his mind that is still civilized, that he forgot to turn the heater up when they came in, though it was never off. It's all right, though. They are lying on furs, sleeping the way their ancestors and their progenitors did - hundreds of years ago, millions of years ago. He thinks idly that he should wrap the furs around them. He should light a fire. He should...

Sleep comes. They sleep for hours without even moving. At some point he stirs, or she does, and they come awake to find the lights still on; their exposed skins chilled. She climbs out of bed, disappears into the bathroom. He turns the lights out, turns the heat up a little. When she comes back he's under the coat, using it like a blanket of old, the fur to their skins. He throws it back for her to climb under. Her hands are cold, and he lays them against his chest, between their bodies. His arm wraps around her. They sleep.

It is morning when Ivan wakes again. Nine or ten o'clock. The east-facing shades have drawn up automatically, following some timer. The day is grey, the lake grey as well. Their little deck is wet with rain, or perhaps mist. Snow is in short supply this year.

Ivan doesn't move. Half-closed still, his eyes trace the sky outside. The water. He closes his eyes again. Time goes by. Perhaps he sleeps again, but then

she's waking, and his eyes are opening slowly, the green more evident than the tawny in this light. He looks at her, and she is so familiar to him. He knows her scent like his own. It's almost like they're the ones promised and vowed to each other, he muses. It's almost like he has a right to be here.

He thinks again of Siberia, which in truth is a land he's only heard of; never bothered to visit. No one goes to Siberia except criminals and exiles. He thinks of it now, though - a land of boundless snow. Black sables cunning and swift, killing to survive. He thinks of living with her there. Apart from society; cut off and exiled from the world. It is impossible, of course. He wouldn't dream of it,

but sometimes he does.

Still: his hand on her cheek, her hand on his hand as though to hold it there. As though, even drowsing like this, to keep him there. This, too, is rarer than rare, that she is the one who reaches out to him to hold, to keep, to stay close. And he's brought her here, away from all those people who would circle her or whisper about her, all those people who she does not care about and yet must act a certain way for -- the way she must act A Certain Way for anyone, everyone, always, because who and what she really is is incomprehensible to them. He brought her here, and she is warm and safe.

They drowse, and then Hilary gives a whimper. She twists her head before they sleep, her eyes closed and brow furrowed, his attention suddenly sharp, til he realizes: there are earrings in her lobes, bangles on her wrist, metal digging into her here, and there. His fingers are lazy but deft, even now, as he helps her take them off. They drop to the floor, forgotten and unimportant. Now she truly is naked, moving even closer to him, slipping her arm over his waist in gratitude.

Later, after sleep, she comes out of the bathroom and gives a startled half-yelp, walking into the sudden dark. He's there, though, suddenly, crossing the distance and holding her, remembering that he promised her Anton would never have to find his way alone in the dark, remembering what she told him about that silly little toy with the light-up face. At least this place is not a cavern, is not enormous and mazelike -- she can see everything, wherever she is. So can he. They're safe here: he reminds her of this without words as his hands cover hers in the dark and guide her with him to the bed, pull her down to the mattress, under the furs again, where

the mere motion of Ivan welcoming her to bed makes her lust again. She breathes a little differently. He hears it, can see her vaguely in the dark, can feel that even though her hands and feet are cold, her cunt is still very warm against his fingers. They disturb the furs again, shifting underneath as he works that spark of lust into something greater, building the heat between them until she's gasping, arching a little, but he stops just before she starts to whine and whimper.

The way he fucks her then is no less rough than before, but it's slower. His hand finds its way to her thigh, pushing that flexible leg of hers up higher, fitting himself ever deeper into her, sliding home and reveling in the way she cries out every time, the way it sounds almost like pain and entirely like need. Whore, he whispers in her ear, as tenderly as her name or as any profession of love. Oh, you slut.

And she comes for him, wet and tight and so very hot under his body and that fur, bucking and clenching, grabbing at the sable and the pillow and the bed itself, almost crying from pleasure. He fills her again, luxuriates in how well she takes his cum when he gives it to her, how good she is, how willing. But by then he's turned her over. By then he's deprived her of his cock, and rolled her onto her stomach, and teased her with it before thrusting suddenly, savagely into her, panting, holding her hip and pulling her back to meet every pounding thrust. By the time Ivan comes into her again, she's biting at the coverlets, crying into the sheets, coming under him again, sobbing in whispers

that she loves him so much, she loves him, she loves him. Which is what, in the end, makes him come as much as her body and her heat and his own seething lust for her.

