Work Text:
Rib Bone (You’re Made of My Sin)
“This is the last straw, Alina! I have had it!”
Alina blinked – a frown, a wince. Her head lolled as she tried to focus on her mother pacing the study, but the room was too bright. A bang, doors opening and closing. Someone rushed towards her.
“What happened? What’s going on?”
“Look at her. She’s wasted, completely wasted!”
“Saints—”
“I don’t even know what she took! Botkin found her like this in the driveway.”
“Alina? Sweetie…?”
Hands on her shoulders, palming her cheeks. Alina mewled and tried to shake off her father’s hold, but her limbs were full of lead.
“She’s out of control. I can’t do this anymore.”
Whatever her father responded was lost to the blood rushing behind her ears. Alina sighed, something like a chuckle, and closed her eyes. The last thing she heard was her mother’s furious whine.
****
Alina Starkov spent her 20th birthday on a plane.
Botkin took her to the airport. Her father was abroad – something about a merger between his company and a sister venture in Hong Kong – and her mother had left earlier that week on a Norwegian cruise. When they pulled up to the tarmac of the private hanger, Botkin stood awkwardly beside the car and waved as Alina dragged her luggage towards the jet. Tucked into her seat, Alina fired off a few pitiful texts to the girls.
[Alina]: This is the end </3
[Alina]: I won’t have service once I leave Anchorage
[Alina]: If you don’t hear from me in a month, make sure they pick a good picture for my obituary. I will come back from the grave and haunt you all if you let them use my senior photos!!!
[Zoya]: So dramaticc
[Nadia]: BE SAFE MESSAGE US WHEN YOU CAN!!!!
[Inej]: You better be back for spring break I already booked the Airbnb in Crete >:(
It took a little over ten hours to fly from Boston to Anchorage, Alaska. Alina popped an Ambien, and when that wore off she sipped Grey Goose from the flask Inej bought her for her 18th birthday. It got her through most of the drive to Anchor Point. But as they reached the edge of the peninsula, her chauffeur, Matthias, pulled over by a crumbling shed. Inside, a snowmobile sat parked amidst unmarked boxes and fishing equipment.
“You’re joking, right?”
Matthias smiled and muttered something in Russian before tossing Alina’s bags into the hitched trailer. The snowmobile’s loud motor and jarring movements made her bones rattle, and Alina was seconds from puking by the time they finally rolled into town.
Though town wasn’t really the word to describe the cluster of buildings tucked into the snowy forests of the Kenai Peninsula. It was almost nighttime, but there were no streetlamps to light the road. Flickering candlelight illuminated some of the building windows, and one bundled man waved as they passed. Alina huddled against Matthias’s back, teeth chattering.
Her aunt’s cabin sat amidst a cluster of trees just off the main road. It was small, a single-story farmhouse with wind-bleached shingles and a corrugated metal roof. An older woman stood on the porch, and behind her—
“Alina!”
****
“It is so good to see you, cousin!”
Alina smiled, following Genya into her bedroom at the back of the house. “Yeah, it’s been a while.”
Genya Safin was two years older than Alina, the daughter of her mother’s second cousin. She pulled off her wool hat as soon as they were inside; the lamplight made her thick auburn hair burn fiery red. It was woven into a single long braid, which nearly whipped Alina as Genya spun back around with a wide smile.
“Twelve years, nine months, and six days.”
Alina blinked.
“You must be tired, and hungry!” Genya clapped, “I’ll bring you some food. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Alina startled when Genya gave her a tight, squeezing hug before dashing out of the room. She laughed, a little huff of pleasant confusion, and dropped her bags by the door.
Genya’s bedroom was small and sparsely furnished, but the low light of a table lamp cast the space in warmth. A single bed sat against the far wall, dressed in a multicolored quilt and several crocheted pillows. The furniture was all worn wood, simple in design and clearly handmade. No computer, no television – it felt like stepping into a nineteenth century portrait. Only the outlet by the nightstand and the crappy flip phone on the dresser betrayed the decade.
“Here we are!”
Alina turned to find Genya standing in the threshold with a bowl of stew.
