All The Pretty Little Lies (Second Sons Duet #1)

32. Vesper

VESPER

I stare at Zaire's peaceful face, his long lashes resting against his cheeks, his breathing slow and steady. The dim light filtering through the warehouse windows casts shadows across his features, accentuating the sharp line of his jaw and the curve of his lips. My eyes trace the intricate tattoos peeking out from beneath the collar of his shirt, a stark contrast to the unmarked skin of his twin lying behind me.

The weight of Oscar's arm draped over my waist is comforting, grounding me in this moment of surreal calm. I can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back, his breath warm on my neck. It's a cocoon of safety, nestled between these two powerful men who have become my unexpected protectors.

My mind drifts back to the events that led me here, but the memories are hazy, obscured by a fog of grief and shock. I remember fragments; the screech of tires, the low murmur of voices. The rest is a blur, my senses dulled by the overwhelming pain of betrayal.

I shift slightly, and Zaire's brow furrows in his sleep. His arm tightens around me, pulling me closer as if sensing my distress even in his dreams.

The warehouse is quiet save for the distant hum of the city beyond its walls. The smell of metal and leather permeates the air.

I close my eyes, trying to shut out the world and the pain it brings. But behind my eyelids, I see my uncle's face. The ache in my chest threatens to overwhelm me again, but the steady heartbeats of Oscar and Zaire on either side of me function as anchors, keeping me tethered to the present.

Ivanov's words echo in my mind, a haunting refrain that refuses to be silenced. I can still see his face, contorted with pain and fear, as he spilled the truth like poison from his lips. Not that I pity him. After what he did to me, and likely countless others, he deserved every moment of his fate. But his confession, extracted through means I'd rather not dwell on, has left me reeling.

"It was Mario Rossi," he had gasped. "He bought the embryo. Natasha...she arranged it all for him."

The betrayal cuts deeper than any knife, leaving a wound that I fear may never fully heal. Mario, the man who had bounced me on his knee as a child, who had taught me to shoot my first gun, who had sworn to always protect me; he had orchestrated my downfall. He had ordered the theft of my body. He had ordered the creation of two embryos. The viable male embryo god knows where. Even more cruelly, the destruction of the female embryo. A life that would never draw her first breath.

A sob catches in my throat, threatening to break free. I swallow it down, not wanting to wake the twins, but the pain is like a living thing inside me, clawing at my insides. My hand instinctively moves to my stomach, flat and empty, mourning a child that never was.

She would have had my eyes, I think. Green like spring leaves, flecked with gold. Maybe she would have inherited the Rossi nose, straight and proud. I imagine her tiny fingers, perfect and delicate, grasping my own. The weight of her in my arms, the soft downy hair on her head. I can almost hear her first cry, see her first steps, feel the warmth of her first hug.

I think of all the firsts we'll never share - her first word, her first day of school, her first heartbreak. I'll never braid her hair or teach her to defend herself. I'll never see her grow into a strong, fierce woman who could have changed the world. The future I never knew I wanted has been ripped away, leaving a gaping hole in my heart.

But she'll never take those steps. She'll never cry or laugh or call me ‘Mama.’ She'll never know the fierce love that I already feel for her, this phantom child who exists only in my shattered dreams. The grief is overwhelming, a tidal wave threatening to drown me. How can I mourn someone who never existed? And yet, the loss feels as real and as raw as if I'd held her in my arms and watched her slip away.

Tears slip silently down my cheeks, soaking into the rough fabric beneath me. I mourn for the life unlived, the potential unrealized. I mourn for the mother I'll never be to her, the love I'll never get to give. The pain is a physical ache, as if a part of me has been carved out, leaving only emptiness behind.

I allow myself to feel the full weight of this loss. To grieve for a child who never drew breath, but who had already claimed a piece of my soul. The injustice of it all threatens to consume me. How someone could play God with life so carelessly, destroying a future as if it meant nothing.

I press my lips together to stifle a whimper, my body trembling with the force of my silent sobs. The warehouse suddenly feels too small, too confining. The air is thick with the ghosts of what might have been, suffocating me with possibilities that will never come to pass.

As I struggle to contain my grief, I feel a subtle shift in the air. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I open my eyes to find Zaire's intense gaze fixed upon me. His silver eyes are filled with concern and something deeper, more primal. He doesn't speak, but his hand moves to cup my cheek, his calloused thumb gently wiping away a stray tear.