They sleep in a tangle like that, his arm and his leg over her body, fiercely protective, possessive, as though she might dare to move or someone might dare to take her from him while he closes his eyes. But they do sleep. In a mess of sweat and skin and sex, as close as they ever get. Knowing that in the morning, everything might be different. Everything might be the same. It might be better. It might be heartbreaking.

Hilary is still asleep. She moved slightly, and he woke, and she sleeps on a little longer while he thinks about Siberia, and sables, and the cold expanses of silver-white snow. The homeland of their tribe, though arguably her branch of the tribe comes from slightly more moderate climes. Her dead and gone branch of the tribe.

She sniffs. Before waking, before anything, she sniffs, and begins to forget her dreams.

"It smells," she mentions, and has not yet opened her eyes.

It breaks Ivan's heart a little to hear that startled little sound Hilary makes, coming out into darkness. He'd forgotten for a moment - or really, simply failed to consider - that she was afraid of darkness, afraid of being swallowed, afraid of being left alone.

So he's there, awake suddenly, beside her, taking her in his arms. Taking her in their bed, later, he grounds her in reality like that as well. Breaks her open the way he does, empties out the darkness, allows what remains to recoalesce into something human, something emotional, something real,

if only for a while.

The next morning, her first words are a comment on the less-than-fresh condition of the bed. And she's right, of course. That coat of hers, that lovely coat that cost more than some people ever make in their lives, will need to be thoroughly and carefully cleaned now. Still; it aches a little. Such a prosaic little complaint: he suspects she's withdrawing again, withdrawing already.

"I'll have Yuliya in here to tidy up," he promises. He's husky with sleep; lifts his hand and rubs his face a little. "And we'll send the coat to a good cleaner."

The next morning, she murmurs that it smells. It stabs through him: she's pulling away, she's complaining, withdrawing, he's losing her. But he promises to take care of it, all the same. Promises to take care of her, too. Doesn't reach for her, doesn't hold onto her, doesn't assume she's still the way she was last night when she trusted him so utterly, falling into his hands as he came to her in the dark to protect her from it.

"Not today," she murmurs, rubbing her face into a pillow. He's still half over her, half atop her, and she's not moving. Not today: it's Christmas. But that isn't what she says. "It's not bad."

Hilary is all but burrowing into the pillows, so she misses the look on Ivan's face. It's a sort of pleased surprise, which quirks up the corners of his mouth and clears his brow. "Oh," he murmurs, stirring a little, raising one sleep-heavy hand and stroking back her hair. "In that case, we'll simply let it fester."

And he idles a while, his hand passing down her back, his arm draping lazily over her torso. There's probably food outside, he muses. A nice little cart of breakfast delicacies, placed neatly next to where Hilary's bags have been set in the shelter of a portable awning. Mustn't disturb the royalty while they sleep, after all. Mustn't let their things be damaged, either.

He doesn't particularly want Evgeny's cooking right now, though. He wonders if he can convince Hilary to make something today. Maybe he can help. He turns his head; nuzzles Hilary wherever he can reach her. Her shoulder maybe. Her brow, through a screen of her loose hair.

"There are gifts for you in the closet," he whispers. "Do you want me to get them?"

They're so close right now that there's no need to raise their voices, or even speak at a regular volume. He's been holding her all night, possessive and protective both, saturated in her sweat and the scent of their sex in the bed, in the fur until his mind's nocturnal wanderings took him back to ancient Siberia. Maybe there was a cub there, even smaller and more vulnerable than the female, and he hunted in his dreams to keep them both alive -- or risked their deaths because he could not bear to leave them alone. Maybe the moon was in his phase in his dreaming, a dark blot against the stars, and the only sound in the depths of winter was the crackling of the cold that hid his footsteps on the snow so, so well. A good wind to blow the snow across his prints. A safe night.

Maybe in his dreams there was a pack waiting for him out there in that cold, safe, dark night, waiting to hunt with him, waiting on his nose to track down prey, waiting to turn the snow red as they killed, waiting for him to run with. Maybe in his dreams,

it was an older time, when the Silver Fangs were not so mad, were not so broken.

