Ivan Press

Ivan

So the seventeenth of march comes around, and in the rest of the semi-civilized world it's St. Patrick's Day. For the WASPs of North Shore, who are most proudly descended from the British and most certainly not those heathen Irish, it is merely a remarkably pleasant Saturday in March. It is unusual for the weather to be so sanguine this time of year, and more than one of Hilary's 'friends' comments on it. Soon thereafter, they comment on how much they wish for the weather to remain this way, and how they fear it might relapse.

In between, they ask about other things. They ask obliquely, avidly, because of course it would be so rude to simply come out and say it. They wonder, though. Inquiring minds want to know.

The other target of so much speculation - that charming, dashing, thoroughly inappropriate and quite possibly insane young man who caused such a scene at Christmas - has been rather silent of late. There were no phone calls, no texts, and certainly no hand-delivered notes this last week. No plans laid in advance. No word, no hint of what he may or may not have planned for this anniversary of Hilary's arrival to the planet.

Perhaps he's forgotten. Perhaps he no longer cares. Either, really, would be rather possible.

So eleven o'clock comes, and then noon. A little after, when Hilary is leaving her North Shore club, when she's walking out to where the valet will bring her elegant little convertible around,

she hears her companion give a muted little gasp. Oh, how delicious. Gossip in the making, surely: because outside, looking shockingly summery for so early in the year in his boat shoes, his white linen shirt, his pale grey slacks, is Ivan Press himself. He is wearing sunglasses. His hair is burnished gold, and the sun loves it, lives in it, sets it alight. He is leaning against his Lamborghini, and he smiles at Hilary's companion first. Then at Hilary.

"Care to join me for a ride?"

The women at the club have known her for a few years now. Not long enough to really reach the higher echelons of social circles, but money and grace and -- to be blunt -- the purity of her blood that they can sense but do not understand have always helped her there. She was initially popular with the other new wives, second wives, young wives, trophies. These women remembered her predecessor in the Durante family, the mother of that man's two teenager children. She was always different from her.

Well, it's Dion's reputation that is suffering now more than Hilary's. To pick up and discard a wife so quickly, and all these rumors that he did it because she lost the baby -- why, it's horrible. Just awful. What sort of a man treats ladies that way? They have gathered around her, the widows and the divorcees and the new wives alike, all with their own reasons. They want to share her misery, they want her to promise them that the same won't happen in their cases, they want to bitch about her husband.

It's enjoyable, in a way, for Hilary. She knows how to safeguard her own reputation. She does not speak ill of Dion too much. She is graceful, charming, demure, always.

The mimosas flow over brunch and they ask about Christmas vacations. Other than a Valentine's Day party that mostly only the young people attended, the social scene has been a bit dull as of late, all the debutante balls are over and people are beginning to plan their vacations to Napa, Sonoma, the Hamptons, the Adirondacks. The Season is coming to a close in coming months, and gossip is one of the only things they all have left. So eventually they circle around to Mr. Press's party.

Of course they reiterate, as they have for months now, how lavish it was, how generous, how adorable all those little children were running up to receive their gifts. The cocktails, the nosh, the decor. Hilary can feel it coming. She's been absent from the social circles lately, claims that she's busy getting things in order with the divorce and all, and they have been dying for three months to ask her about this. So eventually they do, and she allows it.

Mostly, they just want to exclaim at how ghastly his behavior was. What was he thinking? No one has been inviting him to anything. Not that he ever came before, one younger lady comments, but another rolls her eyes and silences that. It's the invitation that matters, and Ivan Press isn't getting anything these days. Everyone is wary of the awkwardness, the chance that Hilary might come and then they certainly can't invite him, it would be too appalling.

They ask her if he was flirting with her before that, if he's been after her. She sighs and tells them he did at first, but oh he was well-behaved during her pregnancy, he escorted her a few times when her husband was away, but he was a perfect gentleman. But then, after, she says, he was relentless. Always inviting her out, even when Dion was in town. At first it was a comfort, she tells them sadly, to have a friend during such hard times, to have a distraction like that, but... he overstepped occasionally, he slipped up. She never could have expected he would do something like that, though. A fur.

They want to talk about the fur, too. She touched it. Sable, she tells them. Real Russian sable. They gasp. They know the cost of such things. It doesn't seem like the type of gift a man like him would give. So old-fashioned. Classic, says Missy, who is at the age where she is starting to change the shade she dyes her hair to transition gracefully into the gray it has been for some years now. The women nod in agreement. But far, far too extravagant. You don't give a gift like that to a 'friend', particularly one so out of your league. It was just embarrassing.

Hilary agrees. She insists that he has a good heart. Just young and perhaps a bit stupid, she says, and they laugh. They decide to forgive him a little, because she is so gracious, so courteous, so patient. They can begin laughing about it now, instead of whispering.

The waiter, in his smart white shirt and crisp black vest and long apron, brings a tray of Bloody Marys over. The courses get more savory than sweet. They are approaching the luncheon hour.

They ask her how she's doing. The divorce and ...everything. She lets her tongue grow a little vicious, a few sharp remarks concerning Dion. Nothing too harsh. Nothing that would get back to him, really. She's careful. But they lap it up. Missy gives her a wink. Annabelle, whose name makes her an object of some mockery in the club becaue it's just so precious, congratulates her. Traci calls him a prick and they look at her like she's grown a second and third head, so she shuts up again.

Hliary does not talk about 'everything'. About the baby, the pregnancy, the loss, any of it. They want her to open up, crack, cry, something, show her she really is human and not a caricature, but that doesn't happen.

She is a bit drunk, though not overwhelmingly so, when they all gather their things to go. Annabelle, who is actually quite sharp and not terrible company, has linked arms with Traci and quietly told her that she agrees, Dion is an utter prick, and Traci giggles, and Hilary smirks. The three of them make plans as they walk out. Hilary leaves the little gift bags and boxes the girls brought her at the table, instructing the waiter to have them taken out to her car, please.

Outside, in the bright sunlight, is a Lamborghini and that ridiculous young man. They are all dressed so carefully -- they won't wear their summery hats til after Easter, of course -- and so smartly. Hilary is perhaps the most elegant, her purse a tidy small satchel of deep burgundy leather looped over her wrist, her heels low and navy blue, her pencil skirt a bit past the knees, her top a light shell beneath a short-sleeved jacket. All dark, of course. The rules of mourning garb are more flexible these days, after all, but the fact that she remains in dark colors like purple and navy and gray and wine means a lot to the older women at the club. She doesn't show much skin, either. This matters. This raises her in their esteem.

By contrast, the young lovelorn fool is in white and boat shoes and linen for god's sake. Even Traci knows better by now. Annabelle just quirks a dry eyebrow at him. He smiles at the two of them, mid-thirties Annabelle and mid-twenties Traci. Then Hilary, who is not terribly impressed but, perhaps,

a little amused.

"We were going shopping," she tells him, chastises him. "It's my birthday."

"Is it now. I had no idea."

It's a lie so bald not one of the three women could possibly mistake it for the truth. Of course he knows it's her birthday. He tried to give her a fur coat; wouldn't he remember that little fact?

Annabelle, or perhaps it was Missy, is right: no one has invited him to anything after the Christmas debacle. He hasn't been by the club for luncheon and golf. He hasn't mounted up with Jonathan and Chad on the polo green. He wasn't at that Valentine's party the Horsts threw, and he won't be at the Easter party the Landons are gearing up for. Traci is right too, though. He never went to any of their parties before, either.

He's not one of them. Not really.

And when he straightens up off the side of his car, it's momentarily so evident. He moves like nothing human: smooth, deadly. He swipes the sunglasses off his face; it's like a magic trick, so quick and deft. Ivan's eyes, which are the color of cool glass, shallow seas, observe Hilary's companions for a moment, then come back to her.

"Of course your friends are welcome to come along," he adds.

Annabelle sniffs outwardly at this, scoffing as quietly and as politely as one might to someone like him in the presence of society.

Traci looks dubious, because none of this quite matches her upbringing, the rules are confusing, she doesn't quite know if she should be polite to him or rude, if she should be rude in the nice way or rude in the scathing way, if she should just -- yes, she decides, she'll just keep her mouth shut, that usually works best.

Hilary chastises him for the lie with his eyes, partly downcast.

Ivan removes his sunglasses as Hilary is flicking hers open, sliding them onto her face. The other two women are waiting to see what she'll do, how she'll handle this. "I'm afraid not," she says mildly, though it's obvious he came here for her, specifically and especially for her, drove from his penthouse or his lake house to the club, brought one of his obscene cars.

Her car is brought up behind his, the Jaguar, not the Aston Martin he got her for Christmas. It's no valet but Carlisle behind the wheel. "If you'd like lunch sometime," she mentions, as she and her friends head toward the car, "you can always give my assistant a call and set something up."

"Hilary."

This, as she's turning to get into her car. This, as he's pivoting to face her back. This, the first time, the very first, that he has ever called her anything but Mrs. Durante or Ms. deBroqueville in the presence of strangers of their particular echelon. Not even at the Christmas party, when he laid the skins of two hundred rare sables at her feet, did he dare. Not even at the Halloween party, when he railed her in front of two hundred gawking guests, did he trespass so.

And this, too. That tone he uses, which is not the light, faintly mocking cadence of his typical flirtation. That tone, which is lower, darker, far more intimate and - strangely - far more vulnerable. Looking at him now, Hilary's companions perhaps believe the rumors, all of them, for the first time. Of course he is mad with want. Of course he is foolish, headstrong, sensitive, headed for heartbreak. They believe all that now ... and yet at the same time they doubt everything, everything they've ever heard about him.

He is not one of them. Not at all. And he doesn't even look at them now, as though they were so far beneath him they were insects to a falcon's eye.

"Come with me."

Hilary, Traci, and Annabelle have all begun walking toward her car. They'll sit in back, the two women of comparable age, and stick Traci in the front seat with Carlisle. She'll do this, Hilary will, to torture both Traci and Carlisle. She knows how rarely Traci finds anyone to talk to, anyone who really gives her the attention she craves. She knows Carlisle is handsome, his eyes just sad enough to drive the women in her circles mad. She knows -- or rather, assumes -- that Carlisle likes blondes.

But they draw up their steps when Ivan says her name. Carlisle does not get out of the car, watching. Hilary's shoulderblades draw together just a bit, barely seen beneath her jacket. She turns, graceful as a willow, and looks at him past her shoulder for a long moment.

The women draw in their breaths when she turns fully and walks over to him, her heels clipping, coming close enough to speak privately. She even removes her sunglasses.

Hilary stares at him, stares him right in the eye the way even some kin don't dare to. "Must I?" she asks him, her voice quiet, a little on edge, plainly -- for him, at least -- asking if she will be punished later, if he will be angry or hurt later, if she refuses.

God knows what goes through Ivan's head. He's half mad, and the half of him that isn't mad is a wolf. Sometimes it seems like he doesn't plan at all, he doesn't think ahead at all, he doesn't even think.

He could have called her a week ago. A month ago. He knew it was her birthday, damn it; how difficult would it have been? They could have been discreet. They could have been careful. But he wasn't; he didn't want to be. Here he is, in his flashy car, in his summery clothes, in those sunglasses that he's removed to reveal his animal's eyes.

The truth is: he called her back just to see what she would do. The truth is: he gets a thrill out of this. He gets a rush out of his own dominance, and out of her submission, when before he met this woman he didn't even think about such things. S&M, B&D - such things are for deviants. The words made him think vaguely of sordid dungeons, cheap women, lurid-minded men in tacky leather outfits. But now,

he has a cabin with a bed, and there are hooks and latch-points in the frame of the bed, in the ceiling, in the bathroom, everywhere. There are toys in the closet. And he is calling his submissive back to him, in front of her society friends, in front of people who she has so skillfully manipulated into not thinking poorly of her. He could call her away now and she would come. He could destroy her reputation, perhaps, and she would let him if he asked it of her. And in a twisted way, that understanding is every bit as heady as what he feels when he has her tied down, stripped bare, putting herself into his hands,

trusting he will take care of her.