“Solyanka, mama made it this morning. We’re out of bread, though.”
“Thanks,” Alina smiled and took the bowl. Genya pulled out the chair from her desk and gestured for Alina to sit.
“I am so happy to have you here, cousin. Ever since we got the call, I’ve been – just – bouncing off the walls!”
“Yeah, it’s…” Alina swallowed, frowning at the soup in her hands. Genya made a soft, sympathetic sound.
“Mama told me. What happened. I know this wasn’t exactly a choice—”
“What did she say?”
Genya bit her cuticle, expression flickering between apprehension and intrigue. “…Did you truly take pills and let a group of men do, erm, things to—?”
Alina burst out laughing.
Genya paled, blue eyes rounding, but after a moment she joined in. Soon both girls were giggling so hard they couldn’t breathe. Alina wiped the tears from her cheeks and sighed.
“Saints, Genya. Is that what my mom is telling everyone?”
Genya smiled on a soft hiccup. “Not everyone, just mama. She said you’ve been very naughty, and tetya was tired of cleaning up your messes…”
Whatever Genya saw on Alina’s face made her roll her lips closed.
“Please, that woman hasn’t lifted a finger in her life. Ana Kuya, however – well,” Alina straightened her shoulders and plastered on a smile, “Maybe now that I’m gone, she’ll stop getting so many migraines.”
Genya laughed. “That’s right! She was your nanny, yes?”
“When I was little, yeah. I didn’t think you’d remember…”
“Oh, I remember everyone in Boston. Here, look!”
Genya stood suddenly. She tore open the top drawer of her dresser and pulled out a photo album. “See? From our trip!”
Alina opened the album. The pages were worn, as if Genya had flipped through them dozens of times.
“I love Boston. It’s so beautiful and big and the buildings! I’ve never seen such tall buildings, and so many—”
Alina’s ears started ringing. In her lap, snapshots of all her favorite spots stared at her from behind a seal of plastic. Fenway Park. The Theater District. Beacon Hill and the Esplanade. Alina jerked when a tear splashed a photo of little Genya standing on a bridge, the harbor spread out behind her.
“Shit, sorry…”
Gentle hands cupped her shoulders, making Alina flinch. She looked up.
“It’s okay, Alinushka. It’s going to be okay.”
****
They called the village Os Alta. It was founded in 1968, though the community dated back centuries to the Old Believers. A Russian Orthodox sect that split from the church in 1666 following state reforms, the Old Believers traveled from Siberia to China to Brazil to Oregon seeking refuge from the modern world. Their pilgrimage eventually led them to the Kenai Peninsula on the Alaskan Gulf. It was here that they built their town, and here they had remained.
“There’s the bakery, and over there is the schoolhouse!”
Genya tugged Alina’s hand, pointing at a building across the street. The sky was clear and bright overhead, and Alina had to squint to keep the snow glare from blinding her.
“And that’s the Helvars’ café. You met Matthias, yes? His mother makes the most delicious cakes.”
“What’s that?”
Genya looked where Alina pointed and smiled. “That’s the Little Palace.”
Alina stared at the building up the road. It looked much like the others – four plank walls painted an unassuming shade of white. It had narrow windows, no porch, and a single front door. Which all threw into even sharper relief the massive, spiraled dome standing tall atop the roof.
Alina turned back to Genya. “It’s a church?”
“Mhm,” Genya rocked on her heels, “We had another, but it burned down about ten years ago. There’s a service tonight, though I’m sure Father Morozova wouldn’t mind giving you a tour beforehand—”
The door opened and a man stepped outside.
The first thing Alina noticed was his size. Tall and broad, he cut a sharp silhouette against the white snow that blanketed Os Alta. His fur-lined cloak and simple black suit compounded the contrast. As if sensing her stare, the man looked up.
Even from here, Alina could tell he was handsome. A clean beard on a strong jaw, high cheekbones and a proud nose. He lifted a gloved hand and waved.
“Good morning, Father!” Genya called out.
Alina’s throat tightened as the man turned and began to walk towards them.
