As we walk, Stasya inhales deeply. “Don’t you love the air here, Kirya?”
“I do.”
“I feel like I can breathe a little easier here. Maybe it’s the extra oxygen, maybe it’s because I feel my happiest when I’m in nature. Though I love living in the city, summers at our dacha were some of my favorite memories. Warm wind in my hair, swimming in Pioneer Lake.”
Her thoughts trail off as we approach a green, two-story house with a bright yellow door. She glances at me, then back to the door. “Whose house is this?” she asks quietly.
“Knock on the door.” I nod, encouraging her.
She taps lightly, as if she’s worried about disturbing someone.
“I’ll be honest, Stasya, I could barely hear that and I’m standing right next to you,” I tease, nudging her shoulder with mine. “You think someone is this mansion will hear it?”
She sticks her tongue out at me, then knocks again—much harder this time.
“Calm down! I heard you the first time!” comes a voice from inside.
Stasya’s eyes widen and she looks at me with surprise.
When the door swings open, Olga Vladimirovich Kravtsova steps out, ready to curse at the annoying knocker.
“Babushka?” Stasya cries, eyes wide in disbelief.
“Anastasiya! My Anastasiya!” The old woman greets her, kissing her three times before throwing her arms around her.
Tears pool in Stasya’s eyes. Pride fills my chest. Over the last few months, I’ve been the source of so many of her tears, when all I ever wanted was to make her happy.
When the women finish their embrace, Olga steps back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’ve been wondering when this lug would bring you to visit me.”
She throws me the familiar evil eye, a look she’s given me countless times. Just thinking about it brings a smile to my face. I still remember Vanya and I sneaking into the kitchen, hoping to steal a piece of still-warm, fresh baked bread. She’d give us the look before slapping our knuckles with a wooden spoon.
“What are you smiling for?” Olga asks. “What’s funny?”
Stasya covers her laugh with a cough, but composes herself quickly to save me from Olga’s wrath. She latches onto the old woman’s arm and guides her through the doorway. “Forget him, Babulya. We have so much to catch up on. How have you been? Tell me everything.”
Instead of following, I take our bag to one of the bedrooms.
This dacha is not the same one where Stasya and Vanya spent their childhood summers, which is why she was so surprised to see who was behind the door. When I moved Olga out of Moscow, Vanya pleaded with me to set her up somewhere she would love. Knowing she would never agree to move to America, he wanted her to ride out the rest of her years living better than she ever had.
Safety was my number one concern, as the Kravtsov family was still being pursued by the KGB and Sobakin’s men at the time I moved her. The safest place I could think of was Peredelkino, the quiet village tucked away in a pine forest thirty minutes outside of Moscow. It’s known as a writer’s colony because so many great Russian authors have lived here—Boris Pasternak, Bella Akhmadulina, Andrei Voznesensky. Writing without fear of imprisonment is much easier to do when living away from the influence of the government.
My uncle bought this giant, colorful house fifteen years ago for his parents to live in. Unfortunately, they were only able to enjoy it for a few years before they passed. It had been empty until I moved Olga there.
At first, I offered to move her to the United States, to live in New York with my mother and uncle. I wasn’t sure if she would enjoy living in solitude at the dacha. I had no doubt she could take care of herself, but she had lived her entire life under the Soviet system. For some, living alone with the nearest neighbor down the road, rather than in the next room, can be a difficult adjustment.
But she refused to go to America. She chose the country and seems to love it. She took to gardening straight away and even bought some goats and chickens.
I didn’t expect it, but I can’t say I’m surprised. Though Olga is much more gruff, she and Stasya are very similar. They’re both smart, strong, hard-working, and able to take care of themselves. And neither woman is afraid to stand up to me.
20
Stasya
After visiting with Babushka, Kirill and I spend the afternoon foraging for mushrooms, though it’s the end of season, so we’re not able to find many.