There is that, too. That is also the truth, which he never could have intuited in all his vague and uninterested imaginings of such things: with dominance comes protection, comes care, comes caring. He would not harm her if he could help it. Not her body, not her mind, not her standing in society.

So it's strange, then, that when she steps close to him, when she speaks so quietly to him, he does not immediately release her back to her friends. He does not relent - power exerted, hunger satisfied. His eyes flare up as she steps into his space. He shifts his weight imperceptibly, and he is that much closer, and there is a moment, a raw and naked moment where even Hilary can read the stark truth in his face:

he wants to kiss her. Right here, and right now, and damn the consequences.

But he doesn't. A long second passes. Then his eyes flick toward her friends, then back. He smiles; only Hilary can see the strain in it.

"Meet me at DuSable Harbor," he murmurs. "Before sunset."

There was something vulnerable in his voice when he called her by her name. No -- not really in his voice. In the action of calling her that, there was something raw and open. Perhaps only she heard it. She does walk to him, and maybe Traci and Annabelle think she is chastising him, doing so quietly because supposedly their families are old friends. Maybe they think she is asking him patiently to stop embarrassing her, stop embarrassing himself.

She is asking him if he will ruin her, though. She isn't submitting right now, not so much: she does not want to go. That in and of itself is important, at least to him: Hilary doesn't want to go with him right now, doesn't want the risk, doesn't want her plans for the day upended, doesn't want the gossip and rumors and -- yes -- danger of going with him right now in front of everyone. He is asking something of her that she does not want to do, and all the same:

she would. If he demanded it, if he told her yes, you have to come, she would come. He has that much power over her. But also this: he has so much responsibility to her, for her. And he can see what it would do to her, and see how it would harm her, and see the simple truth that she doesn't want him to. Is hoping he doesn't do that to her. He can see the trust in that.

Hilary licks her lips. "Da, vladelets, she murmurs, as he is smiling with force, as she is giving him a gentle nod and putting her sunglasses back on. She turns and walks away. She goes with Traci and Annabelle and oh, those women are curious, so curious, what was said. Hilary comes up with some lie. Carlisle drives them away, pulling back and then around Ivan's car, leaving him there.

They go shopping. They buy shoes, clothes, handbags. Discreetly, Traci buys lingerie. Hilary does not, though while the other two are not looking she sends a few texts to Miranda. She goes home laden with bags that Carlisle carries. When she enters, the boxes from the lingerie store are on her coffee table. Soon to be divorcees who are mostly certainly not having any affairs with younger society men and are also getting over the loss of their child not even a year ago do not buy lingerie of the kind that Hilary had purchased, wrapped, and delivered for herself.

Lunch was a light thing, salads to make up for the long-lasting brunch this morning. Annabelle and Traci kiss kiss on the cheeks, they go back to their own cars at the club when Carlisle drops them off, they take their own presents to themselves home. Hilary drops onto her couch, going through the presents the women bought her, the ones she bought herself. She summons Darya to pack her a bag, the usual, which means that in the case of going to see Ivan Press: three days at minimum, passport tucked inside, a second bag for dance gear, and she should be prepared to fly to Morocco along with them if necessary.

Packing 'a bag' for Hilary always stresses Darya out.

She takes the Aston Martin, though, and drives herself. She does not take her driver, her assistant, her maid. When she arrives at DuSable Harbor in that slick little car he gave her for Christmas, she parks and exits, wearing a knee-length black trenchcoat, the buttons large and black and outlined wiht silver paint. Her heels are simple, classic black patent pumps. The soles are white, pristine, the tips of the heels silver as well. Her stockings have a backseam.

Hilary doesn't see him at first, at least in the parking lot. She gets out of her car and simply stands beside it, sunglasses still on, her hair down this time, thick and lustrous to her shoulders, a bit past. Her hands are in her pockets.

This is not the harbor where Cielo usually docks. That one is farther north, up near Winnetka and Wilmette and the rest of their pretty, posh little neighborhoods. This is, however, where Krasota spends her winters and much of her summer as well, a stone's throw from Ivan's penthouse.

There are fewer people here who would recognize Hilary. There are few people here, period - the sailing season doesn't begin until April 1st at this harbor, but of course Ivan buys his exceptions. Still, there are a few sailors here, tending to their ships as that date approaches. They are younger, more aggressive, less well-bred than those on the north shore, and their boats match. Most of the vessels here are sleek, small and fast, owned by wealthy men and women in their thirties and forties and early fifties, whose careers have led them to a precipitiously high roost. To them, she is merely a beautiful woman in sunglasses. Some of them stare at her. Some of them want to buy her drinks.

Ivan wants to bare his teeth at the ones he catches looking. He sees her in the lot, and he comes down from the clubhouse. She is driving the Aston Martin now. He is vaguely amused; he gave her a chauffeur to go with it, and she has Carlisle. She drove herself. Perhaps lighting a fireplace will be next.

And then he's coming down the steps to the lot, and she can see him, golden, luminous, savage. He puts his hand behind her head as he comes within reach, his long fingers reaching into her hair, his broad palm supporting the back of her neck. He kisses her, as he wanted to hours ago while his car idled beside them and her friends waited. It goes on a long time, and when it's over he kisses her again, softly, as though to seal the sensation.

Then he draws away. Not far. He finds her hand with his and takes her up the steps. It is incredibly warm today for March; farther inland, it's hot, but here by the lake there's a pleasant breeze, and the flowering trees are just beginning to blossom. He takes her halfway down the dock before he even says anything, and when he does, it's something of an apology:

"I didn't get you very much for your birthday."

She leans her back against the driver's side of her car, hands in her pockets, legs crossed at the ankles. And when Ivan starts walking toward her, she stays right there. Lets him come right to her, right up against her, and the truth is that in this car and with shades on and dressed rather like a secret agent from an old movie, no one recognizes her at all.

He puts his hand behind her head and kisses her, hard and possessive and deep. So: not a whore, not an escort, they realize. They stop looking. He kisses her again, softer this time, and she recognizes some relief in it.

Leaning like this, she's much shorter than him, and tips her head back to look at him. She moves her leg, brushing her thigh against him through his slacks as he draws back. And he takes her hand, right out of her pocket, and she lets him. It's terribly warm to be wearing a coat like hers while the sun is still up, but then: it doesn't look like a very thick coat. And she's much more fragile, perhaps. Except he knows how hot she can be, how warm to the touch. Cooler than many kin are, but then, she's a Silver Fang.

They walk down the dock. She hopes her car doesn't get broken into.

"Oh?" she answers. "Just a penthouse in Paris, then? Ivan, you cad, one would almost think you don't care at all."

Ivan's mouth moves - a quicksilver little grin. She's in a pleasant mood, he thinks. She might almost be happy. He looks at her, turning his head, the sun behind them warm on the high shelf of his cheek.

"Do you want one?" He is, of course, serious.

She huffs a laugh. "You're ludicrous," she says, which isn't an answer. "I'm hungry," she also says.

"Already?" His feet are cat-soft even on these planks. Her heels tap hollowly. He is gently teasing, "And don't pretend you didn't spend another two hours at lunch this afternoon. I know how these society ladies operate."

He steps down from the fixed dock, onto the floating - turns, offering both hands to help her across the gap. Not that she needs the help. He's rarely met anyone with better balance, finer grace. When she's on the gently swaying floating-dock, he holds her hands another moment. Then he turns again, walking down the length to the very end where the larger ships await. Hilary can see the clean, smooth lines of the Krasota there, pristinely white as ever.

"To tell you the truth," he admits, "I might not be able to oblige at the moment even if you did want a Parisian penthouse. My great-uncle got a little upset after news of the Christmas party reached his ears. According to my mother, Great-Uncle feels that my little stunt has jeopardized the good standing of the family. He hasn't dared to say a word to my face," and there's a thread of such arrogance here, such prideful certainty of his own superiority, "but he has taken it upon himself to dock my allowance. An unavoidable consequence of the economic downturn, he says.

"He's also rather convinced you're my mystery lover," Ivan adds. "Not that I blame him for the inference. I've neither confirmed nor denied, of course, and my family knows better than to flap their jaws."

They're at the Krasota. Kolya stands beside the gangway, smoking a cigarette that he puts out as he sees Hilary and Ivan approaching. He's acquired a sailing hat from somewhere: a brimmed, soft-crowned thing, like something out of a movie. He seems rather proud of it, touching the brim as Hilary passes.

"I told him it looks ridiculous," Ivan says as they board. "He insists on wearing it."

Her manicured eyebrows lift. "Oh, do you," she says, but it's not really a question. "We had salad," she informs him, not that he deserves it -- as he can tell from her tone, "and shared a bowl of ice cream. It took about forty-five minutes, and I'm hungry." The reiteration is a little edged, though it's merely a warning to feed her, sooner rather than later.

As they move from dock to dock, she takes only one of his hands, careful on her heels but not overly so. Her heels tap on the wood. And they walk toward his baby, his girl, his yacht that he has managed not to wreck yet.

And then he bores her half to tears with talk of his family, his Great-Uncle whoever, and she can't even remember if this Great Uncle is Garou or not or if it matters. Hilary feels a bit of distaste at the talk of money, of his 'allowance' being docked, as though most of the people she knows don't have some kind of allowance given to them by whoever really controls the pursestrings. Hell: Miranda gives her an allowance, though it is nearly every drop of truly expendable income in her coffers.

She looks at the water instead, at the rows of boats, and only gradually turns her shaded eyes back to him. "You only get what you deserve," she says archly. "You seem determined to ruin my standing in society along with your own."

It's half-teasing. She pinches his bicep through his linen shirt as they come to the gangway. Kolya nods to her, touches the brim, and she of course ignores him. As far as she knows, Ivan has a different pilot -- driver? captain? -- every time they take Krasota out.

"What's ridiculous?" she asks, at a loss.

Ivan breathes a laugh. "Hardly. I just wanted to see you." A pause; then a truer truth. "I wanted to see if you would come, if I asked it. And I wanted you to. I could hardly wait, it's been so long."

Weeks. Months. Since Christmas he's seen her precisely once. It wasn't Valentine's Day; nothing so predictable as that. Predictability, one would think, is utter anathema to Ivan. So; no. Not Valentine's but four days after, when suddenly there was a message on her phone:

Come to the cabin.

He was there waiting for her. He was already stripped to the skin on the armchairs by the glass; his cock was hard; there was cum on his stomach already. He looked at her with his eyes narrowed and wild. He told her to get on her knees and fed her his cock, grabbed her hair and fucked her face, threw her over the bed and railed her, came in her, came down over her, their mingled sweat and his semen sticking between their bodies, a mess.

I missed you, he told her later, whispered when she was still so far gone she could hear it without disgust. That was the only explanation he ever gave. And after that:

silence again until today. One would never guess he asked her to marry him on Christmas Day. One would never guess he was even for a second serious; that he even for an instant truly considered it, almost wanted it.

But those are digressions. The point is: it has been a very long time. And she has no idea what he's talking about, and he shakes his head and says, "Kolya's hat. Never mind." Kolya is pulling up the gangway behind them. "Let's see what Evgeny's made us for dinner."

"You can never wait," she murmurs, setting foot on the deck. She shouldn't be wearing shoes like this on a boat this fine; Hilary doesn't care, and doesn't remove them, though she would have his head if he walked on Cielo in anything but appropriate footwear. What she says is true: he can never wait, once he wants her.

Though, the last time they saw each other for more than a glance across a room or the like, she could see the evidence of how he'd tried to wait. How he'd managed to bear it when he had to, stroking himself off like that, sweating and panting til he made himself come. How he left it there for her to find, for her to see when she came in.