He can see her hair, thick and dark and tumultuous with curls and tangles. He can hear her voice and she can hear his, but mostly Hilary focuses on how heavy his arm is, how heavy his leg, how heavy the fur. She is quite warm. She feels filthy. She doesn't mind. She feels his arm lift, rustling against the interior of the coat, moving to stroke her hair. It makes her drowsy, though she's slept so much that she's quite alert otherwise. He says 'fester' and she wrinkles her nose.

"That's disgusting," she murmurs. "We do not fester."

His arm draws still across her back, sloping and soft. He imagines food; she imagines nothing past the warmth she's in, the comfort. The lights are off and the shades are down, and it's dim inside the cabin though not pitch-dark. And Ivan nuzzles her, keeping her awake, keeping her in the present, keeping her aware of things other than mere sensation, sensation that drags her down, keeps her limbs too heavy to move. He is lazy and animalistic and intent on getting his affection from her, showing his affection to her. Gifts, he says.

He eyes blink open. It's Christmas morning and he gave her a glorious coat last night, promised her more and more, and she has the strangest surge of lust go through her simply because

he is her vladelets, giving her presents because she's been so very, very good. Hilary all but purrs. Her eyes sink closed again and she squirms slightly under the fur in pleasure. "Da, pozhaluĭsta," she says, very carefully enunciating each syllable, very slowly, quite awkwardly.

He is - they are both - so happy right now. At least, as close to happy as they get, which is a sort of bone-deep contentment because she is here, she is his good, beautiful, obedient devushka. And though no one in their right mind would call Hilary a girl - it would be insulting to apply such a term to her - he calls her what he does naturally, easily, as a term of affection.

He is her vladelets. She is his devushka, his khoroshaya, poslushnaya, krasivaya devushka.

And she wants his gifts. She lusts for them quite literally, which is something he can almost smell when he's relaxed like this, hidden away like this, languid and animal like this. He presses himself up on one elbow. Leans over her, nuzzles her between her shoulderblades, kisses her there in the dip of her spine.

Then, lightly as a cat, he springs over her, off the bed. Ivan walks naked to the closet. What does he need clothes for? They are alone in the privacy of the closest thing to a home they have. It's not the same as that den in his half-remembered dream, but the primeval savagery of the dream still lingers like a scent. It makes him want to pace his territory bare except for claw and fang. It makes him want to mount her on the floor, on her furs, bite her as he fucks his cum into her, hold her safe in his den until the cubs come in summer.

That is not who they are anymore. Their tribe has by and large lost touch of that primitive drive. Their tribe has thoroughly lost their collective minds. And so his bare feet touch not earth and stone but smoothly processed wood; the walls of this den are not earth and stone but glass, mortar, metal.

He opens the shades first, the ones still drawn against the day. Light pours in, even on this grey day. Then he opens the closet door, and if Hilary looks she can see all the boxes and packages within, not quite so neatly wrapped as the ones at the party. Ivan isn't terribly proficient at arts and crafts, after all, and he did, in fact, wrap these himself.

It takes him two trips to bring all the packages back to the bed, where he arranges them around his lover. Then, not quite managing to hide his eagerness, he climbs back into bed and picks up the first, random package, handing it to Hilary.

It turns out to be that tablet Ivan promised her so long ago. He forgets nothing, it seems; at least not when it comes to Hilary. He spends a long time teaching her how to use it, and to be truthful she'll likely brick it in a week. It doesn't matter. It's beautiful and wellcrafted and feels so solid yet nimble in the hands. It's the best, the very best, and he wants her to have it.

Then there's jewelry, and a lot of it. Ropes of pearls. Bracelets, bangles - she seems to like them, he notes - and necklaces, pendants, earrings. A watch, minimalistic, an arc of metal with a face that almost blends with the band. There's a pair of ballet shoes, white satin. There's bondage gear, white satin, and a riding crop that he'll have to be careful with if he doesn't want to hurt her, and when she unwraps that the corner of Ivan's mouth curls upward. It's also white; white leather, pristine and beautiful.