With a tenderness that belies his fierce exterior, Zaire draws me closer. I allow myself to be pulled into his embrace, nuzzling into the solid warmth of his chest. His scent envelops me. It's comforting and intoxicating all at once, and I find myself inhaling deeply, trying to memorize this moment of solace.

My tears flow freely now, soaking into the fabric of his shirt. Zaire's arms tighten around me, one hand cradling the back of my head, while the other traces soothing circles on my lower back. He murmurs soft words in Russian, the lyrical cadence of his native tongue washing over me like a balm.

Behind me, I feel Oscar beginning to stir. His arm tightens around my waist for a moment before relaxing. Without a word, Zaire shifts, his movements fluid and graceful despite his size. In one smooth motion, he scoops me into his arms, cradling me against his chest as if I weigh nothing.

I cling to him, my fingers curling into the soft material of his shirt as he carries me away from Oscar, who is sleeping soundly again. My tears have slowed, but my breath still comes in shuddering gasps. Zaire's heartbeat is strong and steady beneath my ear, a rhythmic counterpoint to my ragged breathing.

We move through the warehouse, past stacks of crates and forgotten machinery, until Zaire pushes open a heavy metal door with his shoulder. The room beyond is sparsely furnished but undeniably his. The walls are adorned with intricate sketches. I recognize his artistic hand in the bold lines and delicate shading. A well-worn leather jacket is draped over a chair.

Zaire sets me down gently on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath our combined weight as he sits beside me. His eyes, usually so guarded, are open and vulnerable as they search my face. I can see the pain reflected there, mirroring my own.

"Vesper," he says, his voice low and rough with emotion. "I promised you no one else would make you cry."

His words, meant to comfort, only serve to open the floodgates once more. Fresh tears spill down my cheeks, and I can see the anguish in Zaire's eyes. “Tell me what to do, moya koroleva. Give your monster a purpose. I’ll do anything to not see you in so much fucking pain.”

“Make it go away. Make the pain go away, Zaire. I can’t…I can’t breathe.”

Zaire's eyes darken at my words, a storm of conflicting emotions swirling in their depths. His jaw clenches, the muscles in his neck tightening visibly. For a moment, he's utterly still, like a predator poised to strike. Then, with a gentleness that belies his fierce exterior, he cups my face in his hands.

"Vesper," he breathes, his voice husky and strained. "You're hurting. You're not thinking clearly. We don't have to rush into this."

His thumb traces the curve of my cheekbone, wiping away a stray tear. The tenderness of the gesture contrasts sharply with the raw hunger I can see simmering beneath the surface of his control. It makes me ache for him even more.

I reach up, running my fingers along the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the slight rasp of stubble against my skin. "I need you. I need to feel something other than this pain. Make me forget, even if it's just for a little while."

Zaire's breath hitches, his pupils dilating until only a thin ring of blue remains. His hands slide down to my shoulders, gripping tightly as if to anchor himself. "You don't know what you're asking for, moya koroleva," he growls, the endearment slipping out almost unconsciously. “There are ways to make the pain recede, Vesper. Ways I know intimately. But it's not simple, and it's not for everyone." He pauses, his gaze intense as it locks with mine. "I'm what's called a Dom. It means I take control, provide structure, and offer a different kind of release. But it also means I bear the responsibility for your well-being, your pleasure, your pain."

His words send a shiver down my spine, a mix of fear and something else, something electric. "What does that mean?" I whisper, my voice barely audible even in the quiet room.

Zaire's hand comes up to cup my cheek, his touch gentle despite the calluses on his fingers. "It means you would be my submissive. You would give yourself over to me, trust me to guide you, to push your limits, to give you what you need – even if it's not always what you think you want."

He leans in closer, his breath warm against my ear. "I would worship every inch of your body, learn every sound you make, every shiver, every gasp. I would take you apart piece by piece and put you back together again. I would be your anchor in the storm, your safe harbor."

His words paint vivid pictures in my mind – images of hands bound, skin flushed, pleasure so intense it borders on pain. I can almost feel the ghost of a touch trailing down my spine, the whisper of silk against my skin.

"But it's more than just physical," Zaire continues, his voice a low rumble that I feel as much as hear. "It's about trust, about letting go completely. It's about finding freedom in submission, peace in surrender. When you're with me, you won't have to think, won't have to decide. You'll just feel."