The way he had her then was brutal. Little to no foreplay, no real attention paid to her, no seduction. He just used her. Fucked her mouth, fucked her pussy from behind, didn't even bother undressing her first. Left her a mess, a wreck, his cum in her pussy and on her thighs, staining her panties where he'd yanked them aside. Her mouth still tasted of him. He used her, to the point of abuse, and:

she came twice like that, under him, and that isn't counting the orgasm she had while she sucked him. Never once did she tell him no, or try to squirm away. Oh, she liked it. She liked that he used her. She liked that he missed her so badly he couldn't help but fuck her like that.

"Who is --" never mind, he says, and she shrugs.

"Evgeny," Hilary scoffs, as they head below. She begins unbuttoning her coat as they descend, shedding it like a second skin. Ivan, behind her, can see her shoulderblades, the straps of her bra, the band of it across her back, as her coat falls. She sweeps it aside and tosses it on the floor as she steps down, showing him all that black lace and white silk accentuated with pearls, the garters a dark line down from her flesh. Backseamed stockings, just like Christmas, only these are more modern clips instead of the old-fashioned buttons.

She takes off her sunglasses last, dropping them on the coat.

This is what she wore to the harbor.

This is what she wore under that silver-screen spy outfit of hers, that trenchcoat, those sunglasses. Ivan, following behind, padding silent as an animal, raises his eyebrows. He allows himself this small luxury: he lets himself look at her, looks at the way the coat skims down her body, looks at the band of her bra, the complexities of garter-belt and panties, stockings, clips, straps.

Her sunglasses fall to the coat with a soft thump, almost inaudible. They are in the saloon now, just a little ways below the waterline. The sky is very blue. The lake is endless. In the galley, Evgeny is putting finishing touches on whatever delightful little delicacy his big, ex-convict hands have crafted. In the belowdecks proper, a maid - the only one here today - is making sure everything is absolutely perfect in the master suite. And buried deep, deep in the hull, Cielo's engines hum softly, deeply, steadily.

These are the things that go on around them as Ivan looks at his lover. These are the things he is only vaguely, peripherally aware of. And suddenly he steps to her - his body is warm through his cool, thin clothes - he wraps his arm possessively, firmly around her waist and kisses her throat like a vampire, or a predator.

There's something deadly serious about that. As light as their conversation has been, all in all, there's something raw and starving about the way he simply takes what has been offered.

"Is it a wonder," he murmurs, "that I can never wait?"

[ABOVE the waterline. :[ ]

[awwww]

He has a nice view. Those panties of hers barely qualify for the label, lace cut in a V, most of her ass exposed. They are there to draw the eye and point the way, little more. She clearly does not care if Evgeny is down here, still in the kitchen or not. She's even turning the corner, walking along, and from here even someone on the docks could see her, before she enters the little living area ringed with couches, the galley beyond it. Evgeny does, then, get a view.

She ignores him, of course. He's so much scenery.

Ivan looks at her, though. No one can ignore her. Not like this, not ever. She breathes in as he steps to her, wraps his arms around her, puts his mouth to her throat. She lets out a soft, low chuckle, more breath than sound, and presses her ass back against the front of his slacks. Reaches her hand back and cups him there, wanton and heedless. She gives no other answer.

Ivan's hand opens wide as Hilary's reaches back. He covers her sleek abdomen with his palm, his spreading fingers, his eyes closing, his mouth dropping to her shoulder. Out in the parking lot, he was so much taller than her. She leaned against her car. He was tall and slim, bright in his clothes when he kissed her.

They are better matched here. His shoes may as well not be there, so thin and soft are the soles. She still has her heels on, and she is standing straight now, rubbing back against him, reaching back to find him hardening beneath his slacks, inside those stylish, bold boxer briefs of his.

The master cabin is just beneath them. He could have her there. He could string her up in the sunlight again he way he did once, tease her with a riding crop, a feather - surely he has something here. He could lay her out and fuck her as slowly and thoroughly as he likes. She's here, she's given herself into his hands, and he could do anything he wants.

After a moment,

he draws back. There's something a little like regret in that, a little like yearning. He finds her hand, lifts it over her shoulder and to his mouth; kisses her knuckles rather like a gentleman. "I need to tell Kolya to set sail," he explains. "Why don't you wait for me belowdecks? I'll bring a snack."

She doesn't expect him to take her here and now, truth be told. They are both ignoring Evgeny and -- after a glance up -- Evgeny is ignoring them, too. She caresses him, strokes him through linen and cotton, her back arched just a little to aid in her groping. The sun is still up and she's standing at the edge of the saloon with him like it doesn't matter at all. His body guards her, mostly, as does the light turning blistering on the horizon, but it's not like she would care.

Then he draws back. Hilary looks a little surprised, though she wasn't thinking he would bend her over and fuck her right this moment. She blinks it away, letting him take her hand and kiss it. She watches him as he steps away, her head tipping to the side.

"Da," she says, quietly, and watches as he walks away. "Oh, someone needs to get my bags from the car," she adds, and she should know the gangway is already up, but she didn't notice, didn't care, forgot. They can't expect her to think about these things.

Turning, she looks at Evgeny. Then, just to fuck with him: "Tch." Shakes her head, walking to the stairs and heading down, down again, into the cabin, passing by a startled-looking maid as she goes into the master cabin. Hilary looks for, finds, a magazine of some kind. She flops across the bed, on her stomach, flipping through it.

So she goes. And he watches her, the sunlight running across her skin like water.

She lets the sun touch her so infrequently - holds herself apart from it the way she seems to hold herself apart from so many others. Hats, sunglasses, wraps, robes: he can count the times he's seen her skin bared to that light with little difficulty. It's usually when she's naked, or nearly so, and it's a sight to savor.

Soon enough she's gone. And he goes: finding Kolya, sending him to retrieve Hilary's things, informing him that they were ready to leave upon his return. Finding Evgeny, asking him to tweak the menu a little; add heavier dishes later in the evening, more filling. Hilary is hungry, after all. Evgeny, who cannot quite imagine lovely, alien, almost naked fondling Ivan in the saloon Hilary wanting to dine on anything more than artful little morsels, is a little surprised. He complies nonetheless.

A few moments later, he descends the narrow stairs to the belowdecks. Even a yacht of this size must conserve space, and the excess is usually taken from the stairwells, the crew quarters, the engine room - as much space saved as possible for the living spaces, the luxury.

Which is what the stairwell opens up into. He lets himself into the master cabin, where Hilary has made herself comfortable on his bed. That makes him smile; that makes something inside him ache, suddenly and fiercely.

He has her bags over his shoulder. He has a platter in hand. Cold cuts, cheeses, fruits, tiny slices of toast. He sets it down on the bed without comment, puts the bags on the writing desk over by the window. Then, coming to her, he lays his hand on her back. The magazine is The Economist. One doubts Ivan has ever read a single issue; it seems to be there purely for effect.

"Remind me again," he says, though she's never told him in the first place, "when is your divorce finalized?"

She's so elegant and yet so whorish, lying there on her stomach on his bed, bored with the magazine, propping her cheek against her hand. When he comes in he sees her from behind, sees how easy it would be to crawl over her, fuck her, get what he needs from her, give her what she needs from him.

Except that's not what they really need from each other. Not really, in the end.

Hilary doesn't hear him, but she does turn her head as he walks in, smelling the food, light as it is. Her eyes spark in an animal fashion, eager and hungry. She tosses the magazine off the bed, over her shoulder, the glossy pages flapping before it lands on the floor. In come her bags, and now she really does wish she'd brought Darya along even for the night -- she's gotten so accustomed to someone else doing her hair every day.

But there is Ivan, bringing her food, and she is turning over, still in lingerie and heels and pearls, reaching for the platter that he sets down. She puts a cube of cheese in her mouth.

No, she's never told him. She finishes chewing. Swallows, looks around for something to drink, then back to him. "The end of this month," she says, laying back again and reaching for a grape. "Beginning of the next." A faint shrug. "Money things."

No further questions on that. No comment on the date; no comment on why he asked. No renewed proposal of marriage, thankfully. He simply nods a little.

There's something so thoughtlessly entitled about the way she immediately begins to eat the food he brought her. It stirs some deep, animal aspect of Ivan: to bring his female food. To see her eat without a moment's pause, without waiting to see if it was all right, without waiting to see if he was going to eat first, without doubting that this was for her.

While she eats, and while she answers him, he goes to the built-in desk. He slides one of those slim little drawers open - it moves smoothly, almost soundlessly. He reaches in; shuts it with the back of his hand. When he comes back to the bed, he sets a small box in front of her, square, much wider than it is high.

"I had this made for you," he says quietly. There's a hesitation; something more. He holds it back. For a second his fingers span the lid. Then he draws his hand back and straightens, watching her.

Soon. Very soon. It seemed at first like it would be forever -- Dion had to wait til at least a few months had passed before he filed against Hilary. She had to pretend to at least resist, to prolong it. Then, just before the holidays, the papers finally went in. The rest has just been financial separation and so forth. In Illinois a divorce can take as little as five days, though it's usually more like three or four months. They are completing theirs in a little under five months.

Anton is nearly a year old now. He jabbers constantly, smashing syllables together, and he understands it now when Polina tells him no. There are few strangers introduced to him, but when he is taken out to town for shopping or an outing he is averse to being touched by the people who come to coo over him, marveling at his beauty, his wealth, his strangeness. He likes the game where Miron shows him something, then hides it, and Anton has to go find it -- pulling the cloth off the top, pushing the lid off the box.

He is standing now, pulling himself up by grabbing hold of the table or the couch or the edge of his crib. Sometimes he wobbles a few steps, holding on to these things, but he is not going off on his own yet. Not yet. Any moment now, though. Izolda is even more worried about her job: he eats mushed-up food and some true solids now, only nurses in the morning, a little before his nap, and at bedtime. He enjoys his baths very much. Polina thinks he should stop sucking his thumb. Miron and Izolda argue that he's still only ten months old. The picture of his mother stands in a frame in his room where he can't reach it, but they take him to see it sometimes. They name her: mama. mama.

He never says it back. The word means nothing to him.

Hilary is curious about him -- Ivan, that is. He's acting odd, she thinks. He is not on her, inside of her, teeth in her skin, hands locked around her wrists or smacking her sharply on the ass, twisting her nipples til they're red and hard and tender. She thinks maybe it's a new game, or a very old one. But she merely watches him, eating a tiny triangle of lightly buttered toast.

And he goes over to the desk, removing something. She peers, but feigns disinterest even as he walks over to her, carrying that box. She looks at it. Looks up at him. Her lips part.

"Vladelets," she murmurs, soft, sounding overcome. She knows.

Her tongue moistens her lips, removing the traces of crumb, salt, butter. Sitting up a little, her legs tucked to the side, her body effortless in its grace, Hilary touches the lid of the box, then looks at him as though for permission. But it's hers; he gave it to her, had it made for her. Hilary looks back down, and begins to gently edge the lid off, all but holding her breath.

Of course she has his permission. He gave it to her. He had it made for her. But when she moves like that, he draws a breath, as though she'd hurt him someplace tender. When she looks up, the expression on Ivan's face is complex and indefinable. At least: she likely doesn't know how to read it.

She looks down again. She begins to open the box, so gently, as though it were something very precious. Which, one supposes, it is.

Unlike the other things he has given her - unlike even those priceless furs, that even more priceless diamond - this one is housed in a box that is almost plain. It is matte white, no insignia, no initials, nothing adorning the surface. It needs no adornment. She knows what is inside; knew it because it is her birthday, and he promised her.

He's kept his promises to her. Every one of them. Strange, to think of that: faithless, reckless Ivan.