“Ms. Safin,” He smiled, gaze sliding sideways. This close, his eyes were nearly black, fringed in thick lashes beneath the shadow of his brows. “And you must be Ms. Starkov.”
That voice. Alina swallowed twice before she croaked a thin, “Nice to meet you, Father.”
“I was just showing Alina around town,” Genya looped their arms, tugging Alina into her side, “Perhaps you’d like to join us?”
“I wish I could, Ms. Safin, but I’ve been called down to the water. Apparently, some of the boys got a bit wild last night and flipped a boat. It appears to be stuck under the dock.”
Genya snorted, and the priest’s answering smile made Alina’s stomach dip. His eyes caught on hers again. “But I do hope I will see you both at tonight’s service?”
“Of course, Father. Best of luck with the boat!”
“Thank you, Ms. Safin,” The priest bowed, “Ms. Starkov.”
A small smile, a twirl of his cloak. It wasn’t until Father Morozova disappeared behind the Helvars’ café that Alina remembered to breathe.
****
While Genya’s English was impeccable, Alina learned quickly that most Os Atlans still spoke Slavonic, an old dialect dating back to the community’s Siberian roots. Alina found it next to impossible to hold a conversation with her aunt, let alone the cluster of women who came by the house that afternoon to greet their Boston visitor.
“What’s this?” Alina whispered through a smile, taking a package one of the women offered her. She sat with Genya on a bench by the fireplace while her aunt flitted about, filling cups of tea and chatting animatedly.
“It’s a dress! Here, let me see.”
Genya tore at the wrapping and lifted the garment to murmurs of appreciation and approval.
“Oh, Alina! Isn’t it lovely?”
“It’s very…long.”
Genya laughed, firing off something in Slavonic that made the other women snort. Alina ran a hand down the skirt. The cut was indeed modest, but the satin fabric was a lovely teal shade with a delicate floral stitch. She smiled and turned to the woman who’d gifted it to her.
“Spasiba.”
****
Alina had been to a few Orthodox church services over the years to please her mother, albeit grudgingly. The gilded icons, the candles and crosses – none of it meant much to her, and she certainly didn’t consider herself a believer. Still, she could appreciate how the ambiance evoked inspiration, and the lure of assigning meaning to such emotions.
Alina kept close to Genya as everyone filed into the Little Palace. Her eyes traced the ceiling arches, the vases of blue irises decorating the candlelit altars. At the head of the hall, paintings of various patron saints hung in gold frames, their eyes dancing behind flickering shadows and incense smoke. Genya squeezed her hand and pulled Alina into the nearest pew.
For such a small congregation, they were a loud and lively bunch. Alina craned her neck, searching for Father Morozova amidst the shuffling mass. She thought she might have spotted the briefest flash of dark hair before a large man sat down in the pew in front of her, blocking her view.
“Are you alright, Alina?”
Her chin snapped sideways. “What?”
Genya pointed at her knee. “Your leg is shaking.”
Alina blushed, mouth open on the shape of a flippant comment, and that’s when she heard him.
Genya had warned her that the service would be held exclusively in Slavonic. But nothing could have prepared Alina for the crisp, deep bass that struck the hazy air overhead. A hymn, sung in the old language. The hairs on her arms lifted as she turned towards the sound.
Father Morozova had changed out of his cloak and suit. His simple cassock was the same pitch black, a silver cross hanging from his neck. Most of the priests Alina knew wore robes of gold and white, heads capped with tall kamilavkas and necks heavy with adornments. Against the backdrop of icons and irises, Father Morozova looked almost…humble.
Alina stood along with the others. Her breath caught as Father Morozova passed, his eyes downcast and palms clasped in prayer. Everyone was singing, a chorus that seemed to seep into her bones with every solemn note. By the time Father Morozova reached the front of the church, Alina was lightheaded.
The song ended. Father Morozova motioned for everyone to take a seat.
Genya had explained earlier that the vespers, or night sermons, tended to be lengthy. Father Morozova seemed his most lively in the cover of darkness, when the snow was high and the world was quiet.
“He says it is a time for meditation. When day breaks, we are remade in our midnight reflections.”