He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching mine. "I would take care of you, anticipate your needs before you even know them yourself. But I would also challenge you, push you to your limits and beyond. It can be intense, overwhelming even. But the release, the catharsis – it's unlike anything else. I'll consume you, possess you entirely. Are you sure that's what you want?"

The heat in his gaze sends a shiver down my spine, igniting a fire low in my belly. I meet his eyes unflinchingly, letting him see the desperation, the need burning within me. "Yes," I breathe. "I want all of you, Zaire. Every dark, dangerous part. I trust you."

"You need a safe word."

The concept isn't entirely foreign to me, but hearing it from Zaire's lips sends a shiver down my spine. He continues, his voice taking on a softer edge. "If you use this word, everything stops. No questions asked, no matter what's happening. It's your lifeline, your way out if things become too much. Choose something you'll remember easily, something that has no connection to what we're doing. It should be a word that won't come up accidentally."

I think for a moment, my mind racing through possibilities. Finally, I settle on one. “Sunflower,” I say, thinking of the bright yellow blooms that used to grow in the garden under my window.

Zaire nods, a flicker of approval in his eyes. "Sunflower," he repeats, committing it to memory. "Remember, moya koroleva, this word gives you all the power. Use it, and everything stops immediately. No consequences, no judgment. Do you understand?"

I nod again, more firmly this time. "I understand, Zaire."

His hands move to my shoulders, squeezing gently. "Good. Now, tell me your safe word one more time."

"Sunflower" I say, my voice stronger now.

"And you'll use it if you need to, won't you, moya koroleva?"

I nod again, my breath catching in my throat at his proximity.

"I need to hear you say it," Zaire growls, his grip tightening slightly.

"Yes," I breathe.

"Let’s begin, moya koroleva," he breathes, his voice husky with desire. His calloused hands caress my thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. My breath catches in my throat as he leans in, his warm breath ghosting over my sensitive skin. “We’ll start slow. Don't move," he commands, his silver eyes locking onto mine. "Keep your hands on the bed, and don't you dare look away."

I nod, my heart racing as I obey, gripping the sheets tightly. His lips brush against my inner thigh, his stubble scratching deliciously against my skin. He works his way up slowly, torturously, placing open-mouthed kisses along my flesh.

"Z," I whimper, my hips instinctively arching towards him.

He pulls back slightly, a wicked grin playing on his lips. "Did I say you could move, moya koroleva?" His voice is stern, but his eyes dance with mischief.

I bite my lip, shaking my head.

"Good girl," he purrs, rewarding me with a gentle nip to my inner thigh. "Now, stay still and let me worship you properly."

His talented mouth resumes its exploration, and I fight to keep my eyes open, to keep watching him as he'd commanded. As he finally reaches my center, I gasp, my fingers twisting in the sheets. Zaire's tongue dances over my most sensitive areas, and I struggle to obey his earlier command to stay still.

"Z, please," I beg, my voice barely above a whisper.

He pauses, his hot breath teasing my sensitive flesh. "What do you need, moya koroleva?" Zaire's voice is husky, dripping with desire.

"You," I breathe, my body trembling with need. "Please, I need you."

His large finger shoves aside my panties, a low growl rumbles in his chest as he dives back in, his tongue circling my clit with expert precision. My back arches involuntarily, a moan escaping my lips as waves of pleasure wash over me. Zaire's strong hands grip my thighs, holding me in place as he works his magic.

His tongue flicks and swirls building me higher and higher. I can feel the tension coiling in my core, my release tantalizingly close. My fingers twist in the sheets, knuckles white with the effort of staying still. Zaire's eyes, dark with lust, never leave mine as he pushes me closer to the edge.

Just as I'm about to tumble over, Zaire pulls away. I whimper at the loss, my body aching for completion. "Not yet," he growls, his voice rough with arousal. "On your knees, now."

I comply immediately, my legs shaky as I position myself before him. Zaire kneels, towering over me, his muscled chest heaving with each breath. His tattoos seem to ripple in the dim light, a work of art brought to life.

"Open your mouth," he commands, his hand cupping my chin. I obey, looking up at him through my lashes. "Good girl," he praises, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "Now, show me how much you want it."

I hesitate for a moment, my inexperience suddenly overwhelming. Zaire's eyes soften as he notices my uncertainty. "It's okay, moya koroleva," he murmurs, his voice gentle. "I'll guide you. Just take it slow."

With trembling hands, I reach for his zipper, fumbling slightly as I free him from his jeans. His length springs forth, impressive and intimidating. I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry.