There's a set of cookware, of all things - by far the largest box on the bed, and heaviest. They have to take a break from gift opening so Ivan can stash it all in their cupboards, hang it over the counter. There's a car, or rather the keys to a car, as well as a calling card with the name and contact information of a driver-on-call. Ivan thinks it's ridiculous that Aston-Martin is making sedans these days, but whatever. It's a compromise: his sense for speed, her need for class. They can ride in this, he says, if she really objects to his Lamborghinis and Bugattis.

And there's chocolate. A rabbit with a santa hat, to replace the one he demanded a piece of so long ago.

Her master springs out of bed, more excited child or puppy now than brutal master, and she watches him drowsily, mindlessly, as though she doesn't know what he's up to but is quite curious. This is not far from the truth. The kiss he left her with burns a little on her back, his mouth the hot flash of a bomb going off, her skin the scorched earth. This sort of thing makes her happy.

She rolls over, though, after awhile, as he's coming back with the first round of presents. She rolls over onto her back and pushes herself up on her elbows, then sits up, fur falling off her breasts. She clutches it back, lifting her knees, because the cabin is quite chilly. Light is streaming in, pouring in from the sunlight, drenching the room, but it will be awhile before it warms it up. She holds the sable to cover those now-plump tits of hers, watching as he surrounds her with gifts he wrapped himself, and they are wrapped horribly, but differently, because every time he got bored or annoyed looking at one kind of paper he yelled at a servant to bring him more. Something different, something else.

Hilary is a little bewildered by the tablet. It's such a fine piece of machinery, to be sure, but she doesn't remember him telling her he'd get her a new one; she certainly never asked for it. Vaguely she can tell that it's different from the one kept in a safe in Miranda's apartment, but that's as far as her discernment goes.

He has pre-loaded some games on it for her. One of them is the little cake decorating one. She smiles and plays that for awhile. For long enough that Ivan gets bored, gets irritated, gets antsy for her to do something else. And considering that at first he is filled with pure, glowing delight at her pleasure over the thing, that at first he spends a very long time teaching her how to use it, this is quite awhile that she spends playing. The tablet makes bloop bloop noises as she chooses different kinds of frosting. It's cartoonish. Ridiculous. More than childish; a literal retard would not be amused with this for long, but Hilary seems to find it endlessly entertaining. She is not terribly verbal with her thanks. She does kiss him before she starts playing, there's that, her hand on his face for a moment, but it finally does come to the point that he has to take it physically from her hands,

and she frowns at him, pouts at him, and he has to be firm, telling her no, saying she can play with it later. This, as much as the stupid game itself, makes her happy. That he all but snaps at her, tells her sternly that she can't have what she wants, deprives her. She wraps the sable around herself and around him, curling up to his body, snuggling against him as he lifts more and more into her hands.

Pearls dip between her breasts. Bangles on her wrists, white gold and yellow gold and one made of smooth, polished granite, carved slender and yet still heavy, cuffs of etched metal, a watch, the various chains. There are boxes filled with velvet and preciousness all around her, gleaming and expensive, and she tries them all on and sometimes they get quite distracted because he adores the sight of her naked and jeweled, adorned like this, and a few times she asks his opinion on how a necklace looks, how these earrings look, and it's always beautiful, beatiful, his mouth and his hands on her, teasing himself as much as he teases her, which brings them to the

white.

Satin shoes. She looks almost sad as she sees them, but this is the first gift he can see has truly touched her in any way. She tells him they're so lovely. She imagines all the horrible horrible things she's going to do to them. Bending and twisting them in her hands. Slamming them in doors. Smashing them against the floor. Stepping on them. Sewing new ribbons onto them. Heating up the box with a lighter. Soaking them to soften the shank. They will not stay white for very long, even up there in her pristine studio. And they will not stay nearly this pretty.

Still, she leans over and she kisses his cheek, murmurs her thanks to him. He won't mind her destroying their beauty if she dances for him. She's mostly certain of that. His hand lifts and cups her breast as the kiss goes on, deepens, warms; he tells her he has more for her.