Alina held Genya’s hand the whole time, letting her cousin pull her to stand for prayers and guide her through the motions of crossing and bowing when called for. With every rumbling word – Father Morozova leading them in prayer, in penance – Alina felt herself slipping into a kind of trance. Her limbs, her hips and tongue. These parts of herself seemed to unravel at the atomic level, initially imperceptible and then…looser. Lighter. She was weightless and deep all at once.
The candles burned. The saints watched from the walls. Alina stared until she couldn’t piece the painted faces from the real ones. Until everything was shadow and light.
“Alina? Alina!”
She startled, turning watery eyes to Genya. Her cousin smiled softly. “Come, it’s time to take communion.”
Alina moved by habit, not intention. One moment she was standing in the pew, and the next she was standing before him. There was no stage, and yet it felt as if Father Morozova were looming over her. It was more than his height, more than those shoulders and the gentle tilt of his chin. Alina’s knees locked; she risked falling at his feet.
Father Morozova stared down at her, black eyes kind but distant.
“Have you been baptized, my dear?”
Alina gave a shaky nod.
“And are you of faith?”
She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing. Father Morozova nodded once.
Alina shivered as he whispered a prayer over her, something rumbling and reverent. She didn’t realize she’d closed her eyes until she felt his lips at her ear.
“You are welcome in this house, Alina Starkov.”
****
It took two weeks for the nightmares to return.
The worst part was waking Genya. Alina’s cousin fretted terribly over her, and soon neither of them was getting much sleep.
“Won’t you tell me what it’s about? Has…did something happen, Alinushka?”
Alina didn’t know how to explain that there was nothing, and that was the horror. She’d never been a sound sleeper, had often suffered night terrors as a girl. But these dreams weren’t the standard visions of monsters and ghouls and deadly chases. How to tell Genya that sometimes she woke up screaming because she dreamt of an empty room with one window. How to describe the paralyzing dread of walking to that window and seeing children playing in a field outside. The panic that seized her when Alina realized the window didn’t open, that the room had no door. She was trapped, left to watch joy from a distance.
“I think...” Genya wrung her hands, expression lost in the dim lamplight, “You might like to speak with Father Morozova about this?”
Alina had been to every service since arriving in Os Alta. Sixteen vespers, sixteen matins, and three Divine Liturgies. She had yet to take communion, but Father Morozova always prayed over her when she stepped to the analogion. Alina had come to rely on those whispered words for solace, especially in the wake of her dreams. When she lurched upright, shaking and sweating and hoarse, her lips twisted in the crude shape of his prayers. She didn’t even know what she was reciting, only that it helped.
“Yeah, um…” Alina swallowed, arms trembling, “That’s probably a good idea.”
****
The door was locked.
Alina frowned, knuckles hovering over the wood. It had snowed the night before, and her boots crunched underfoot as she walked around the side of the church. Pushing up on tiptoes, she peeked through one of the narrow windows, but it was too dark to make out anything inside.
Behind her, a soft grunt and a muffled thud broke through the morning fog.
Dropping on her heels, Alina turned and sought out the sound. It was early, and most homes were still closed up. A plume of smoke twisted from the chimney on the Helvars’ café – no doubt Matthias’s mother was baking. Alina squinted, ears pricked.
Another grunt, a sharper hit. It was coming from behind the building.
Alina found Father Morozova by an open shed, its metal roof collapsing in one corner. A tower of cut logs stacked high, protected from the snow.
He wore his collar under a pressed black shirt and slacks, his fur-lined cloak tossed over a smaller wood stack. It was freezing out, but his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, hands bare. A flush spread up his neck; his temples were damp with sweat. He brought the axe down on the log and split it in two.
Alina stumbled, and Father Morozova looked up.
“Ms. Starkov,” He dropped the axe, “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Father. I’m sorry to interrupt—”
“Nonsense. How may I help you?”
“I…” Alina’s eyes fell to his hands. They were large like the rest of him, but his fingers were long and almost...lovely. He brushed them together, and Alina swore she could feel the friction itching across her own palms. Father Morozova’s brows knit in concern.
“Ms. Starkov—?”
