Page 57 of The Glass Empire
"That's it," he said. "That's it, Monika. Let go. I've got you."
He increased his pace—not fast, not frantic, but deeper, harder, hitting something inside me that made me see stars. I cried out. He covered my mouth with his hand, his eyes dark, his jaw tight.
"Quiet," he said. "The house—"
I bit his palm. He groaned, and the sound of it—the raw, animal sound of him losing control—pushed me over the edge. I came apart with his name on my lips, my body shuddering around his, my vision going white.
He followed a moment later, his hips stuttering, his face buried in my neck. He said my name like a prayer. Like a curse. Like something that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Monika. Monika. Monika.
We lay together in the dark afterward, his arms around me, my head on his chest. His heartbeat was slow now, steady, a rhythm I could fall asleep to.
"Monika Mire," he said again. "It suits you."
"I don't know who that is yet."
"You have time." He kissed the top of my head. "You have all the time in the world."
I closed my eyes. The fire crackled. The clock ticked. Somewhere in the hallway, I thought I heard footsteps—soft, deliberate, moving away.
But I was too warm, too safe, too full to care.
I slept.
14
The Fallout
Nathan
The hallway was dark. That was the only thing that saved me.
If there had been light—if there had been anything illuminating my face, my hands, the unmistakable bulge in my trousers—I would have been exposed. Caught. Destroyed. But the hallway was dark, and the door was cracked just enough, and I stood in the shadows and watched my father fuck the girl I'd been fantasizing about for weeks.
I should have walked away.
I should have turned around the moment I heard her voice, the moment I realized what was happening behind that door. I should have gone back to my room, poured myself a drink, and pretended I hadn't seen anything. That was the civilized response. The appropriate response. The response of a son who respected his father's privacy and his own sanity.
But I didn't walk away.
I stood there for an hour—maybe longer—with my hand pressed against the wall and my breath held in my chest, and I watched.
The door was old. The hinge had sagged over the years, leaving a gap just wide enough to see through. I could see the bed. The fire. The way the shadows moved across the walls like living things. I could see her body—the curve of her spine, the arch of her neck, the way her legs wrapped around his waist like she was holding onto the only solid thing in a world that was trying to drown her.
She was beautiful. That was the worst part. Not beautiful in the way she'd been at dinner, polished and poised and pretending to belong. Beautiful in the way she was when she forgot to pretend—her mouth open, her eyes closed, her body moving beneath his in a rhythm that made my teeth ache.
I watched my father touch her. Kiss her. Take her apart piece by piece, the way he took apart everything he wanted. He was gentle with her—gentler than I'd ever seen him be with anyone. His hands, those hands that had killed and ordered killing and signed papers that ended lives, were soft on her skin. He touched her like she was made of glass. Like she was something precious.
I hated him for it.
I hated her for it.
I hated myself for not being able to look away.
When it was over, I walked back to my room.
My legs were numb. My hands were shaking. I could still hear her—the sounds she'd made, the way she'd said his name.Aleksander. Like a prayer. Like a curse. Like something that would haunt me for the rest of my life.