White again. This time leather, though. White cuffs lined with silver fur, a set of cuffs for her ankles that match, lengths of shining chain to connect them together or not. A satin blindfold. A simple over the mouth gag, which one might think was chosen indiscriminately if it weren't for the fact that Ivan has spent quite a bit of time picking out these gifts. The riding crop comes in a long, neat box like one might receive roses in. She gasps when she sees it, her chest lifting, and she wants -- he can tell she wants it -- to see if he'll play with her now, if they can play with these new toys. She can imagine the sting. She's looking at him, eager and breathless, and he says:

later, which makes her whine a little, makes her want, but: later.

It's strange, going from that to the pots and pans. Yet this, too, touches her. She seems almost exasperated, as though finally she has something decent to cook with out here. Ivan, however, is the one excitedly trying to put them away til she begins calling corrections to him from the bed: no, not there. No. What are you thinking? Finally he just leaves them: if she's going to be that picky, she can put away the cast iron skillet with her dainty little hands.

He comes back and she's lounging again amidst the boxes when he gives her the box containing the car keys, the emblematic keychain. It means very little to her. She can't see the car. Where is it, she wants to know, tossing the calling card over her shoulder and off the bed after looking at it. She has Carlisle. She knows Carlisle. He's kin. She doesn't like new people. She wants to know what the car looks like. She doesn't quite grasp why Ivan snits about Aston-Martin making sedans, not realizing that Aston-Martin typically has not. She lays back, lazing, as he tells her that it's a compromise. That makes her smile, lazily, as she dangles the keys from her finger, watching the light hit them. "You're ludicrous," she says, as affectionate as any kiss she's ever gifted him with.

He lays next to her. Gives her chocolate, which she also doesn't get. "Why a rabbit?" she murmurs, holding it without unwrapping the foil, yet holding it with both hands. Oh, he explains, and she vaguely remembers earlier this year, before the child was born, when he brought her something for Easter, as though it mattered. He remembers demanding a piece, and she was displeased, but Hilary hardly recalls a moment of it. She tips her head to the side. She tears off the rabbit's head and offers it to him, still wrapped in colorful foil.

It makes Ivan laugh to see what Hilary does with her chocolate rabbit. The head breaks off with little effort. The chocolate is so fine, so silky, the broken end bearing none of the crystalline texture of a cheaper candy. It reminds him of something a cat might do to show affection - mangle something. Tear something apart. Offer the pieces.

But then - it's not like his own instincts are so different. He gave her pelts, after all.

And he accepts this small gift that she gives back to him. Takes the rabbit's head in his agile hand, leaning across to kiss her quickly and fondly. "Thank you," he says, mock-gravely, before unwrapping the chocolate a little and taking a bite of it.

They are surrounded by wrapping paper. The mess is spilling off the bed. She is dripping with jewelry again, even as the pieces she wore last night get lost amongst the colorful decorations on the floor. There are pots and pans on the counters; a pair of ballet slippers that she will mash and twist and pound and very nearly destroy before they're of any practical use at all. Perhaps there's a symbolic lesson in that, but he doesn't read into it.

He sits with his lover. He eats chocolate until it melts onto his fingers, specks the corner of his lips. When he's done he sucks chocolate off his fingertips; he feels that enormous sugar-shock hitting his blood through an empty stomach and is reminded, again, that they really should find something to eat.

Not yet, though. One more gift; this one not in the pile. Ivan rolls to the side, reaches into the small nightstand by the bed. This one isn't wrapped. It's just a small white box, and inside the box, another box. This one is crafted of polished mahogany wood. There's a clasp in the middle, hinges on the side; both are gold. When unclasped, the lid swings open to either side rather like tiny double-doors. It is quite unmistakeably jewelry.

Ivan doesn't explain it. He doesn't preface it. He simply hands the box to Hilary, then leans back against the headboard to watch her open it.

They share the chocolate. Hilary eats furtively, small pieces, sucking them to nothingness on her tongue. She ate the other chocolate rabbit like this, too, snapping off pieces first. It's hollow, more finely wrought and more breakable than a solid piece. Strange, how something that takes so much care to produce and is so fine in the end, is so much more fragile than its cheaper, duller counterpart.

Strange. So strange.

Jewelry lies in boxes all around them, or is simply littered atop the sable. Hilary doesn't eat too much; she feels shaky, a little ill, her head light. She doesn't want any more chocolate. The rabbit makes her sad now, makes her unhappy, makes her want to cry, why, why, and she doesn't have the presence of mind to think of how little she's had to eat since those tiny bites of lamb or vegetables at the party with god knows how much liquor poured on top of it. He poured wine for them last night; they never bothered to drink it. It's still sitting on the nightstand in glasses, the bottle open on the counter.