"Start with your hand," Zaire instructs, his voice husky. "Wrap your fingers around the base."

I do as he says, marveling at the contrast between the soft skin and the hardness beneath. Zaire hisses in pleasure, his hand coming to rest on the back of my head.

"Now, use your tongue," he continues. "Lick from base to tip, like it's the most delicious ice cream cone you've ever tasted."

Tentatively, I follow his directions, my tongue tracing the prominent vein along his shaft. The taste is unfamiliar but not unpleasant; salty and musky. His fingers tangle in my hair, encouraging me.

"That's it, moya koroleva," he groans. "Now, take the tip into your mouth. Be careful of your teeth."

I part my lips, taking him in slowly. The weight of him on my tongue is strange but exciting. I look up at Zaire, seeking approval, and find his eyes blazing with desire.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Your swollen lips wrapped around my cock. It's going to undo me, Vesper."

His words send a thrill through me, emboldening me to take him deeper. I hollow my cheeks, sucking gently as I bob my head, following the rhythm Zaire sets with his hand in my hair.

"Use your hand too," he instructs, his voice strained. "Stroke what you can't fit in your mouth."

I comply, my hand working in tandem with my mouth. Zaire's breathing grows ragged, his hips starting to move slightly. I gag a little as he hits the back of my throat, but his murmured praises encourage me to keep going.

"You're doing so well, moya koroleva," he groans. "Your mouth feels incredible."

His words spur me on, and I redouble my efforts, alternating between long, slow strokes and quick, shallow ones. Zaire's grip on my hair tightens, his control slipping. His breath catches, and he gently pulls me off him. His eyes, dark with desire, lock onto mine. "As much as I'd love to see my cum staining those perfect lips," he growls, his voice husky, "I want to be inside you when we both find our release."

A shiver runs through me at his words, anticipation coiling low in my belly. Zaire's hand cups my cheek, his thumb tracing my swollen lips. "Take off your shirt and your panties.” I do as he says. My body on full display for him now.

“Turn around," he commands softly. "Hands and one knee on the edge of the bed."

I comply, my body trembling with need as I position myself as instructed. The cool air of the room kisses my heated skin, raising goosebumps along my exposed flesh. I feel vulnerable, exposed, but the weight of Zaire's gaze on me is electric.

Zaire settles in behind me, his large hands gripping my hips. I can feel the heat radiating from his body, the brush of his tattoos against my skin as he leans over me. His lips find the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and he places a searing kiss there.

"Are you ready for me, moya koroleva?" he murmurs against my skin.

I nod, unable to form words as desire courses through me. Zaire's hand slides between my legs, his fingers exploring my slick folds. "So wet for me," he groans, his voice thick with arousal.

Slowly, torturously, Zaire pushes himself inside me. I gasp at the stretch, the feeling of fullness overwhelming. He pauses, allowing me to adjust to his size. His hands caress my sides soothingly, his lips peppering kisses along my spine.

“You feel incredible," Zaire breathes, his voice strained with the effort of holding still. "So tight, so perfect. Mine."

When I push back against him, silently begging for more, Zaire takes the cue. He begins to move, his thrusts slow and deep at first. Each movement sends sparks of pleasure shooting through me, and I moan, my fingers twisting in the sheets.

Zaire's pace gradually increases, his hips snapping against mine with increasing urgency. The room fills with the sounds of our pleasure; skin against skin, breathless moans, and whispered endearments in Russian that I don't understand but that send shivers down my spine.

One of Zaire's hands leaves my hip, sliding up my back to tangle in my hair. He tugs gently, arching my back and changing the angle of his thrusts. The new position hits a spot deep inside me that has me seeing stars.

"Z," I gasp, my voice barely recognizable. "Oh god, right there."

"That's it, moya koroleva," Zaire growls, his thrusts becoming more forceful. "Your pretty little pink cunt was made for my cock.”

His hand releases my hair, gently wrapping around my throat instead. His fingers splay across my skin, not cutting off my air, but applying just enough pressure to send a thrill of excitement through me. The feeling of his palm against my racing pulse is intoxicating, a reminder of the power he holds over me in this moment.

Zaire's thrusts become harder, more insistent. Each snap of his hips drives me forward, and I struggle to maintain my balance. My back arches further, pushing my ass more firmly against him, taking him even deeper. The new angle has me gasping, spots dancing behind my eyelids as pleasure courses through every nerve ending.

