The Consul rose slowly from his knees, eyes locked onto Wanda's. His composure lay in ruins — yet something within him had solidified, not broken. He stood taller in the aftermath of surrender, as though stripped bare, he'd found the shape of something truer.
Wanda sat upright on the edge of the desk, the cool silk of her gown pooling around her waist like liquid midnight. Her posture was regal, untouched by shame — no, empowered by the intimacy they'd just shared. Beyond the window, the fireworks pulsed faintly, casting flickers of gold and blood-red across the walls, their bodies momentarily etched in shifting silhouette.
"Not finished already, are we?" Wanda's voice was low, velvet-rough from pleasure, her words a purr edged in challenge. Her gaze dropped languidly down his body, pausing at the undeniable proof of his arousal. Her eyes rose again, alight with provocation.
"Because I haven't even begun."
A growl rumbled in his throat — primal, instinctive. His hands moved without hesitation, undoing the clasps of his jacket and letting it fall to the floor like a discarded title. His shirt followed, revealing the body beneath — lean muscle, honed and responsive.
She crooked a finger. A silent command.
He responded without hesitation.
She traced the lines of his abdomen with one slow drag of her nails, claiming him with touch alone.
"Is this what you dream about," she murmured, her breath whispering heat against his chest, "when you lie awake in your cold bed? Power wrapped in the illusion of surrender?"
His hand rose, fingers curling around her jaw, lifting her face to meet his. The grip was firm but reverent — not to silence, but to anchor.
"I dreamed of dismantling you," he said, voice hoarse, fierce. "Piece by stubborn piece."
She laughed — quiet, razor-edged. "Careful, love. You might cut yourself on the edges."
"Then let me bleed."
He kissed her then — not gently. Not sweetly. It was raw need and possession, sharp and consuming. Her lips parted beneath his, matching his rhythm, her fingers tangling in his hair, tugging — not to resist, but to guide. A silent war of wills, fought in breath and tongue, pull and press.
Her legs wrapped around him, drawing him tighter, deeper, until there was no room left for doubt. He lifted her with ease, carrying her from the desk to the wide leather chaise like something sacred. The dark upholstery sighed beneath them as he laid her down, kneeling between her thighs with reverence and urgency.
"Look at me," she commanded, her voice like velvet drawn over a blade.
He obeyed, gaze locked to hers, burning.
"Tell me what you want."
"You," he rasped, no hesitation, no artifice. "All of you."
Her fingers guided him — deft, unhurried, sure. Drawing him in. Aligning their bodies in readiness. The Consul's breath hissed sharply as he entered her slowly, deliberately, the sensation wrenching a guttural sound from deep within him. Wanda's lips parted in a low, shuddering moan, her head falling back, dark hair spilling across the chaise, eyes briefly fluttering closed as she adjusted to his fullness.
When her eyes opened again, they blazed — wild with hunger, electric with command. Her fingers dug into his sides, grounding him in the moment. "Move," she breathed, not as an instruction, but as an invocation, her hips rising to meet him with an urgency that set fire to restraint.
He did. He thrust into her, slow at first, savoring the feel of her wrapped around him, the way she arched, gasped, clawed. Their rhythm grew quickly — hungry, relentless — until the chaise creaked beneath them and the air filled with the slick sounds of union and heat.
Wanda moaned, loud and unrestrained, each sound tearing free like it had been caged too long. Her nails raked down his arm instead, deep enough to draw blood as she gasped in pleasure. Then, with sudden, electric force, she slapped him across the face — not hesitation, no apology — just raw need crashing through dominance. Her eyes locked onto his, pupils dilated, her breath ragged, desire burning through her stare.
"Faster," she growled, the word molten and raw, as she spread her legs wider beneath him, baring herself fully to the depth she craved.
"Faster!" she screamed, her voice breaking with feral need, the demand tearing from her throat like a spell cast in fire.
He obeyed, slamming into her with force, each thrust deeper, harder, until the burn of exertion started to take hold. His breath grew ragged, muscles trembling with effort, every thrust stealing a little more control. A growl tore from Wanda's throat, sharp and impatient, her body refusing his retreat.
"Don't stop," she snapped, her voice laced with fire and urgency, her body straining toward him, unwilling to let him pull back.