I’m bent over, looking near a tree, when I hear a shrill voice behind me. “Look out! It’s Baba Yaga!” Kirill yells, running toward me. At first, I think he’s coming to save me from the wicked witch of Russian folklore, but as he gets closer, I notice the devious smile on his face and long stick in his hand, and realize he’s playing Yaga’s part.
I scream with fake terror and take off running, but I’m no match for his speed. He catches me within seconds, dropping the stick before wrapping his arms around me and pressing his teeth against my neck. He tackles me to the dirt and kisses my neck where his teeth nipped. His mouth moves up, kissing my chin and cheeks and, finally, my lips.
His mouth is soft and gentle. When he lifts it from mine, he says, “I love you, Stasya. I always have.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask, surprised to see Kirill. He hasn’t hung out with us in months—maybe even a year.
“Am I not invited to picnics anymore?”
“Why would you want to be?” I ask. “Aren’t you too old and cool to hang out with us?”
“Too old to eat with my family?” he teases, dropping onto the grass next to me. “Never!”
“Family?” I glare at him. “Family doesn’t disappear for months and show up at park, looking for food.”
“Actually, that’s exactly what family does.” He laughs and reaches for the basket. I slap his hand and he draws back quickly. “Geez, Stasya. I didn’t realize my absence weighed on you so heavily.”
It did, but I won’t admit that to him. I could never tell him how much I miss seeing him in the hallways, or when he would pop in to watch What? Where? When? with us.
I burn for him and he thinks of me as a sister. A meek girl he has to protect. He’s probably got a girlfriend at university with fashionable bleached-blonde hair, who smokes the luxury cigarettes he buys off foreigners.
“You can trade all that stuff you buy from tourists for much better things to eat than the beet sandwiches I packed.”
“Beet sandwiches?” Kirill asks, turning up his nose slightly as he peers into the basket.
“It’s all we had,” I tell him indignantly, then continue in a quieter voice, “Papa didn’t make it to the store.”
“How do you and Olga keep the faith?” His gaze catches mine before I avert my eyes to my lap. He pats my knee playfully. “I’m sure the sandwiches are delicious. May I have one?”
I look over my shoulder to the bench where my brother sits with his face plastered to Elena Petrova’s and shrug, handing Kirill the sandwich wrapped with yesterday’s Pravda. “You can have Vanya’s.”
Kirill laughs and accepts without hesitation. He slowly unwraps the newspaper and sniffs the food.
“Enough of that, Kirya!” I kick his foot lightly. “It’s vinegret on Babushka’s homemade bread.”
Without delay, he takes a gigantic bite. As he chews, he sighs and his eyes roll back with delight. Once he’s swallowed, he says, “Even cardboard would taste good on Olga’s rye bread.”
“But what do you think of the beet salad?” I look up at him, hoping my question doesn’t sound too desperate. Even though I haven’t seen Kirill in months, I’ve fallen right back into the pattern of wanting to please him. Wanting him to notice me as something other than the pathetic little girl who needs to be consoled after her father’s violent temper erupts.
I’m not that little girl anymore. I’m not weak or helpless.
Last night, when Papa came home with four bottles of vodka, rather than the food he was supposed t
o bring from the store, I didn’t cry or get upset. Instead, I created an entire meal out of ingredients we had in the kitchen.
I’ve been cooking more often recently, trying to take some of the work off Babushka. Though she tells me she would wither and die of boredom if she didn’t have washing and cooking to do, I still want to help her.
Kirill takes another bite and pauses to chew before finally saying, “It’s one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.”
His compliment brings warmth to my cheeks. I raise my sandwich to hide my smile.
“Then again,” he adds quietly, “I haven’t tasted everything I want to.”
My heart races when his full pink lips raise in a sexy smile. He stares at me, his dreamy eyes bright as he waits for my reaction. I move toward him as if an imaginary string connects our hearts.