They've been in this cabin less than twelve hours and have already managed to begin trashing it. Strange, strange.

One more gift, though. Hilary is lying back again, looking miserable from the sugar, when Ivan rolls over and finds his last gift, brings it to her. She peers at it, doesn't take it, then finally flicks the lid off the box with her fingers as he's holding it out to her. She scoots over, peeking inside, and finds the mahogany box with its archaic, odd doors. She takes it out, the tissue paper on either side rustling, and presses open the clasp as Ivan leans back.

Sometimes her mood changes so fast he doesn't know what to make of it. There's always some reason, but sometimes those reasons are as obscure as her emotions themselves: furtive, hidden things lost in the darkness, visible only when they roar into rage. He puts his hand on her back as she opens her last gift, though. He rubs her back gently, soothingly, because sometimes this is genuinely all he can do for her.

And in her hands the clasp comes undone with an exquisite little click. The halves of the box-top swing apart effortlessly and silently. Within, laid in a bed of black satin, set in a band of pure platinum,

a diamond as red as blood.

It is as unmistakably extraordinary as the coat had been. Even in such indirect light the stone is fierce in its brilliance, breathtaking in the depth and absoluteness of it hue. Like a living thing, it has a name, and when Ivan bought it and set it he thought to present it to Hilary along with that name. He had a little story to go with it, too, about how true red diamonds are the rarest and most precious of diamonds; how that color comes about because of the most perfect sort of imperfection.

He tells her none of that. He watches her open the box. He watches the diamond burn. And then he looks at Hilary and this, this is what he hears himself say:

"Marry me."

Hilary likes that he rubs her back when she feels ill and lightheaded, laying her head down on his shoulder with a soft sigh as she opens up her last present. More jewelry, no more special than the last except in the way he's presenting it, saving it, holding it out of her reach until the rest are done with. She's curious when she opens the box, soothed by his hand on her back, calmed by his nearness and warmth in a way she never is usually.

'Usually'. As though anything between them is usual, or normal, or typical.

The ring is spectacular. The setting alone is worth thousands, and that's before the diamond. It's also quite large, its facets creating hundreds of individual spots for the eye to catch as it twists the light.

Hilary does not gasp at the sight of it, but even she is not immune to the splendor of this gift, this thing so precious and rare that it is singular, named in the world despite its silence. Her lips do part. She thinks ruby at very first, is unimpressed, but no: a ruby's color is different, is deeper, is not like this, which is so much like a cranberry. Hilary does know a little about these things, having been gifted with so many fanciful bits of colored, expensive rock over her life. It is no ruby.

She has not even taken it from its box and slid it onto her finger before Ivan is saying what he does, the words coming out of his mouth the way she likes best, not asking or requesting but simply telling her what to do, ordering her about, telling her what pleases him. She looks at him, abruptly startled, and stares for a moment.

Any other time, and she might slap him. Or try to. She might tell him that he's insane, yell at him, try to cut his face with that damnable diamond. Today, though, Christmas morning -- well, early afternoon -- and in their cabin, wrapped in that fur he gave her, Hilary just looks

sad.

"You'll come to hate me if I do," she says softly, and sets the box down.

Hilary is startled. Who wouldn't be? Ivan is the very icon of irresponsible commitment-phobe. God knows how many women have been kicked out of his penthouse over the years. God knows how many women have spent a night in those hotel-like guest suites of his, cleaned out like the soiled linens and bath towels when the sun rose.

But he gives her this diamond, which was really only meant to be a gift. And then he does the other thing he does best: act on impulse. Recklessly. Fecklessly, with little concern for outcome or end.

Still; he doesn't look surprised when she answers as she does. His mouth moves a little; a sad little smile of his own. So quickly they've come down from the elemental pleasure and contentment of their awakening. She puts the box down and he's reminded of last night, when she rejected his gift as a sort of show. Playacting for the clueless masses. This is different.