He tried. He pushed harder, faster, breath burning in his throat — but it wasn't enough for her. Wanda's eyes narrowed, frustration flashing through the haze of desire. In a sudden, fluid motion, she gripped his neck and shoved him back, forcing him off balance. He collapsed onto the floor — cold, polished, scattered with the wreckage of datapads and silk — the very ground where he'd knelt before.
She straddled him with practiced grace, her thighs sliding around his hips, grounding herself atop him. With a sharp gasp and a drawn-out moan, she sank down onto him, inch by inch, her walls clenching around him in molten rhythm. The Consul groaned, head tipping back, a sound of sheer, overwhelmed pleasure escaping his lips.
Wanda stilled once fully seated, a deep tremble running through her. She exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering shut for one slow moment, savoring every nerve lit with sensation. Both of them moaned again — together — breath mingling, raw, hungry, and utterly lost in the heat they'd summoned.
Wanda began to move, grinding against him with deep, measured grace, her pace slow and deliberate. Her eyes never left his, watching intently as each flicker of expression crossed his face — every twitch of pleasure, every groan she coaxed from his throat.
The friction built, and a loud moan tore from her lips, the sensation striking her with full, exquisite force. Then she began to ride him — no longer slow, but urgent, each bounce releasing the sharp slapping of flesh against flesh, echoing through the dim, breathless room. Her head fell back, voice breaking on a cry of pleasure as she took him deeper, harder, again and again.
The Consul, swept up in the intensity of her rhythm, moved to match her pace, his hands gripping her waist, guiding and grounding her as they crashed together. Each bounce sent a ripple of fire through him, and he felt it — the edge, the beginning of his undoing. Groaning deeply, breath ragged, he gasped, "Wanda... I'm about to cum."
Still riding him relentlessly, Wanda's eyes flashed, her jaw tight with focus. "Don't you dare," she hissed, her pace never slowing, never yielding. Her waist snapped with fierce precision, denying him release.
He gritted his teeth, struggling to hold on, every muscle tensed against the pressure rising inside him. Wanda saw it — the way his face contorted with restraint, his groans growing deeper, darker.
"Just a little longer," she whispered, her voice breaking in a shuddering breath, her own release racing toward her. She quivered atop him, her walls tightening with every surge of motion. Her fingers dug into his chest as she moaned again, high and desperate.
"A... little longe...rr," she gasped, body trembling, her voice cracking into fragments.
And then it hit — a gush of wetness spilling down around him as her scream tore through the room.
"gods — I'm cumming… I'm cumming!"
That was the final blow. The Consul, overwhelmed, gave in with a cry of his own, his release crashing into her, filling her warmth as his body arched beneath her.
She collapsed onto his chest, shaking, breathless, overwhelmed. Together they trembled, lost in the intensity of shared climax.
Wanda opened her eyes slowly, breath still shallow — and saw it.
The Eye.
Watching from above — still. Silent. Indifferent.
Her gaze lingered on it a beat too long.
Then she exhaled through her teeth and muttered, "Perverted bastard."
Night.
Nikolai stood alone atop a wind-swept hill, the world around him drowned in shadow. Frost bit at his boots. The stars were pale, cold things overhead.
In the distance, the City of Hope reared from the earth — enormous, unnatural. Its walls stretched like a beast's spine across the horizon, motionless but never asleep. Steel and stone fused into something monstrous, watching.
From high towers, piercing beams of light cut through the dark, sweeping left to right, relentless. Not just searching. Hunting.
Nikolai didn't flinch as a light passed near, bleaching the hilltop in white for a heartbeat.
"City of Hope," he said aloud, the words quiet, cold, not reverent but reckoning.
Memory flickered —
A boy in clean, pressed clothes, hand clasped tightly in his mother's as they walked the marble causeway. Towering buildings shimmered above them. Laughter rang down the corridors. The scent of sweet bread drifted from corner vendors. Safety. Warmth. The feeling of being inside the wall.
He had loved this place once.
Then, breath — drawn sharp.
His eyes snapped forward, his stance shifting as heat surged through his limbs.
"I am here."
Nothing in the city moved.
But something heard him.
Wanda's eyes snapped open.
Still splayed across the Consul's chest, her breath shallow, her body humming with aftershocks — but her gaze now sharp, aware. Awake.
Above them, the Eye remained in place — silent, indifferent.
But for a fraction of a second, something flickered behind its lens. Not movement. Not sound. Just the ghost of a thrill.
As if it had been waiting for this.
As if it knew what came next.