“Is that my sandwich?” Vanya asks, jolting me out of my lust-induced fog.
“Yes,” Kirill and I answer in unison, inching away from each other.
“Well, that’s a shitty way to treat your brother while he’s home from the military,” Vanya says.
“You play hockey.” Kirill balls up the newspaper and throws it at Ivan. “You’re not on the front lines of war.”
“I thought maybe you’d had enough to eat. You must have gotten some of Elena’s lunch with how far your tongue was down her throat,” I tell him dryly.
Kirill chokes, hacking on his sandwich. I slap his back until he holds up a hand. Tears slide out of the sides of his eyes. He grabs my drink and starts guzzling.
“It wasn’t that funny,” Vanya says, stalking away from us.
Kirill cough-laughs a few times, then says, “It was.”
One of the things I love most about being with him is that no matter how long it’s been since we last spoke, we pick right back up where we left off. Banter, silliness, teasing Vanya. He’s always been one of my favorite people to be with.
The wind rustles his hair, which is longer than I’ve ever seen it. Dusk will descend soon, bringing colder air with it. I didn’t bring a jacket because I didn’t think I’d be here for this long.
“I don’t want to keep you, Kirya. I know you’re busy these days.” Hastily, I start packing up the picnic.
“Spending time with you outshines anything I have going on.”
Kirill’s voice pulls me out of the memory. “There’s a Pushkin poem I haven’t stopped thinking about ever since we reconnected,” he says, lying back and folding his hands under his head. A small smile plays on his lips as he gazes into the distance.
“Really?” I ask. “Which one?”
He turns his head to me and begins,
“I loved you; and perhaps I love you still,
The flame, perhaps, is not extinguished; yet
It burns so quietly within my soul,
No longer should you feel distressed by it.”
I’m sure most people don’t think of Russians as romantic, but we all know literature by heart. We can recite Tolstoy and Pushkin at the drop of a hat. Hearing him recite one of the most famous love poems to me brings tears my eyes. It’s a very special moment when the man you’ve loved since you were a girl confesses he’s loved you that long as well. With a soaring heart, I join him for the last two stanzas.
“Silently and hopelessly I loved you,
At times too jealous and at times too shy.
God grant you find another who will love you
As tenderly and truthfully as I.”
I collapse onto his chest and stare into his warm, blue eyes. “You are the most wonderful man.”
“You are the most amazing woman.”
Our eyes lock. Our hearts beat together. For a few beautiful seconds, time seems to stop.
“Would you marry me if I asked?” Kirill asks.
“Without a second thought.”
He smiles. “I’ve never been happier than I am right now, in this moment with you,” Kirill says, wrapping his arms around me. I burrow into him, resting my head over his heart.
“I feel the same, my love.” I close my eyes and take a deep, cleansing breath before letting it out slowly.
After a few minutes, I hear his faint snore. His face is peaceful, content as he sleeps. His mind isn’t racing. He’s not thinking about protecting me or himself, or what his uncle will ask of him next. I wonder if he ever finds that same serenity when he’s awake.
I hope so. I hope he finds it with me. And if he hasn’t yet, he will. From this moment on, I will be his peace.
21
Kirill
The next morning, I wake up at 6:00 a.m., groggily wondering who the fuck set an alarm on our one day to sleep in. We stayed up late last night, reminiscing about life in the communal apartment.
I roll over, stomach still stuffed from the amazing meal Olga filled us with last night.
“It’s time to get up, Kirya!” Stasya shakes my shoulder, as if the blaring noise at this ungodly hour wasn’t annoying enough. Instead of answer, I growl and try to tug the blanket over me, but she grabs it.
“Come on!” She leans down and drops a kiss on my forehead. “We told Babushka we’d help her feed the chickens.”
“Shouldn’t you feed your man before you feed any chickens,” I ask, creeping closer to her. My fingers dance across her thigh before I slide two between her legs. She’s already wet, like she woke up ready for me. Like she has every morning since I first touched her here.