The ring sits atop the furs, red on platinum on black, black, black. It seems its beauty should dim in the face of rejection, but stones and metals always were indifferent to such heartbreak. Strange to think how long this ring might last, now that it's forged. Strange to think how much longer that indestructibly hard stone will last - not quite forever, no, but certainly at least until the end of the world.

"And I'll lose you again if you don't," he replies, just as quiet, "one way or another."

Her fair hands are still cupped around the box, holding it atop the furs, cradling it. Set down, stared at, considered. She looks at him and her eyebrows tug together, almost as though in pain. "Ivan," she whispers, pronouncing his name the way it was always meant to be said, "you will lose me faster, and more certainly, if I do."

And there's an answering flicker in Ivan's eyebrows, as though her pain echoes along an unseen thread and into him. His hand comes spontaneously to her cheek, cups her face heavily for a second, then drops.

"Have you so little faith in my ability to love for long?"

They've dropped into semi-archaic language, but they have also dropped into this open endearment, this aching affection, that normally neither of them can really stand. Hilary exhales, and he feels it against his wrist. She turns her face toward his palm, kissing the heel of his hand, inhaling the scent of him that lingers there. For awhile she just remains like that, holding his hand between her cheek and her shoulder. Her hand covers the top of the box she holds, as though the diamond radiates heat and she is warming her hand against it.

"If you want me," she whispers, "I will. Even if you come to hate me, and take mistresses, and send me away because you can't bear me, I will love you."

It's perhaps damning that Ivan looks - feels - so unsure now. She agrees. Rather, she submits as she always does: if this is what he wants, then she will. Whatever he wants, she will. And his brow is still furrowed, and he's looking at that blood-colored ring cupped in her hands, and

she speaks of hatred, of mistresses, those other women he has not entertained for some time now because he hasn't wanted them. He's only wanted her. In some ways, that's all he's ever wanted since he met her.

And of love. She speaks of that, too, as though last night wasn't a dream after all, and she still remembers what that means. And he reaches over, puts his hand over hers, his fingers folding over, his palm warm. Moments go by. He leans the side of his head against hers, his hair golden against her dark. His thumb rubs along her finger.

"It just infuriated me," he murmurs, "watching those men sniff after you last night. They don't know you like I do, but ... they still want you. And you say you'll be true to me, and I believe you, but my claim to you is so tenuous. It would be so easy to tear you away from me."

A pause. His fingers drift past her hand. He sinks them knuckle-deep in the furs, feeling that impossibly soft texture, that impossibly rich depth. Like touching a piece of night made solid, he thinks. The best, the very best; always the best for his krasivaya devushka..

"It's not just that, either," he admits then. "Sometimes I just so get sick of pretending you're nothing to me."

Not only submission. She's not so far gone, so emptied out, that she has no will left. There's something there, in the promise that not only will she submit, not only stay, but that she will love him

even if.

Ivan comes closer still, resting his brow close to hers, and she still has his hand against her face, their hands on the ring, covering it but not donning it. Not yet. Maybe not ever, but it's impossible to tell right now. Another gift measured in six, seven figures. Ivan has no real concept of what that means sometimes. Maybe a little, but all he thought when he considered it was that it was worth it, and he didn't even know what exactly he was trying to buy with the money, with the ring, just: worth it. Somehow.

He does not say yes to that, or no. Isn't backpedaling nor rushing headlong ahead. He just... explains. And Hilary's eyes are closed, her lashes dark on her cheek, her face as serene as though caught in sleep. They slowly open as he talks about last night and those men sniffing around after her. He talks about claim. She doesn't pretend that she doesn't understand. It isn't about being a woman in the 21st century, able to make up her own damn mind, thank you. It's about claim. It's about how easy it would be for some male -- not some man, not some human thing, but another male of equal or greater rank, of equal or greater wealth, equal or greater strength -- to come and take her away from him.

Which would be true, even if she married him. If he collared her. If he sired cub after cub on her until she couldn't give him any more. It would still be easy to tear her away, For The Good of the Tribe, perhaps.

Hilary looks down, watching his hand smooth through the fur.

"When," she asks him, "do you pretend anything of the sort?"