"I received a letter." He speaks before the lid quite clears the box. His voice is very quiet. He didn't want to tell her. Not today, at least. Not on her birthday. Perhaps not ever; not until he had no other choice. Not until he managed to flush her from himself, like poison from a wound.

He can't seem to hold back, though. That was ever the truth when Hilary is concerned.

"A Fostern Galliard sent it to me. He had heard that your time with Espiridion was soon to come to an end. He wanted to know what I thought of you. He wondered if I might send him a picture and, if he was pleased, if I might arrange an introduction after your ... business with Dion was concluded. It was all very cordial. He was not terribly well-bred, though, nor particularly renowned. His family was penniless. It wasn't difficult to convince him to set his sights lower.

"That was mid-February."

A breath. He is looking at the box now, the blank white of it.

"Then in the weeks after there was an Adren Ahroun, but he killed his last mate in a frenzy, and his own Alpha set him straight when she was discreetly informed of her packmate's interest. And a Cliath Philodox who clearly thought far too much of himself, and was told as much. Another Fostern, another Philodox. His family was known to be plagued with miscarriages and stillbirths, so when he was reminded of your tragedy, his interest naturally waned.

"A few days ago," Ivan says, "there was another polite inquiry. An older gentleman, fifty or so, and a Theurge. He has well over a dozen children by his many mates over the years. Several are born true, the eldest of them already an Adren. He doesn't want for more offspring. In his letter, he indicated to me that he is merely looking for an intelligent, sophisticated partner with whom to share what he expects to be his last few years. He wrote humbly, but he was clearly well-educated and well-spoken, and there is considerable power beneath his courtesy and restraint.

"He is an Athro. And I am running out of reasons to say no."

She's so curious. What color will it be? What will it be made of? Is it extravagant or simple? Is it brutal or elegant or some mixture of both? Hilary thought he would wait til the divorce was final -- and truthfully, she's not quite sure she would be comfortable with him collaring her until it's final, final-final, over and done with, completely severed. But it's her birthday, and maybe he's teasing her with it, showing her what he's going to put on her throat when it's time, when she's really his.

Her thumb is working under the lid when Ivan speaks. She pauses, of course she does, looking up suddenly to him, her eyes wide and dark and bestial. Then her head tips. 'A letter'. It means nothing. She cannot tell what is coming. She cannot intuit from his manner all day what is wrong with him, or even that something is wrong.

It begins to sink in as soon as he names the rank and auspice of the man. Of course they would inquire discreetly around like that. It would be madness and possibly a lethal risk to go to Espiridion -- ah, but she has a guardian in the city, a reckless young Cliath Ragabash, no threat to their offers or to their lives, surely. So they have asked him, again and again, through letters and couriers and phone calls, not all of them coming from the same country, but Hilary doesn't interrupt him to ask where these potential suitors live.

One after another, he's turned them down. She does not flatter herself that it is solely his obsession with her: that one could not possibly take care of her in the manner she's accustomed to or deserves, this one might kill her, that one might is too young and too stupid, this one really wouldn't want her anyway. One another another. He's persuaded them, he's spoken to their elders, he's chastised them, he's coaxed them away from her. One by one.

And never once has he mentioned it to her. Mid-February, he says, and her mind does flash to the way he took her when he called her, how she found him half-drunk and rigid with lust, sticky with it, savage with it. She does remember how he was with her after, holding her under his body and in his teeth, telling her simply:

I missed you

with all the aching, hopeless honesty he can manage in moments like those. She does connect the dots. She understands a little, too, why he hasn't contacted her since.

Her eyebrows lift a little at the 'dozen children' this older Theurge has, the one with a long line of mates, the one who is fifty, which in this day and age and among the Garou means he's likely quite strong, quite healthy, probably scarred, possibly so close to the edge of his own madness swallowing him that he simply wants to enjoy whatever is left while he's remotely cogent. She's met the type before. They would always kiss her hand, longing for her, lusting for her, but leaving her youth and her perfection for the younger males.

She imagines quickly that life, wherever it is: she won't be expected to take care of his children, even the youngest. She wonders what has happened to his other mates. Not wanting for more offspring doesn't mean he won't want to fuck her. She imagines what the Adren child is like: a son, maybe. She wonders if that bloodline, that family branch, would like to perpetuate its name and its glory by the sons fathering cubs on their stepmother. It would hardly be the first time in the history of the Silver Fangs -- there are lies in all those records of lineage, no matter what the Society says.

Hilary's eyebrows draw together as she watches Ivan. Her first thought is that perhaps Ivan could tell this Athro that she is still too young, too potentially fertile, to be given to a Garou who doesn't want more offspring. And yet: wanting is not the same as having. Just because he is fifty does not mean he could not sire on her. And if he is a Theurge, he is wise, and he would argue the same, she can guess. Why keep her for some young idiot male on the chance that she won't have another stillborn child? Why not let a Theurge see what could be done to heal her faulty womb?

She looks back down at the box, her hand still touching it. "Where does he live?" she asks, which is a maddening, horrible, cruel thing to ask. She doesn't seem to know that, though.

It is impossibly cruel of her to ask that, here and now. Ivan's eyes shut; a muscle flexes in the corner of his jaw. He takes a breath, slow and measured, and then he opens his eyes again.

Her fingers still rest on that box. The collar he had made for her, because he is her vladelets: as a symbol of ownership and faith, a bond, a promise. She told him not so long ago that she hasn't fucked anyone but him since they made Anton together. If you collar me, she said, I won't again unless it pleases you. The irony could choke him. He may be her guardian. He may be her vladelets. But in the end, in the face of tribal politics and Falcon's mad, tragic attempt to save itself from extinction, none of their promises mean anything at all.

"He is English." Ivan speaks very softly, very evenly. "He owns quite an impressive estate in the Chilterns. Lovely land. Forests and game. A small tributary to the Thames. A lake. Gardens. He also keeps several townhouses around the world. London's West End. Bordeaux, in the Aquitaine. Beacon Hill in Boston. And evidently he has a summer home in Cape Cod."

A few seconds pass. Ivan is closing up, closing down, making himself smooth and cool as a shaded stone.

"He's said to enjoy dance. I think he would treat you well. You could even be happy with him."

English. She still has her head tipped. She doesn't know anything about her own family line, the broken and shattered house that once was. She hardly cares about that. A Gleaming Eye, an Unbroken Hearth, a Crescent Moon. He sounds impossibly, incredibly wealthy. More than Ivan. More than Espiridion. More than Dominique, even. She was never that fond of London, though. Bordeaux just seems obvious to her. Beacon Hill -- she's never been to Boston. But she knows these places. Old, old money. Old names, old families, old blood.

Give her this: Hilary does notice Ivan's displeasure at the question. If she understands no one else, she does understand him a little bit -- what he likes, what he doesn't. She's made him unhappy. Hilary, lying there in black lace and white satin, pearls and stockings and high heels, her body very much on display, her panties sheer enough that if she just twisted a little, he could see every little curve and outline of her cunt through them -- and they're talking about the males who want to take her away from him.

She is looking down, away from him now, but she hears the coolness in his tone, the distance. "So I'd be far away, then," she says quietly, because of course,

that's why she asked at all.

"I suppose you would."

They are almost formal now. Quite distant, speaking of this like a done deal, like a prophecy only waiting to come true. And yet she is there in his bed, she is wearing the things she wore to the docks to meet him under a trenchcoat and nothing else, she is here to fuck him because it's her birthday, because she's his beautiful girl, because he told her to come, and Ivan

is cracking in half.

"What shall I say to him?"

Oh, she's not formal. She's thinking, she's asking -- well.

She was thinking of the what-ifs, the maybes, the chances that it would change almost nothing. Dinner with her new husband regularly, probably sex if he wished it, the ballet, though even if he is a Theurge his rage would likely unnerve the dancers and the audience both. But then: she could go to Ivan, sometimes. Sneak away as she used to, be his good girl, beautiful girl, his slut, his whore, his. Wear his collar and lay at his feet, his hand in her hair, the hand that so recently might hold a crop and whip her with it.

But not if she were in London, or Boston, or any of that. Ivan would have to come to her. It might be more difficult that way. They could not see each other as easily. As often.

There is also this, though she wouldn't dare admit it even to herself: she would never see Anton again. Not through a webcam pointed at his crib, never in person. She can't bear the thought of looking through pictures or reading letters without Ivan there to keep her sane through it. She could not do it with Miranda. She could not do it alone. So: she would never see him again. He would be as good as dead. It would fit the lie.

His question startles her. She looks up suddenly, taken aback, peering at Ivan as though he's turned purple. "Well, I don't know," she says, the slightest emphasis on the I, the words more bewildered than annoyed or anything like that. Where, after all, did he get the idea that she's ever had a say in these matters?

There is not pause this time; not a second, not an instant. He is as quiet as he was, but his teeth are on edge, the hairs on the back of his neck are standing straight.

"Don't you have any preference at all? Haven't you anything to say?"

She's alert now, like an animal would be. Her body reacts even if she's unaware of it, disconnected from it. Hilary picks up the box, lid still on, and draws it toward herself as though she's quite sure he's going to take it away, jerk it back out of her hands, or go insane and try to break everything in the room, including her present. And it's not his anymore. He gave it to her, so it's hers. Sort of.

Not really.

She frowns at him. Taken aback still, now a little annoyed with him. He's been odd all evening and now he's snapping at her. She doesn't like it when he does this. So her eyebrows draw together, chastising him, not grasping the emotion that fuels it, not sharing it, barely even picking up on anything deeper than his displeasure with her.

"You said you were running out of reasons to say no," she recites back to him, precisely. "What am I supposed to say? It's not exactly my decision. If you want to keep me, you will find a way to do so. If not, you'll give me away."

She's ruffled. Because she's classy, however, she begins to smooth her own feathers, settling down. "Stop being so cross," she commands him. "It's my birthday."

"I want to keep you."

If his words were written, they would be carved in stone six inches deep. As it is, they simply carve the air: low, intense, burning. He is having trouble containing his emotion now. It flashes across his face, bares his teeth, he turns his face away and shuts his eyes again. One breath, two.

"How can you even doubt that? I want to keep you. And maybe I can, this time. Maybe even from the next one. And the one after. But at some point I won't have an excuse left, or your gentleman suitor won't even ask. He'll simply challenge. Or take what is rightfully his: the greatest share to the greatest rank."

The silence comes suddenly and jaggedly. There's more. He bites the insides of his lips for a moment. Then, a harder admission:

"And if I let it come to that, then whoever gets you won't be some gently aging Theurge who wants a young mate to pamper. It'll be someone brutal and vicious enough not to care what laws of decorum he breaks; who won't even try to mask his intentions with gifts and romance the way your last mate did.

"So: I want to keep you, Hilary. But maybe I shouldn't."

A beat.

"And maybe I want to hear you say you don't want to be given away."

It's not even a question for him. He barely even lets her finish speaking before he is cutting those words between them, leaving them for the ages. Didn't he ask her to marry him? Didn't he protect her from her husband when that fairskinned, fairhaired little baby was born? Didn't he later find a way to satisfy her strangest, ugliest urge without killing her -- and let her see that child again? Didn't he love her, come to her, fuck her anyway when she was fat and round and miserable? Hasn't he been obsessing over her, clinging to her, getting a collar made for her as though to put into physical terms just how badly, how closely, he wants to keep her?

Hilary is quiet now. Not telling him not to be cross. Her pretty little brow is furrowed, her thoughts turning inward. She looks at the box in her hands, unopened, perhaps unwanted now. All their promises. She has no argument for him.

And then he sees it, which is a hard and painful and frightening thing: she is sad.

"I already chose," she says quietly. She sets the box on the bedspread. "But I suppose it makes no difference."

As much as it pained him to give him that gift, that symbol of a claim he really has no right to, it pains him more to see her set it down. The little box is clean and white against the darker, richer tones of his cabin. He looks at it for a moment.