The prettiest shade of pink flushes across her cheeks, turning me on and sparking my fire to continue. “Come on, Stasya. I’m hungry,” I say, bringing my finger to my lips and sucking her juices off.
“Then will you get up?” She gasps, but doesn’t forget her original mission.
“I’m already up,” I say, grabbing my cock. Watching her eyes widen at the sight of my erection will never get old. It’s as if she’s always surprised at how excited she makes me.
“I guess I’m a little hungry too,” she whispers, licking her lips.
My eyes roll to the back of my head and I groan in ecstasy just thinking about her mouth and hands on me. I set my knees on both sides of her shoulders, so her face is right under me. Then I swipe my fingers between her legs and coat my cock with her cum. She watches me circle the tip with hungry eyes, her chest heaving with anticipation.
“You are all I need, Stasya. I will always take care of you.”
“We will take care of each other,” she says, looking in my eyes as she grabs me. She slides her hands up and down my cock, twisting them in opposite directions as she goes. I’ve never had anyone do that before and I’m absolutely mesmerized by the feel. It doesn’t take her long to find the pressure, speed, and rhythm to get me off, but it feels so good. I don’t want it to end.
Collapsing forward, holding myself on my hands above her. I grab my cock, press the tip to her lips, and nudge her mouth open. She accepts me easily, allowing me to slide until I hit the back of her throat.
Using one arm to hold me up, I grab her hair, pulling the roots hard as I buck my hips. She takes hold of the base, guiding every thrust as I fuck her face. The flat part of her tongue presses against my shaft tongue and she groans every time the tip hits her throat.
“Mmmmmmm.”
The way she moans and sucks me harder tells me she enjoys it as much as I do.
“Fuck, Stasya! Fuck!” I bat her hand away and take hold again, balls tightening as I jerk my release into her mouth.
It’s so hard to keep my eyes open, but I want to watch her take it all. When she’s finished, she smiles, lips glistening with cum.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” I tell her, pushing the sweaty hair off her forehead.
“Are you still hungry, Kirya?” Her whisper never sounds so sexy as when she’s offering her pussy to me to ravish.
“Starving.” I slide down and nibble the inside of her thigh, making sure the stubble on my cheek brushes her pussy. She bucks forward, swollen and sensitive where I’ve touched. “Lay back, my
love. I’m going to devour you.”
22
Stasya
An overnight in the country with Kirill was exactly what I needed to recharge. I didn’t realize how intense owning a business and opening a booth at Cherikovsky would be. But at least I see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Slava escorts me to the room where about sixty workers sit, bringing my designs to life. I’ve sat down with each of the people in this room individually, showing them exactly how I want things done. Kirill purchased the finest fabrics from all over the world. If these clothes are to be my brand, I want every detail to be correct. I’m here daily, inspecting the quality, asking for things to be redone, approving every single piece.
Years ago, when Marina Smirnova made the silly comment about my designs being sold in stores, I’d brushed it off as a silly fairy tale. But here we are, a few weeks away from opening upstairs—so close I can taste it.
To some, selling clothing at a black market isn’t much of an accomplishment, but to me it represents so much more. It’s the first step to independence. Though Kirill and I own the business together, he lets me make all the decisions. He calls himself an “investor”—someone who gives money to a project to get it up and running. I appreciate that he sees my talent and thinks I’m good enough to invest in.
I sit next to Yelena, a worker I consider somewhat of a production manager because she speaks Kazakh, which is the language of most of the people sewing my clothing. Despite being part of the USSR, Kazakhstan and its language is completely different from Russia. It sounds stupid, but I’ve never been there, nor knew much about it, so I honestly didn’t realize the differences until I went to speak to someone. Thankfully, Yelena can speak both. She has been a lifesaver in the operation.
SAINTS: Saints and Sinners Duet Book 1 Page 15