“I’m having nightmares,” She blurted, eyes darting back to his, “I thought – Genya said you might be able to help.”
He stared for a moment. It was strange, how anxiety and relief twirled in her stomach, phantom threads pulling her together and apart at once. It was unbearable to have his eyes on her, worse when he looked past her to the church at her back.
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
He moved slowly. Alina had noticed how measured he was, how purposeful. His steps were even, his hands slipped smoothly into his pockets. He kept several feet between them, but she felt smothered by his presence all the same.
“We have the matin in an hour, and I promised Feydor I’d have these logs cut before then. But perhaps we could meet this afternoon? Before the evening service?”
“Yes, yes that – ahem. That sounds fine.”
A small smile. Alina blushed, tucking her chin. Father Morozova took another step closer, and it was all she could do to hold her ground. In the distance, a crow cawed.
“Whatever it is, Ms. Starkov? We will make it right.”
****
Father Morozova greeted her at the door.
“Ms. Starkov. Please, come in.”
Alina had seen the church in every shade of light. Sunrise, midday. She favored the afternoon services, when the winter sun set at 4pm and painted the wood walls in blazing reds. The gilded frames shone brighter, making the gold filigree in the paintings pop. But she’d never seen it this empty. It felt bigger, daunting.
Father Aleksander walked down the aisle towards the analogion.
“It must be quite an adjustment coming to Os Alta, and I am humbled that you would seek me out to talk—”
“Where are you from?”
Father Morozova turned around, lips quirked at one corner.
“Sorry,” She stammered, “That came out weird.”
“It’s quite alright,” He smiled, black eyes warm. He’d traded his cassock and collar for a traditional kosovorotka shirt in pious white. His black slacks were loose fitting; his hair was slicked back from nothing but his fingers. Alina swallowed, trying not to fidget under his stare.
“It’s just…your accent. It’s not like the rest, it’s—”
“British?”
A nod. Father Morozova folded his hands behind his back.
“My father was from London, a professor of theology. He met my mother as a visiting scholar at the University of Oregon.”
“Was she from Os Alta? I didn’t think anyone left.”
“Most don’t, but my mother wanted to become a nurse and there aren’t many programs on this side of the gulf. She came back to the village after she graduated, but when my father returned to England, she followed.”
“Is that where you grew up, then?” Alina settled into the closest pew bench.
“As a boy, yes. I came to Os Alta after my parents divorced.”
“When was that?”
He puffed air, brows arching. “Oh, it must have been, what, 20 years ago? I was 16, so…”
“You’re young. I mean, for a priest.”
“My knees would beg otherwise,” He hummed, smirking when she laughed. Somewhere between their words, Father Morozova had come to her side. Alina suppressed a shiver as he sat down next to her.
“Would you like to tell me about the nightmares, Ms. Starkov?”
“They’re not…really nightmares. It’s hard to explain.”
“Start simple. When you dream, where are you?”
She felt Father Morozova’s eyes on her face, but Alina couldn’t afford to meet his gaze. She turned to the icons behind the analogion.
“I’m in a room. It’s small, and empty. It has one window and no doors.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes. It’s just me.”
“What happens in this room?”
She shook her head. “Nothing, there’s – nothing happens in the room.”
Father Morozova hummed, settling back. His legs spread wide, hands clasped between them, and Alina wondered if he realized how close they were. One small movement and their knees would touch.
“Is that what frightens you? All that nothingness?”
Alina’s shoulders slumped, breath leaving her lungs in a rush. “Yes.”
“Tell me about the window.”
Alina wanted to cry. Without thought, she turned fully on the bench, thigh brushing his as she leaned close. Father Morozova didn’t move, his gaze fixed to the icons.
“It’s small, and high. I have to stand on tiptoes to look out but – there are children. In a field. They’re playing and laughing and picking flowers and I…”
“Do you want to go to them, Ms. Starkov?”
“Yes,” Her voice cracked, “I want out of the room so bad, but there’s no door. The window is locked, and I’m – just – stuck inside.”
“How long have you been stuck?”