Then he comes to her at last, sitting on the bed. The mattress dips soundlessly. The bedsheets tauten beneath her, and their tray of food shifts. Ivan puts his hands behind her head, drawing her forward, but not to kiss. Just to lay his brow to hers, his eyes downcast, his skin warm.

"I want you to be happy," he whispers. "And if I can't make you happy, then I want you to be safe. When Dion first left you ... I think we both believed, or wanted to believe, that no one else would ever come for you. That you were free, and free to give yourself to me.

"We know that's not true. There's been half a dozen inquiries before you've even finalized your divorce. There will only be more. I can't ... I can't keep you, Hilary. The most I can do is try to find you someone with whom you can be safe. And maybe even happy."

"I'm not happy," she whispers.

For a long time, that's all she says. She doesn't even sound sad to say it. It's not something she feels this moment, though at this moment it happens to be true. When Hilary says she's not happy, she says it like it is simply her existence, something she is Not. She is Not Happy. She is not capable of it, she is not meant for it, it is not a part of her internal makeup.

But right now her head is bowed as he moves it, her brow to his. She submits even to this, because she is -- as he thought earlier, standing outside the club -- his submissive. Which, perhaps, she never will be to anyone else, no matter what else changes. She will always be his submissive. She will always be, too, the mother of his child.

So: safe. If not happy, then at least that. Someone who will not harm her, who will set her up nicely, who will take care of her until he dies and she will share in a grand inheritance along with his dozen children. Ivan makes the decision, as he has since the inquiries started coming: he can't keep her. He knows that.

And Hilary, beautiful and submissive and yet never sweet, nods.

"I can keep my apartment," she whispers. "He might let me. Just more real estate. But I won't live here anymore."

There is a long pause. She exhales, her eyes closing. "I was going to meet him. I was... going to ask you. Because you said we could, he's still young enough that he won't remember the lies. I was going to --"

the rest can't, won't, probably shouldn't come out.

"Oh, Hilary -- "

It's not a sigh. It's an exclamation, quiet, overcome - as though he can't bear it anymore, can't bear these words coming out of her mouth. He has to turn away from her. He has to sit now on the edge of the bed, facing away from her so that she can only see his profile. He's so long, so graceful, so lean, that even when he all but crumples - folding at the waist, elbows on his knees, hands scrubbing over his face - he seems something artistic and poised, a modern-day Rodin.

There was a fantasy once. Not the one where they lived in Siberia surrounded by snow and fur, but the one where they went to some exotic overseas destination, Casablanca or the Cape of Africa, Dubai or the shores of the Caspian sea. He was golden in the sun and she was cool in the shade, and their hands were linked, and the waved washed against the shore and they paid attention mostly to one another or to nothing at all, but

in the background were the servants, his people and her people and Anton's people, and the boy was seeing the ocean for the first time, his tiny hands held by Miron and Izolda. Their son was seeing the ocean for the first time, and they hardly cared, but: they were there, and so was he.

There was a moment when that fantasy could have realized itself. It was Christmas Day, and he had just given her an immortal stone as red as blood. He asked her a question. She did not say no.

He did.

"If you still want to," Ivan says, so softly now, "I'll find a way."

He's in so much pain, and she seems to barely be feeling anything at all beyond, perhaps, a little sadness. She feels him slip away, pull away, and all Hilary does is open her eyes and watch him. Her head tips to the side as he sits there. While he shatters, she contemplates the lines of his body, the way she always does, seeing grace or seeing flaw, and occasionally realizing when it is inappropriate to comment on this sort of thing.

Ivan hasn't shared his fantasies with her, the truly mad ones. He's asked her to marry him, but didn't paint her any kind of picture of what he sometimes longs for in the depths of his -- ultimately -- animal heart. To protect her from the cold and predators in some Siberian wasteland, bringing her warm furs and hot, bloody meat so that she can stay strong through the winter. To watch his cub grow, to nip his heels so he gets strong, too. These are throwbacks to the way the Silver Fangs used to be. Could have been.

Nor has he shared the more modern versions, the slightly more sane ones, but: all of them are together. Their multitude of servants, their love mostly likely dulling and crumbling after being marinated in normality too long, their child leaning on his valet and his maids because he knows, from toddlerhood, that his parents are unreliable for affection or care. But all of them together. It is a form of happiness that Ivan, mad as he is, can recognize and even want. It is a form of happiness that eludes Hilary, confuses her, but that on some objective, speculative level, she can recognize, too.

Ivan isn't looking at her when he tells her he could find a way. Her brows draw together. "But you just said --"

"I know what I said." He cuts her off. It sounds like anger, but it's not. "I'm not saying I can keep you away from this suitor or the next or the twenty others waiting in the wings. I'm not saying you won't have to marry the Theurge or move to Boston or England or god knows where. I can't promise any of that."

Ivan draws a breath. Then he turns his head, looking at her from beneath his drawn eyebrows, that deep shelf of his brow.

"But if you want to see your son again, if you want to be with him ... and with me, as much as you can: if you want that, Hilary, I will find a way."

Oh, these are weighty matters. Literal life and death. If he didn't care for her, if he didn't exist, then perhaps -- well, she'd still be with Dion -- but if he'd gotten bored of her, then he might have given her to the penniless Fostern, or the psychotic Ahroun, or the ridiculous Cliath. Delivered her into death, delivered her back to her past, forgotten. And if Dion finds out about Anton, if this Athro Theurge whose name does not appear to matter to anyone finds out, then Ivan's life could well be at stake, too.

She gives in so easily, though. If the best thing for her to do now is to go marry and become the mate of this Athro who will ask so little of her and give so much, who thinks that maybe now he will not be so lonely and his primitive desire to take care of some precious kinswoman will be satisfied because she is so tainted, so broken, then Hilary submits. Ivan thinks this is best. Ivan is probably right.

The truth is, if Hilary thought this was best for her, too, and Ivan was fighting her on it, she would do it. And Ivan be damned.

But he is also saying he can make this happen. He'll find a way for her son to know her, through lies or -- galling! -- honesty. Something. Somehow. He's clever, he's sharp as a knife, he'll come up with something to fix it so she gets what she wants and so that he gets to keep some part of her. All she has to do is submit. All she has to do is tell him yes, that's what she wants.

Hilary nods, in the end, very simply. "Yes," she says quietly. "That's what I want."

"All right."

It's as simple as that for her. Hilary, who does not light fires, does not clean, and only cooks when it pleases her, needs only submit to her wants. Needs only say, yes. This is what I want.

And somehow - using his wiles, his cunning, and those resources of his that, even docked in the wake of his christmas profligacy, far exceed those of the average mortal - somehow, Ivan will make it happen. Of course he will. He doesn't know how, but he will. Perhaps he could follow her, wherever he goes. Perhaps he could bring Anton back from Russia once in a while. Perhaps they could arrange visits. Vacations. Time on the beach. Perhaps he should just tell Anton the truth, the whole ugly truth, when the boy is old enough to understand.

It's not that your mother doesn't love you. She's simply the wife of another man. It's not that your father doesn't care about you. He simply can't stand to be responsible for something so small and helpless as you. Never mind the damage that might cause. Never mind any of that, so long as Hilary is happy. Or if not happy, then at least safe, content, as close to him as she can be.

For her, the best. For her, anything.

He reaches across the covers, then. He picks up that little box, that painful little present, and he holds it out to her again. The words taste like irony:

"Happy birthday, Hilary."

Ivan has only once seen Hilary in the presence of one of her husbands. That horrible dinner, Ivan with his token date and the four of them drinking sangria on a summer rooftop. By then, Dion was already disgusted with her, displeased with her, through with her. Ivan was afraid for her life. He naturally never met her first mate, that beautiful Frenchman who died so young and so tragic, who taught her how to connect with her own body and soul through pain, through submission. He may yet get to see her in the presence of a new husband, one who will not fuck her to exhaustion trying to sire a child on her, one who will keep her quite well if she will just give him a bit of company. It's hard to imagine how she might behave. What he knows -- or should know -- is that the way she is with him is unlike anything else. Anyone else.

Right now she is on her knees on his bed, wearing lingerie she chose and bought specifically to make him mindless with lust, wearing jewelry on her earlobes and throat and wrists to make him think of dominance, to make him think of bondage, to make him hard at the thought of dismantling and dirtying and destroying this pristine, beautiful, precious thing. And he's taking her out on the water, distancing them both from their real lives, the things that wait for them.

It's her birthday. She is thirty-six. It's not old at all. Compared to Ivan, though, compared to the young Silver Fang virgins with fair hair and bright blue eyes, the girls from houses that have not fallen apart, the girls who have never fucked, much less carried and lost a child, the ones who have never been claimed and thus make prospective mates salivate, she is growing quite tired. She does not seem bothered by the thought of a husband twenty years or so her senior, even if he's old enough to be her father.

She crawls across the bedding, ignoring the gift he pushes toward her again, and kisses him. On her hands and knees, putting pressure on him, opening his mouth with her lips and her tongue, taking what she wants, trying

in her foolish, foolhardy, aching way

to comfort him somehow. "Put it on me," she mutters against his mouth, barely pausing for a breath, her lips still touching his. "Take me." And she's kissing him, pushing him, wanting him, and wanting something she does not know how to get except like this. Her tongue tastes his mouth, her body coming over his like she's something wild, like she's something untamed. "Fuck me."

Ivan cannot understand how Hilary can even think of sex right now. Even if he were able to intuit that this is her small, broken way of comforting him, the only way she knows to seal the rift between them, he wouldn't be able to understand the why, the how.

And yet, for all that, when Hilary says the things she says, when she crawls over on her hands and knees, in her lovely, erotic lingerie - when she puts her hands and her mouth on him, climbs over him wanting and needful like that - he reacts like metal to lightning. Lit up; ablaze instantaneously. There's a sound, it's a growl, he grasps her in his hands and throws her down on the bed, mounts her with his hands tearing at his pants, getting the belt open, getting the fly open, pushing down his boxer briefs and taking out his cock.

Her present goes sliding across the bed, almost to the edge. Neither of them reach for it now. If she tries, or even if she doesn't, he grabs her wrists and pins them over her head, reaches between her legs and fondles her, all but mauls her with his fingers, yanks at her panties until it pulls aside or simply apart. His mouth is at her throat when he

takes her,

takes what she offers because right now, for now, it is still hers to offer. He is inside her with a harsh grunt against her neck. He is moving almost immediately, fucking her savagely, biting her, cursing her, but soon enough all that falls away and what he's left saying over and over again is:

"Say you're mine. Say it. Say you'll always belong to me."

Sex as a way to feel something. Sex as a way to connect with how she feels. Sex as a way to connect with Ivan. Sex to externalize the pain she can't quite hold onto (or bear) otherwise. Sex to heal some of the wound that causes the pain. Sex to forget. Sex to make Ivan happy again, make him feel good, make him come in her and make her special, make it okay, make it something good.

How could she not, right now, reach for him, ask him -- beg him -- to fuck her?

And in a moment, he's on her. Kissing her back, sucking the air from her lungs, pushing her down, pulling at her straps and her satin and her lace. She's wet already, knows he'll be rock-hard when he fucks her in moments, only moments. His fingers find her damp, rubbing against her through that slip of sheer silk over her pussy. She clenches; wants to come, rubs her ass against the bedcovers with shameless want, arches her back as though maybe he needs that, now, to recognize that she is female, that she is open and willing, that it's time to take her.

He puts his teeth in her. She's moaning then -- she does reach for her present, her collar, she asked him to put it on her but he isn't and she can't help but feel a stab of agony, a wave of rejection even though he's on top of her, wrangling open his slacks. That pain is driven out of her then, his hands shoving her wrists down, locking them into place above her head so she'll be still while he uses her. Gasping at first, Hilary lets out a low groan when Ivan shoves his cock into her and starts fucking her, sending the mattress rocking with every hard, sudden thrust. She's so wet that it slicks out over him, scents him, makes his cock slippery inside of her.