I can feel how close he is, his cock pulsing inside me, growing even harder with each thrust. His breathing is ragged, hot against my neck as he buries his face there, inhaling deeply. Just as I think he's about to let go, Zaire suddenly stills. A low, animalistic growl rumbles through his chest, vibrating against my back. "No," he says, his voice rough with desire and determination. "Not like this."

He releases his grip on my throat, his hand sliding down to rest on my collarbone. "The first time I fill you," he pants, “I want those beautiful emerald green eyes to watch me spill inside of you. To see me, your monster, chasing away your demons."

Before I can process his words, Zaire is moving. He pulls out of me, leaving me feeling achingly empty, and I whimper at the loss. But then his strong hands are on me, pulling me from the bed with an urgency that takes my breath away.

He spins me around to face him, his silver eyes dark with lust. In one fluid motion, he jerks me upwards, and I instinctively wrap my legs around his hard stomach. His hands fall to my ass, large and calloused, cradling me with a strength that makes me feel weightless.

Zaire's eyes lock onto mine, intense and burning with desire. "Ready, moya koroleva?" he asks, his voice a husky whisper.

I can only nod, my ability to form words lost in the haze of pleasure and anticipation. With a grunt of satisfaction, Zaire thrusts up into me, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful movement.

The sensation is overwhelming. In this position, he feels impossibly deep, stretching me in ways I never thought possible. I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders as I cling to him.

Zaire's hands on my ass guide my movements, lifting me up and then pulling me back down onto him. The muscles in his arms flex with each motion, the intricate tattoos rippling across his skin. I'm mesmerized by the sight, by the raw power he exudes.

"Look at me," Zaire commands, his voice rough. "I want to see every expression on your beautiful face as I fuck you."

I force my eyes to meet his, and the intensity I find there nearly undoes me. His gaze is hungry, possessive, filled with a need that matches my own. As he thrusts up into me again, I watch his pupils dilate, his jaw clench with the effort of maintaining control. The room fills with the sound of skin on skin, our breathless moans and whispered curses. Zaire's pace is relentless, each thrust driving me higher and higher. I can feel my release building.

“Oh god,” I moan.

"That's it, moya koroleva," Zaire growls, his voice husky with arousal. "Let me hear you. Let me see how good I make you feel. Wake up the whole fucking penthouse."

I can feel the coarse hair on his chest rubbing against my sensitive nipples adding another layer of sensation to the overwhelming pleasure.

My head falls back, exposing my throat to Zaire's hungry gaze. He takes advantage, leaning in to nip and suck at the delicate skin there. I know he'll leave marks, but I can't bring myself to care. In this moment, I want nothing more than to be claimed by him, to wear the evidence of our passion.

"Eyes on me," Zaire commands, his voice rough.

With effort, I lift my head, meeting his intense gaze. The silver of his eyes is nearly swallowed by his dilated pupils. I feel exposed, vulnerable under his scrutiny, but also incredibly powerful. The way he's looking at me, like I'm the most precious thing in the world, makes me feel invincible.

His command, coupled with a particularly deep thrust has my orgasm crashing over me like a tidal wave, pleasure exploding through every fiber of my being. I cry out Zaire's name, my voice echoing off the warehouse walls as waves of ecstasy roll through me. My inner walls clench around him, pulsing with the force of my release.

Through the haze of my climax, I see Zaire's face contort with pleasure and determination. His jaw clenches, the muscles in his neck straining as he fights to maintain control. His eyes, dark with lust, never leave mine, watching intently as I come undone in his arms.

As the aftershocks of my orgasm ripple through me, Zaire's pace becomes frantic, almost punishing. His hands dig into the soft flesh of my ass, fingers pressing so hard I know they'll leave marks. But the pain only adds to the pleasure, grounding me in this moment of pure sensation.

"Fuck, Vesper," he grunts, his voice strained. "You feel so fucking good.”

"Cum for me, Z," I whisper, my lips brushing against his ear. "I want to feel you."

My words seem to break the last of his control. With a guttural roar, Zaire slams into me one final time burying himself to the hilt. I feel him pulsing inside me, his release hot and intense. His arms tighten around me, crushing me to his chest as he rides out his orgasm. Wrapped in Zaire's strong arms and filled with the evidence of his passion, I feel safe. The pain and betrayal that led me here seems distant, pushed aside by the intensity of what we've just shared. My monster has indeed chased away my nightmares replacing them with a different kind of dream.