Ivan's laugh is a scoff, an angry and vengeful sound, though not directed toward her. "Every moment of every day that I'm not here with you," he says. "Every time I'm taking some twenty year old supermodel to dinner just to keep up the appearance that I'm still playing the field. Every time I'm flirting with some forty year old society wife just to keep up the impression that you're not the only one I chase. Every single time I'm at the club and I see you and I don't go to you because god forbid someone sees and puts it together.

"Every time I'm with you in public and want to kiss you, but can't because what would people think. Every time I have to fly you to Ibiza, Montreal, Monaco, Lausanne, Casafuckingblanca, just so we can stroll the streets together and not have to play the roles we always play.

"You're cool and polite and keeping me at arm's length. I'm young and reckless and panting after you just to stay in practice. The truth is so often I like it. It turns me on that they don't know. I say come and you say no and no one is the wiser. But sometimes - once in a while - I just get so tired of it. Sometimes I want to take the mask off."

here with you is so different from merely with you.

Hilary does glance up, looking around briefly, recognizing where they are as though it matters, then letting her eyes float back to his face. He seems so sad, she thinks, recognizing another person's feelings for once. So torn. And she aches for him, really does love him, but

of course she doesn't think to say this right now. She does lean over and kiss him softly, through all that. "You don't really want to marry me, do you?" she murmurs, almost gently, when he is done.

He turns toward her when she leans in. Their mouths touch. It is so gentle that it's almost unrecognizable. When it parts his eyes open: lean, beautiful thing that he is, old blood in an old tribe.

"I don't want to lose you to anyone else," he whispers. And after a pause, this confession: "Or to myself."

Hilary is silent to that. She is watching him, still waiting for an answer.

And so the silence goes on a while.

Outside, the morning clouds are clearing up. It'll be a beautiful day, entirely too warm for December. Water laps at the pylons that support their cabin, though they cannot here it in here. A gull lands briefly on the rail of their deck before taking wing again.

"No," Ivan murmurs in the end. "I don't want to marry you. I just can't stand the thought of you married ... or mated ... to someone else. And I don't know what else to do about it."

She kisses him again, gently, and her hand moves under his. She isn't angry with him for asking when that isn't really what he wants, for being so damned impetuous or throwing around things like marriage as if they don't matter. She isn't angry at him at all. She, for once, feels pity for him, and not the condescending pity of the powerful to the sniveling, but simply:

compassion. And that is rarer than even her affection, her love, even though she gives him her trust so freely that it is terrifying.

Hilary has left the box open, and she reaches into it, removing the ring and sliding it on to her right hand. Holding it up, she lets the light from outside catch on the red diamond and moves it side to side a little, watching it spray color across her arm, watching it gleam. It's a beautiful thing. Her head tilts as she watches it, surveying it. This is a famous diamond, and there are people -- at the club, in her world -- who will see it and be surprised that she wears a knock-off of something like that. They'd think she was better than that.

They will also read, in their little magazines and reports and such things, that this gem was sold for such-and-such price to so-and-so, who was acting on behalf of such-and-such company, owned by the Presses, or Priselkovs. Or it might be more direct than that: bought at this price, by this man. And it's on her goddamn finger.

"Let us worry about that when we come to it," she murmurs.

When, she says. Not if. And for a second he wants to grab her, shake her, make her take that back and tell him, tell him again the way she did when she called him to her after the pregnancy, after the birth, after so many endless months of waiting --

no wonder Ivan thinks losing Hilary is inevitable. It's not just the order of things. It's not just the way of their tribe; the way of the world, really. It's also in their history, which is scarred by loss. So many times they nearly walked away from each other. So many times they nearly gave up. Once, when she came to him after they had given up, and he had her, she was his; they made Anton that night. And moments later she had to leave. Her husband had come for her, reminding Ivan so very starkly that the woman he was slowly, inexorably falling for was not his. Could not ever really be his.

Once, when they finally found some peace in each other, she left for Mexico days later. She was gone for months, and when she came back she told him

-- that Dion was leaving her. That their mateship was dissolved, their marriage over. That she did not think she would be mated again.

Tell him that now, he wants to snarl at her. Tell him that. Make him believe it. But: she touches him, and then she puts that ring on. That immortal, fiery stone forged in the crushing darkness.

He puts his hand over hers. His hand firms; he brings her hand to his mouth and kisses her fingers once, burningly. "All right, Hilary," he says. It sounds a little like:

Yes, Ivan.