He calls her things that, all at once, disgust and anger and endear and inflame her. He swears at her, and every time she starts to squirm or wriggle he snarls, pins her down, fucks her that much rougher. She lets out a shriek that coincides with the way her legs wrap around him, holding him there, urging him on, harder, yes, more, harder.

And what he says back to her, gives back to her, are these demands of his own. Say it. Say it.

Hilary all but wails. "Ivan," she moans, and she says his name the way it's meant to be said, the old way, the vowels coming from the old world. "Ya tvoya," and this is a studied thing, a practiced thing, something she prepared for, because she knew. Because she wanted it, too. "Vsegda, Ivan. Vsegda -- !"

When that first wailing scream of hers echoes through the dense bulkheads, up the narrow stairwells, Ivan's quiet little maid shoots Evgeny a startled glance. That bearded, brutish chef of Ivan's simply gives her a small shrug, as if to say, oh, this again. He is used to this now. He doesn't understand it, but he assumes it's merely some new quirk Ivan has picked up by virtue of simply being what he is. At least Ivan is uncharacteristically monogamous this time, which makes it easier for Evgeny to remember what to make and what not to make, what she likes, what she doesn't like. At least the woman he brings home doesn't try to strike up conversation with Evgeny, which inevitably results in fumblings and misnamings.

Evgeny will be faintly puzzled, and even a little sad for his master, when Hilary abruptly moves away in another few weeks' or months' worth of time. He, along with most of Ivan's servants, might never know the truth of it. He, along with most of Ivan's servants, might assume the romance has ended the way they always end for Ivan: with boredom, with the insatiable hunger for something new. Unsurprising, really, some of them will whisper. Didn't you see how few, how far between, his visits grew at the end?

Obviously he was tired of her. Obviously he was done with her.

The ones that say that will have forgotten the way they sound right now, though. That lean, beautiful couple that walked onto this lean, beautiful yacht. That slim, lovely pair that didn't stop to eat, didn't stop to sun themselves on the deck, didn't stop for anything but to go straight downstairs behind a closed door. And now he's making her scream like that, he's fucking her so hard those cries don't even quite sound like pleasure, don't even quite sound human, and

she's speaking a language they understand, and

saying words they can't quite comprehend.

Those words drive him over some edge. He grabs her mouth, covers her cries with his palm, and he's done this before, did this the last time she said the words he made her say, told him the lies

(and the truths)

he simultaneously needs to hear and cannot bear hearing. That time, he slapped her for it, the one and only time he's ever raised a hand to her face. This time, he just fucks her for it, harder, holding her down and holding her mute, his grunts and snarls rising above the muffled sounds she's making into his palm, using her so hard and so recklessly that he can't, he can't,

he can't hold on to her. He can't hold on to this.

His face pulls when he climaxes inside her. His brow contracts, his mouth opens - but no sound comes out. He's driven beyond the point of speech, overwhelmed; he's as mute as he's made her, and their bodies speak for them. The clasp of her thighs. The drive of his hips against hers, his cock into her. The wetness, the heat. The way her breasts bounce with every last, furious thrust.

Sometimes he fucks her for hours. Sometimes he takes his time with her, breaks her down into raw material, the basest components of her self. Sometimes after she leaves him he is utterly drained, utterly spent. He feels like he can't move, he lounges around for hours, days, lazy and uninterested in anything. It is exhausting work, destroying Hilary, loving Hilary. It whittles him to the bone, but afterward when she comes back together she is his. It is worth it. It is worth everything.

This time he fucked her for a handful of minutes at most, but it was intense enough to cover his back in sweat, intense enough that his loins ache, his thighs. He collapses against her, all heat and leanness and liquidity now, letting go her mouth, easing his grip on her wrists, wrapping his arm around her and turning his face to her neck and

sobbing, suddenly: enraged, desperate, impotent, devastated.

Kolya likes Hilary, as much as someone can. She doesn't recognize him, doesn't register him as human, as a persona, but he likes her. When she's around, Ivan takes the yacht out more often, and that means Kolya gets to be out on the water more, piloting this gorgeous boat in his ridiculous hat. Evgeny considers her a challenge, quite personal, and if there are any members of Ivan's staff that Hilary actually notices or considers worth remembering, it would likely be him. She likes to tease him.

She will not miss the stupid boat, though, or the servants, or any of them. She does not, however, quite 'miss' her own child so much as wonder occasionally about him, bewildered by her own consideration of his existence. Why bother thinking about it? Hilary does not 'miss' things very much. She never quite 'missed' her brother, devoured and gone, one of the only creatures on Gaia's earth that she's ever loved.

Ivan is one of those creatures. And she learned this phrase, learned these words, solely for moments like this -- for this moment.

I'm yours. Always, Ivan.

And he comes in her, with her, her cunt clenching hard on him to the point of pain. She weeps behind his hand, arching her back, sent careening over the edge by this one thing, this one gesture, this one act of dominance. He owns her. Her legs tremble around him, her pussy quivering as he fills her, comes in her, loses himself. This is what she came here for. Why she dressed -- undressed -- the way she did. This is what she always wanted.

For a long while after, her body is still coursing with pleasure, sweat slick on her, pearls askew on her neck, Ivan's beautiful hand over her red-painted lips. She feels comforted by this, his palm moist from her breathing.

But he is not pulling away, or turning her over, taking her again. He is not slapping her thigh because she makes some noise, snarling at her to shut up, slut, only making her wet again. He is not even stroking her hair, pulling back to look at her, contemplating how beautiful she is, how his she is. None of that.

He is weeping. Holding her now, hiding his face, sobbing. He is a wreck.

Hilary does not truck with weakness. It embarrassed her for his sake when he talked about money, his allowance, these... rather tawdry, adolescent matters. She's a bit disgusted with his extravagance, because her upbringing -- destroyed as it was -- was an older style. He can be such a young, wild thing, and she's attracted to it and annoyed by it at once. She drugs herself when she is bored or sad rather than feel either of those things. It is far more glamorous and classy to simply retire to one's room and stare at the ceiling for hours than cry and ask someone to take care of you.

All of that, though, is how she is outside of these moments. That is how she is when she is unreachable, untouchable, when Ivan himself slams his fists against her walls until they bleed, screaming at her to please, please let him in

or please, please come out.

When he buries his face in her, his cock still buried in her, the tears coming hot and angry and overcome, Hilary is dazed at first. She has tears on her temples from where they streamed out of her eyes. She is looking at the ceiling of his cabin. She is still coming down from her orgasm, and this sensation mingles strangely with the sound and pressure of his crying.

Hilary wraps her arms around him like this is nothing, like this is natural -- as though emotion itself is natural to her now, as though expressions of tendernes or closeness do not need to be braided with pain or dominance. She holds him like anyone would when someone they care for is upset and there is nothing, nothing one can do about it. She doesn't stroke his hair or his back or whisper shhh or ask what's wrong. Very quietly, very calmly, she wraps her arms around him and closes her eyes, just breathing, riding out the storm with him.

For all the times Hilary has wept from sex, wept from what he does to her, for all the times she has fallen apart because of something he said or something he did to remind her of her awful tragedy, which is more awful and more a tragedy than anything those north shore ladies could imagine -- for all that, Ivan has never once collapsed entirely like this. Not even when he was afraid for his very soul, because of what being with her made him want. Not even when he was afraid for her life, because of the light in Dion's eyes.

He can't remember the last time he wept like this. He supposes he must have been a child; perhaps he ran to his father and mother for comfort -- but no. He wouldn't have. Perhaps Dmitri comforted him. It is strange to think back on his own childhood, the oddly shaped empty spaces where his parents should have been. Sometimes, in moments of awful clarity like this, he imagines what it will be like for Anton. Much the same, he supposes. Oddly shaped, distant, fuzzy spaces where his parents should have been.

Hilary is so very distinct, so sharp to Ivan. As though she is the only thing real, the only thing breathing and alive and even remotely warm, in his gilded world. It is humiliating to sob like this in her arms, because he knows she's real, she's cogent and in her skin, she understands. It is humiliating, and it is oddly cathartic, and the whole time he keeps his face to her neck; he doesn't want her to see.

It doesn't take long. He subsides, quieting. Quiet now. He holds her a little longer, and then, surreptitious, brings a hand up to wipe his eyes, wipe his face. Ivan says nothing of it. He kisses her though, softly where he'd bit her, and where he left saltwater on her skin. He sighs, a last hitch going out of his lungs, laying against her.

She trusts him so utterly. He has no idea how he'll keep his promises to her. He loves her desperately, and he is losing her. Once there was a young man, one of Hilary's beautiful boys, who came to her gate drunk and disheveled, screamed her name until she called the police and had him arrested so he wouldn't come back. Ivan wonders if that's where this is going: drunk and disheveled, screaming her name outside her new husband's estate, hammering on the doors of that old, grand country manor.

He wonders, with a twist of pain, if Hilary will be afraid of those halls too. But then he remembers: he has gifts for her. Not many; but more heartfelt, perhaps, than even the millions he heaped on her at Christmas.

Somehow it is possible to think about all these things now. His mind is glassy calm, the grief blown out of it. His eyes are open. He sees the landscape of his bed, the rumpled bedspread, the box that contains her gift. His desk beyond, and beyond that, the large porthole out to the blue lake. It is nearing sunset. The water grows darker. He breathes evenly and slowly, deeply. He reaches for the box finally, rolling a little to the side, lifting the lid off without a word.

He must have had this made after the letters started coming. Perhaps there's symbolism in it; perhaps it wasn't even intentional. The collar is a lovely, fragile thing - a complex, glittering net of filigreed platinum, the threads so fine as to be almost weightless, dripping with diamonds. It could pass as a choker, a piece of jewelry, except: the clasp is a tiny lock, and fitted in that lock is an even tinier key.

Ivan undoes Hilary's pearls. They roll from her throat, pool in his palm. He sets them on her abdomen, warm from his hand, warm from her skin. The collar, when he lays it over her neck, is cooler.

This time, she doesn't weep more than those few rolling tears that dry on her skin. She breathes normally, holds him, and does not mention it when he is finished. She is, truth be told, a little lost now. This is not normal. Ivan is her dom. Ivan is strong. Ivan has said he will find a way to make it so she can see Anton and continue to be with Ivan even if the safest and sanest thing for her is to marry this Theurge -- probably May, which will be scandalous to mortals but perfectly normal and perhaps even appreciated among the Fangs -- and go far, far away from him.

They have many tragedies to contend with. Anton. Each other. And there is this one now, too, piercing: when Ivan wipes his eyes and brings her present to her, Hilary's eyebrows tug together a little. She has let him go, she has not bothered to readjust her panties, she twists to look where his hands go as he rolls to the side, and watches. She watches him take the lid off.

Maybe she should gasp. Maybe she should inspect it, lift it up and look at it. This was made for her, but it's not the same as the ring. It's not to be analyzed. It's not really a piece of jewelry, as much as it looks like one. Truth be told, she was expecting leather. She was expecting something small and simple, something to wear around her throat when she was with him, when she was curled up at his feet or resting her head on his lap or sucking his cock. Something ...well, frankly, not at all like this. But right now, that isn't what's causing her to feel so far away, so removed from this despite what he just did to her, how he just brought her close.

She is unnerved. By the tears, by the situation, by the fact that her trust in Ivan doesn't seem shared by Ivan himself. And she is unnerved that he is opening that collar still. Now, after and not before. She watches him take it out, and: it is a glorious piece of work. The light catches on the diamonds and sends shots of color everywhere. The lustre on the metal tells her what it is. She is as knowledgeable about these things as only a woman well-acquainted with various precious metals and gems could be. She sees the lock. Her brow is still furrowed.

