Liberate Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part One) by Evie Blake Page B
Authors: Evie Blake
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contradiction.
The Russian is crying out, ‘Katya,
milaya moya
!’ as he finally comes, his vibrations sending Belle into a spin so that she is climaxing as well. They collapse on to the Persian rug, both of them glowing with perspiration, and the Russian rolls off her back to lie beside her.
Belle turns to him. Now he is a different man. Tears are streaming down his face. His expression is one of utter devastation.
‘Oh, dear Igor,’ she says, taking him into her arms. He presses his wet cheek against her bare breasts, and she strokes his hair, letting him weep. She looks down at his scarred body, his back covered in red welts, the marks of his time in prison in Siberia. Despite his aristocratic bearing, Igor was in fact a revolutionary, a comrade of Lenin’s. It might have been amusing to consider how this diehard communist liked to play the lord and master, if he wasn’t such a tragic figure. He was forced to flee Russia after Lenin died and Stalin replaced him. He tried to stop Stalin’s rise to power, and now he was a wanted man. Belle has made herself feel sorry for him, never asking about before the Revolution, whether he was one of those Russian soldiers who burnt their way through her homeland the year she married. That was so long ago now.
She holds Igor in her arms until he has stopped crying, thetwo of them naked. She feels cleansed by his wash of emotion.
‘Who is Katya?’ she asks tentatively.
Igor sighs, turning to look at her with melancholy eyes.
‘Despite my revolutionary background, Belle, I have to admit I am not working class. I was brought up in a wealthy bourgeois family. We had a maid. Her name was Katya.’
He sighs again, as if he has the woes of the world upon his shoulders, then moves away from her, standing up. She sits up on the rug, watches his pale back, stiff and narrow. He reminds her of a heron, a solitary, aloof figure, watching the business of life swim past him.
‘I was in love with Katya,’ he says, dropping his head and clutching his hands together.
‘What happened, Igor?’ Despite his obvious distress, she senses that her Russian needs to tell her this.
He spins around to face her. His eyes are still wet from his tears, yet lit up with passion like the blue flames at the heart of a fire.
‘She died. It was my fault. I was supposed to take care of her. She was so loyal . . . so innocent . . . so sweet . . .’
Belle gets up and walks over to Igor. She puts her arms around him. Now that they are no longer in the throes of passion, their nakedness seems so trusting and pure. He bends his head and speaks into her shoulder.
‘I left her behind thinking she was safer, but she wasn’t . . . My family escaped, but not Katya. I had ordered her to go with them if the time came to flee, but apparently she refused.She waited for me until everyone else had gone, and the Whites rode into town looking for me. They made Katya pay for my absence.’
‘Oh, Igor.’ Belle embraces him tightly. He lifts his head, looks her in the eyes. She can see the anguish in their blue waters.
‘Dear Belle, thank you for understanding.’
She squeezes his hand.
‘You will find love again, Igor.’
‘Do you believe that, Belle?’ he asks hopelessly.
She looks inside her heart. There is a perverse part of her that almost envies Igor. At least he has known what it is like to be in love. She says a silent prayer.
‘Yes, I believe that within one lifetime, every single one of us will experience true love. If we lose it and our hearts are open enough despite our loss, we can find it again.’
‘Everyone!’ He smiles ruefully. ‘Even Stalin? Or Mussolini?’
‘Yes, even them.’ She smiles back, gently wiping his face with her maid’s hat. ‘It is the human condition.’
Valentina
WHEN VALENTINA STEPS THROUGH THE DOORWAY INTO what Leonardo calls the Atlantis Room, all appears serene, not at all the den of iniquity she imagined. The walls are painted Prussian blue and the
The Russian is crying out, ‘Katya,
milaya moya
!’ as he finally comes, his vibrations sending Belle into a spin so that she is climaxing as well. They collapse on to the Persian rug, both of them glowing with perspiration, and the Russian rolls off her back to lie beside her.
Belle turns to him. Now he is a different man. Tears are streaming down his face. His expression is one of utter devastation.
‘Oh, dear Igor,’ she says, taking him into her arms. He presses his wet cheek against her bare breasts, and she strokes his hair, letting him weep. She looks down at his scarred body, his back covered in red welts, the marks of his time in prison in Siberia. Despite his aristocratic bearing, Igor was in fact a revolutionary, a comrade of Lenin’s. It might have been amusing to consider how this diehard communist liked to play the lord and master, if he wasn’t such a tragic figure. He was forced to flee Russia after Lenin died and Stalin replaced him. He tried to stop Stalin’s rise to power, and now he was a wanted man. Belle has made herself feel sorry for him, never asking about before the Revolution, whether he was one of those Russian soldiers who burnt their way through her homeland the year she married. That was so long ago now.
She holds Igor in her arms until he has stopped crying, thetwo of them naked. She feels cleansed by his wash of emotion.
‘Who is Katya?’ she asks tentatively.
Igor sighs, turning to look at her with melancholy eyes.
‘Despite my revolutionary background, Belle, I have to admit I am not working class. I was brought up in a wealthy bourgeois family. We had a maid. Her name was Katya.’
He sighs again, as if he has the woes of the world upon his shoulders, then moves away from her, standing up. She sits up on the rug, watches his pale back, stiff and narrow. He reminds her of a heron, a solitary, aloof figure, watching the business of life swim past him.
‘I was in love with Katya,’ he says, dropping his head and clutching his hands together.
‘What happened, Igor?’ Despite his obvious distress, she senses that her Russian needs to tell her this.
He spins around to face her. His eyes are still wet from his tears, yet lit up with passion like the blue flames at the heart of a fire.
‘She died. It was my fault. I was supposed to take care of her. She was so loyal . . . so innocent . . . so sweet . . .’
Belle gets up and walks over to Igor. She puts her arms around him. Now that they are no longer in the throes of passion, their nakedness seems so trusting and pure. He bends his head and speaks into her shoulder.
‘I left her behind thinking she was safer, but she wasn’t . . . My family escaped, but not Katya. I had ordered her to go with them if the time came to flee, but apparently she refused.She waited for me until everyone else had gone, and the Whites rode into town looking for me. They made Katya pay for my absence.’
‘Oh, Igor.’ Belle embraces him tightly. He lifts his head, looks her in the eyes. She can see the anguish in their blue waters.
‘Dear Belle, thank you for understanding.’
She squeezes his hand.
‘You will find love again, Igor.’
‘Do you believe that, Belle?’ he asks hopelessly.
She looks inside her heart. There is a perverse part of her that almost envies Igor. At least he has known what it is like to be in love. She says a silent prayer.
‘Yes, I believe that within one lifetime, every single one of us will experience true love. If we lose it and our hearts are open enough despite our loss, we can find it again.’
‘Everyone!’ He smiles ruefully. ‘Even Stalin? Or Mussolini?’
‘Yes, even them.’ She smiles back, gently wiping his face with her maid’s hat. ‘It is the human condition.’
Valentina
WHEN VALENTINA STEPS THROUGH THE DOORWAY INTO what Leonardo calls the Atlantis Room, all appears serene, not at all the den of iniquity she imagined. The walls are painted Prussian blue and the
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