When he reaches behind her, she tips her head forward, turns her head so he can unclasp them. They slide and roll away, and she turns back to him. Then he moves the choker, opened, and begins to drape it over her throat.

And here it is, the agony, the knife: Hilary flinches away.

Compared to what happened a moment ago, Ivan's reaction to this is muted, subtle: the slightest twitching of his eyebrows together. The instantaneous arrest of his hand.

He doesn't lay that choker over her skin after all. He looks at her a moment, and then - quite smoothly - he draws away from her, sits up. Without a word he puts the collar back in its box. Closes the lid. There's a small silence.

"Why?" he asks her, softly.

She pulls away -- flinches -- and he, wordles, completes the motion. He slips away, separating their bodies, and he puts the collar back. Closes it, the way it was when none of this had come to light, when she was simply going to go out on the lake and enjoy her birthday fucking and being punished by her -- lover. Paramour. Whatever he is.

Hilary is lying on her back, still a mess. There are pearls on her stomach. She shrugs, and shakes her head once. "It's beautiful," she says, and because she is a mad, selfish thing whose best effort at empathy is not to slap children in public when they cry: "I don't like it."

She rolls over, putting her back to him, laying her cheek down on the covers. She wants to cry, and this makes her incredibly, powerfully angry. The heel of her hand presses hard, wipes hard, against her eye and away. "I want to go home," she demands, petulant and overwhelmed and, therefore, pink to her cheeks with fury. "I want to go to sleep."

Here is hard honesty: there is a moment when Ivan stares at her, this mad, eldritch creature he loves, and roars with fury himself. After everything, everything, she doesn't like the damned thing. She doesn't like it, so she turns her back on him, she rejects the collar and she rejects him. Nevermind what she said while he was inside her. Nevermind those lines.

There is a moment when he wants to shake her, shout at her, ask her that question all over again:

Hey Hilary. Why are you such a soulless monster?

But he understands her a little better now. Sometimes, some days, he almost understands her, period. And something about the way she draws away plucks a chord in him. Something about the pettiness of her complaint, the near-childishness of her petulance, resonates in him and is recognized. He sees pain. Regardless of form, he understands.

There's a silence. And then he sets the box aside, and he stretches out behind her again. First on his back, staring at the ceiling, the last rays of the sun sifting over the skyline to bounce off the water. They are heading north, parallel to the shore. At some point they'll turn around. He asked Kolya to dock at the lakehouse tonight. He wanted her with him, in their strange little den, because --

that thought is too painful to finish.

He turns, though. She feels the mattress shifting beneath her. He is facing her now, waiting a little. Then moving closer, slowly, carefully, touching her with his hand first, putting it over her shoulder. And then coming in behind her, wrapping his arm around her middle, reminded oddly of how he held her in mexico, in that hacienda named after pain, loss, the last journey of christ. If she lets him still, he holds her for a while.

She has said this to him before. He says it to her now:

"Don't leave me."

She doesn't want him to leave her. She doesn't want him to be angry at her, or yell at her, but these would at least mean he'd stay. He might yell at her and fight with her, but this causes her very little strain, almost no stress. It's the thought of him leaving. Walking out, too furious with her to cope, too angry to risk staying near her. She doesn't know why she does this -- why she turns into such a child, why she pushes him away to see if he'll stay, why she's so angry at him right now.

There are reasons why she might be angry. There are more reasons why perhaps, right now, it shouldn't matter. So she doesn't know. She can't explain to him the answer to the question that he never asks. The only thing she could say, she has said: she's not right. She knows it. And he knows that too. It gives him, maybe, enough compassion to do what he does now.

Ivan doesn't leave. He does what she -- some might say -- does not deserve, and wraps himself around her, holding her. She shudders, trembling like a leaf suddenly, chilled to the bone, shaking as though with a fever. And begins to cry, weeping roughly, openly, all of it pouring out now in a rush. It's Anton and it's her birthday. It's the stupid, beautiful, glorious collar and it's the way Ivan took her. It's the thought of the Chilterns and the memory of France. It's dancing and it's her studio, her beautiful studio, that was her only plan today: brunch, shopping, then going to the cabin to dance. She would be left alone and she would tell Ivan soon that she wanted to see their son, not on a webcam but in person, but maybe Miron could stay and make sure she did not hurt Anton, get some wild idea in her head and harm him, because she does love him, she does, it just hurts so very badly and she hates him so very much for that.

Hilary thinks for a moment she may throw up, she is crying so hard. It has never quite sunken in with her, in thirty-six years, what it means to be what she is. It isn't as though she has ever lost very much by being kin. She has never been raped for it, she has never really been beaten, she has been seen as precious and told she's precious. She has been wooed. She has had gifts lavished upon her. What else would she do, if she weren't mated off to some Silver Fang? What was she missing out on, that she had any reason to be bitter at her lot?

Oh, but now she hates it. And thirty-six years of rage starts boiling over in her, coming out of her, making her back ache from how hard she sobs, how wracked she is. Ivan holds her together. That is what Ivan does for her. She loves him. She hates him for doing this, for ruining everything, for telling her all this tonight, for not speaking to her except that once in nearly three months, oh she despises him right now, she hates him and she hates this life. She hates it all, and she needs him, oh, she needs him now more than ever.

"I don't want to go," Hilary sobs, and again, and again, sometimes louder, some softer, some choked. "I don't want to go, I don't want to go."

"I know," Ivan whispers, every time she says it. "I know."

It becomes a litany: she doesn't want to go. He knows. And he does know. This is the truth at last, bitter as fruit that has never seen the sun. She does care. She's chosen. She wanted this: him, and Anton, and the studio, and her apartment, but above all: her life as it is right now. Some would argue it's not much of a life. She drifts from moment to moment. She dulls the pain. She cares about very little. She has to struggle not to be a monster. But it's still her life. She would still struggle for it if it were threatened - threatened to be ended, or simply

taken away from her. Locked in a crystal box for all to look upon and marvel at: exquisite, airless, a work of art.

Some part of him regrets telling her. Today, at least, when she was perhaps as close to happy as she gets. It's her birthday. She was receiving presents, and even if they were few, even if he was being embarrassingly candid about the reason why, it's her birthday and she was going to brunch, she was going to shop, she was going to the cabin to dance. And maybe, later, to tell Ivan that she's ready. She wants to meet him, their son.

She never got that far. He took it from her with a sentence, with a story: these letters, these men, her hand in marriage, her body, her cunt. Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess, and her life was not her own. She weeps. He holds her, unable to do anything else for her except hold her, and this:

"I'll write to him. Your suitor. I'll tell him how attached you are to Chicago. That you've made friends here, and you've fallen in love with the city. I'll ask him to allow you to keep your apartments here. Maybe even buy you a house. You might not be able to live here always, or even more than a few weeks out of the year, but it'll still be time we can spend together. If he refuses even that much, I won't relinquish you willingly.

"And I'll visit. Wherever you are, I'll come to you. I'll bring Anton if I can. Ne plachʹ, krasivaya devushka. I'll follow you."

For the first time in her life, she tastes something outside of what she's been fed, what she's always had. For the first time in her life, she also cares. This is a dangerous thing. Her heart has been shut away from things like light and air for so long that it's become quite useless and more trouble than it's usually worth, but now it beats, and it aches, and she thinks her chest is going to cave in as she lies there, sobbing, crying, wretched with tears. This is what has to happen. And this is not what she wants.

Her hands cover his where he holds her. She doesn't even seem to notice that she does so.

She cannot stop thinking about Anton, and she hates it. In her mind he is still six months old, and in her mind he is still a newborn and she is holding him, carrying him in the dark against her bare chest, she is still holding his foot through his blankets because she cannot bear to be so separated from him. Why did she ever think she could let him stay all the way in Novgorod, when she could not even bear him being outside of her body? She was so stupid. She was so foolish.

Right now, perhaps she should be thinking about how Ivan has just ruined her birthday, how she hates that he tried to give her the collar and then told her such horrible things, how he tried to give her the collar afterward when it was degraded, when it had become nothing but metal and bits of shiny rock, when it was worthless to her, when it meant nothing anymore. She wants to be angry at him, cling to that anger, climb it like a rope out of a nearly endless hole, but it slips away from her. She keeps falling.

It's like nerve damage, this. Her mind, her soul, flayed raw and yet every tender, sensitive point broken somehow, blunted, cut off and sparking like a fallen electrical wire. The pain is delayed, the physical realities of wounds forgotten, forgotten, and then

it does come.

And it is intractable.

Compared to Ivan's tears, Hilary's go on forever. Her body shakes until she physically aches, til her spine and her back hurt, til her stomach hurts, til her joints are sore. She cannot seem to stop, because there is so much to lose, so much already lost. She thinks, briefly and awkwardly, that she's going to die. No one, no one could survive this. She refuses to believe it.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess. She was so beautiful, so lovely, that she died from grief... and no one even noticed.

It is a long while before she quiets even enough for Ivan to speak. It is unbearable, almost, to listen to her. But she does quiet. She exhausts herself. She trembles, but she wears herself out, wrings herself dry, and he is still holding her. That does matter. She is still covering his hands with her own. That matters, too.

She can hear him, his voice rough and close and low. He makes her promises. Ideas. Anything he can think of that he can do. He will lie, he will dodge, he will cajole, he will use every skill he has, he'll figure out something. The first doesn't mean much. What if her new husband wants to come with her, fall in love with the city with her, meet her friends? What if he doesn't leave her alone for months at a time as Dion did? What if he truly loves her. What if he doesn't trust her. What if he has people watch her, follow her, what if she never can be alone with Ivan again, what if he can never punish her or play with her again? She almost starts crying again.

But he says he'll follow her. And he will bring Anton. Her eyes open.

Anton has her eyes. But otherwise, he looks like his father. Forehead, fair hair, the face that will only grow longer and sharper as he gets older. He is a baby, his skin is fair now, but not so porcelain-pale as Hilary's own. The tribe, at large, knows that Ivan has a child now. A son. The mother is a mystery. There are rumors about that, too. Some of them even name a woman, but it's too horrible to say aloud. Lives would be lost.

But the tribe knows. Resplendent Dusk has a son, not yet a year old. He is, of course, leaving the raising of this child to servants and kin. Obviously. It would be gross and improper to do otherwise. But he has a son, and this son looks much like his father, and if he took the boy anywhere at all, people would know. Even if he took him to visit his family friend, the kinswoman he guarded, so she could hold and coo over him.

They might have to bring Miron, at least, into the knowledge that Hilary is alive. He's seen the picture. Too late to take that back now. They could bring Izolda and Polina, Polina would perhaps understand the truth as well, but Izolda might have to stay home, stay out of the way while Ivan struts his child around town. Or they could tell all three servants the truth. They could risk it. Darya and Miranda and Carlisle know. All of Ivan's staff know.

It's too many people. But Dion will die, and so will this Theurge. Maybe, maybe when they are dead, when the War has taken them, she can have her son, and if Ivan is still alive, she can have him, too.

Hilary rubs her face on the covers. She is exhausted. Emotion does that.

She has no words. She has nothing left, at all.

There's nothing left. Nothing to do but to lie here, on this almost-imperceptibly swaying vessel cutting its way across the sunset waters.

Ivan lies with his lover. Even after she has quieted, even after she has calmed from sheer exhaustion, his arm is around her. Her face is to the covers. He would think her dead, killed by grief, if not for the rise and fall of her body beneath his arm. The warmth of her. The way her hand holds his against her, as though she would simply sink away if he let go.

He doesn't let go. He holds her as the red in the sky outside slowly bleeds away to purple, then the deepest, richest blue. That, finally, is when Ivan stirs, nudging Hilary gently, urging her with infinite patience to rise, move, come into the head. He takes her into the shower, as though he had taken her much farther during sex than he had. And in a way, she needs aftercare now more than she ever did. The sex itself wasn't by far the most punishing they've had, but the emotional impact was nothing short of devastation.

So he turns on the hot water, and he waits for it to warm to the perfect temperature. He holds her against his body, both of them naked in the cool conditioned air of the yacht, until he can ease her into the shower. This space is luxurious, but it is compact. They have to stand close together. He washes her gently, soothing her with his hands the best he knows how, cleansing her, washing himself and then holding her afterward for a very long time.

The water is beginning to turn cold when they step out. He pats her dry with a towel, wraps her in a robe. They don't go back abovedecks. Ivan turns down the bed and ushers Hilary in, and then he rings for his servants and has dinner brought down, and it turns out Evgeny has made some rich, thick cream-based seafood stew, which he serves in bread bowls that on any other day Ivan would find charmingly rustic.

He takes it to bed. He gets in, leaning against the headboard, holding Hilary safe in the bracket of his limbs, leaning against his body. He coaxes her to eat a little, and then a little more, and when she's full or simply done with it he sets the bowl on the nightstand,

wraps his arms around her.

Night falls outside. There's a dim little spot-light on over the door, more for appearance than for utility. There are lights over the nightstand too, of course - he bound her to one at one point, chained her here so she wouldn't be able to leave him in the night. Ivan doesn't turn them on, though. He leans sideways and reaches into the nightstand, and he brings out a tiny flashlight, about half the size of his palm. It is made of faintly textured metal, solid and cool in the palm. An exquisite little crank unfolds from the side. It's not an expensive thing, not by their standards, but it's well-made, quality, lasting.

Without words, he shows Hilary how it works. You crank the crank. Then you turn the switch. There's no battery to run dead; the light just comes, instantaneous and surprisingly bright for such a small thing.

"It's the only other thing I got you for your birthday," he whispers. He offers it to her from the palm of his hand, and if she takes it, he wraps his arms loosely around her again. "So you'll never be stranded in the dark."

There are moments between them of utter devastation that Hilary simply cannot cope with. It falls to Ivan, who destroys her, to care for her in the aftermath. He brings her back to life. And the bitter, cruel truth of it is this: when he brings her back, when she is whole and strong and safe again, she is that much farther away from him. The only way to be close to her is to hurt her. The only way to save her is to let her go.

The fact -- and it is a fact now, isn't it, it's unavoidable truth -- that they do love each other isn't in the slaps of hand to flesh or the locking of manacles around the wrist. It isn't in the way he growls at her: slut, whore, mine. It isn't in her submission, her erotic underthings, her twisted cravings. It isn't in the nights at the ballet or even the moments she spends cooking for him, with him. It was born in the fallout.

It came from the times just like this one: Ivan easing her to her feet, helping her walk as though he's hurt her, fucked her, far more brutally than he has. Holding her against his chest with one arm while he tests the water with his free hand, makes sure it's warm but not too hot. It's in the way he undresses her as though she can't do this herself. In the way he washes her, his hands on her breasts and between her legs nowhere near erotic or wanting, combing gentle fingers through her hair so it doesn't tangle and knot. It's in the way she leans against him, then the tile when she becomes too hot, and how his hand in her hair cups across her scalp, fingertips massaging. Her eyes close, and they love each other. They do.

She does love him when he helps her out and dries her off, and she feels so tired as he wraps that large, fluffy robe around her. She can barely stand anymore. She doesn't have the will. So: Ivan, loving her, loving her deeper than he knew he was capable of, all but carries her to the bed. Hilary lies down immediately, her head on the thick pillows, her eyes closed, as though she's going right to sleep.

And he lets her. While he summons a maid to bring their dinner, Hilary dozes instantly off and Ivan stays right there, protective, ferocious in his way. She wakes to the smell of food, oddly and animalistically. Her eyes open, peering over to the maid. She barely sits up. Ivan arranges himself, moves his leg this way, his arms this way, and holds her up against himself. To feed her. As though she were sick. As though she were broken. As though she really had died, and is slowly being resurrected. She eats well. Good girl, he whispers to her, or she imagines it. He feeds her some of the bread bowl's lid, soaked in the stew, and she asks for water. Not wine, not beer. Just water. And he gives her that, too, holding her head as she drinks.

She should brush her teeth. She should do a lot of things. She doesn't. Ivan eases her back down, holds her in his arms, and she is asleep again. This, he allows. She does not sleep deeply, though. She stirs perhaps fifteen, twenty minutes later. She moves her head, disoriented in the now-dark. She feels him warm against her, though, knows it's him, and yet all the same:

"Ivan?"

He's there. He tells her so, and they are quiet for awhile. They listen to the hum of the engines, the lapping of the water. She likes his yacht very much. They've never gone on a ride on hers; she really does want to sell it. It reminds her of stupid Dion and his stupid son now. Not hers. Not hers, as though anything really is. Even Anton is not really hers anymore. If he ever was.

She muses on these things, listens to them, and she is not scared of the dark because she is not alone. Ivan, she thinks innocently, can and will protect her. She chooses to forget how young he still is, how low his rank, how weak compared to so many others. Cleverness, in the Garou Nation, only carries one so far.

His hand moves, and she stars, perking her head up, as he twists and reaches for something. She can't see it perfectly at first, then she tips her head at it. Touches it with one finger where it lies in his palm. And he begins to turn the crank. She's so curious, watching intently, and then he flicks the switch and a molten light streams out, a wide fan of it from such a tiny thing. Startled, she is so delighted and surprised and overcome that she makes a little noise, an Oh! that has no echo, and grabs at it, taking it from his hand even as he is trying to tell her that this, too, is her birthday gift. He holds her, and she shines the light onto the ceiling.

"Get Anton one," she says immediately. Not 'thank you', not 'oh, Ivan'. No tears, either, though she is so touched she trembles. She stares at the light. "Get him one, too. Just in case."

Ivan's arms tighten a little around Hilary, then. It touches him, twists inside him, that the first thing she asks is for her son to have one as well. Never mind that he is too small to be afraid of the dark; never mind that he has baby monitors and servants, three adults whose entire lives revolve around him. Never mind that he is not Hilary, and will not grow up afraid of the dark at all but drawn to it and its silence, its secrecy.

She still thinks of him. And Hilary, barely able to comprehend the rest of the world as separate and other, cannot imagine that something so small and fragile would not fear the blackness.

So Ivan doesn't try to tell her Anton is not afraid. He's told her, anyway; she still asks. Just in case. He simply holds his lover a little closer, kisses the side of her face as she stares, rapt, at the sudden brilliance that flashlight sheds. "I will," he promises. "Don't worry," he adds, whispering. "I'll take care of him. He'll be safe with me until I can bring him to see you."

His long fingers fold over hers. He doesn't tell her to turn the flashlight off. Just this:

"Sleep, Hilary. I'll be here."

It is probably for the best that they aren't going to attempt to even try to raise Anton together. Every time they disagreed on some childrearing tactic, Hilary would be liable to take Anton in the middle of the night and fly to some far-flung land, and then there would be a terse call later when she admits that she can't find him. And this would happen when they get into it over whether he'll go to that posh private school or have in-home tutors, the latter of which is the only thing Hilary will agree do and the former the only thing Ivan would do. As disinterested as he is in raising his son, he does have a few ideas about the sort of young man he wants to be inflicted upon the world later.

Hilary never wants Anton to be afraid of the dark. It isn't entirely that she assumes he must be, though that is part of it. She never wants him to be as broken as she is. But there's no words in her to express that. There's no way for her to tell Ivan how vital it is that Anton not become like her. So: just give him a flashlight. One that will never run out of batteries on him. Make sure he has a light in the dark, because simply the knowledge that it is there will save him. She thinks. She knows.

Leaning against Ivan, staring upward at the wide circle of light the torch casts, Hilary relaxes. She feels herself nuzzled, kissed, and she moves with it, tips her head as he gives her these little affections. "I'm not worrying," she whispers back to him, her eyes on the light. She does flinch slightly when he covers her hand, and then she soothes. She frowns; she likes the flashlight so much. It makes her happy -- ish. As close to happy as she gets. It's a quiet feeling. Contentment, maybe, is a better word. Or pleased.

"Okay," she whispers, which is a word she rarely employs. Hilary flicks the little switch and puts the flashlight in Ivan's palm.

They are clean. They are warm. For the moment at least, she feels like she's his, and he feels very much like he's home. She flicks the switch and the room goes dark, save for that dim, gentle light over the door. She puts the flashlight in his palm, but it means something that he doesn't put it aside, set it on the nightstand. His fingers close loosely over it, but the little lump of metal stays close at hand. Close to her hand.

They fall asleep like that, in a matter of moments. Originally they were going to tour the lake and dock at the cabin, but when Kolya is getting ready to head back in the quiet little maid informs him that Ivan and his lady are asleep. Already? It's surprising, but he adapts: he silences the engines and drops anchor, spends a little while at the cockpit of the Krasota by himself, sipping coffee.

A little after ten pm, the servants lock the yacht down, turn off the lights. They retreat to the crew quarters behind the engine, and they bed down for the night as well. Silent now, gently rocking on the waves, the yacht overnights out on the lake. It is warm and humid outside, more like May than March, but the air conditioner keeps Ivan's bedroom cool and dry and comfortable.

Sometime in the night it grows too warm for the robes they wore to bed; and besides, they've tangled in them. So Ivan helps Hilary strip hers off, and he strips out of his as well. They toss the robes over the side of the bed, push them carelessly to the floor. The little flashlight almost falls, but Ivan catches it, sets it on the nightstand, and as he's coming back

he sees Hilary's eyes on him, dark within the darkness. Their eyes have adjusted enough to see the stars over the lake, the blue-black dome of the sky coming down to meet the lightless lake. Their sheets are dark, too. Her body is pale, and he puts his hands on her. He covers her breasts and kisses her mouth, softly, and without a word, without a sound, they shift their bodies. He slides over her. She wraps her legs around him.

He makes love to her achingly, slowly, rocking into her, driving her to the mattress with every flex of his hips. Her hands grip his back, her thighs his sides. He bites her shoulder, and she begins to cry out, so he covers her mouth with his hand, but that doesn't feel right

so he kisses her instead, eats every sound out of her mouth, grinding into her, his body lean and sinewy over hers, hard and hot inside hers. That's when he feels her starting to come, feels that orgasm quaking slow and shattering through it; that's when he wraps his arms around her and holds her, holds her together even as he's pounding her apart; coming apart inside her; coming.

If ever there was a time when he should tell her what he feels for her, it would be now. He doesn't, though. It would feel too much like a goodbye. And besides: she knows. He doesn't say it, but she hears it. Every time he cries out against her mouth in orgasm. Every time he calls her his beautiful girl. Every time he holds her in the aftermath. Every time.

Morning comes, and then midmorning. They are languid and quiet when they wake, moving through their daily rituals of cleansing, shaving, hair, makeup. They take their breakfast at the stern, where the breeze is pleasant and gentle.

Later, Kolya turns the bow landward. They dock at Ivan's tiny private pier out at the lake house, and the servants get their little vacation in the main house while Ivan and Hilary retreat to their cabin. Perhaps she dances a little. Perhaps he tries to cook. Or perhaps they only spend a little time together, idle as they always are, gentle with each other as they almost never are.

Inevitably, it comes to an end. In a few days, or a day, or even a matter of hours, Ivan finds himself seeing Hilary off. Carlisle has retrieved the Aston Martin. Ivan walks her to the car, holding her hand. He doesn't mention that he will be getting in touch with this nameless Theurge terribly soon. Even she already knows that. He doesn't apologize for not seeing her more in the past few weeks. Even she can intuit why. What he says instead is simple, painful:

"Come back soon. Come as often as you can, as long as you can."