“My whole life! Stuck in the house, stuck at parties, stuck in fancy schools with sociopathic rich kids and I’m one of them. I didn’t have a choice. Not when my mother, she…”
Alina blinked rapidly, but the tears welled faster than she could wipe them away. She shuddered when his hand came down on her knee and squeezed softly. Alina looked up to find Father Morozova peering at her carefully.
“Your mother?”
“Is a bitch – sorry,” She hiccuped, but all Father Morozova did was chuckle. Alina sighed. “She’s just…not a happy person. It makes it hard to be around her, makes it hard for her to be around me.”
“Why is that?”
“Why is she unhappy?”
“Why is it hard for her to be around you?”
Alina winced violently enough that Father Morozova lifted his hand. She wanted to snatch it back, hold it fast to her skin.
“I’m in her way. I’ve always been in her way, and now,” Alina snorted – a wet, bitter sound, “Now I’m here.”
He didn’t say anything at first. Alina held her breath, gaze unfocused, and wondered if she’d ever be able to face him again after this. She was moments from bolting down the aisle when Father Morozova finally spoke.
“I’m very glad you are, Ms. Starkov.”
****
That night, when he bent to say a prayer over her at communion, she arched up and whispered, “You can call me Alina.”
****
It took a month to settle, and two for routine to take hold.
Despite the initial withdrawals – cell service was a joke and only the fire station had Wi-Fi – Alina eventually got used to life offline. She spent most of her time with Genya, who taught English at the schoolhouse. Os Alta only offered classes up to fifth grade, after which the handful of town teenagers had to ride by snowmobile to the nearest middle school. At first the little ones regarded Alina like an anomaly, something crossed between an angel and an alien from another world.
“Is it true you are rich?”
“They say you flew here on your very own plane!”
“You are so pretty! Are all the girls in Boston pretty?”
She helped out in the reading groups, teaching seven-year-olds how to sound out words and identify spelling patterns. Most of the younger Os Altans spoke English, but few of their parents could read or write. Genya’s former colleague, Nina Zenik, had a baby just days before Alina arrived, leaving Genya to teach all her classes.
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your help, Alinushka. Nina should be back in a few months, but we could always use more teachers—”
“Oh, I won’t…I’m not going to be here that long, Gen.”
Genya’s face fell. “Right, no. Of course.”
****
“I hear you’ve been helping Ms. Safin at the schoolhouse.”
Alina sighed, leaning back in the pew. Beside her, Father Morozova spun a little top in his palm.
“Yes, with her reading group.”
“How is it going?”
“Good, fine.”
“What glowing praise,” He smirked, and Alina shoved him before she could think better of it. His quiet laugh made her blood sing.
“It is good, but I’m worried about what will happen when I leave.”
Father Morozova frowned. “When you leave?”
“Well, yeah. The deal was winter. Ship me off to Alaska, take me out of my scene and slap a little old school sense into me.”
“And then?”
Alina shrugged. “Then back to Boston.”
“And the room?”
“What?”
“Your little room, with no doors and the window. Do you really want to go back to that, Alina?”
“No – I mean…”
They were close. They always sat together, but this time when Alina looked up at Father Morozova, she found his face inches from hers. Like this, she could see individual lashes, every fleck and mole and wrinkle. His mouth was pressed into a hard line, jaw bunching softly.
“I don’t know,” She mumbled, feeling chastened. Father Morozova sighed.
“I hope…”
He rolled his neck, weighing whatever words sat on his tongue like he couldn’t place the taste of them. Alina leaned closer, fascinated by the ticking vein in his throat and the way his lids grew heavy. “What, Father?”
Something about the word made him scowl. Alina caught his hand flexing on his thigh, so close to hers. His fingers spread wide, almost touching—
“Whatever you choose, I hope it is what you want.”
“Of course—”
“I don’t think you understand, Alina.”
He turned, and now there was nothing but a breath between them. Alina’s gaze dropped to his mouth.
“What do you want? For yourself? What is it you crave most in this life?”
“I want…”
Someone knocked on the door, but neither of them moved. His eyes were all over her.
“…I want to be whole, Father.”
****
Alina didn’t know what she’d expected from the winter fête, but it certainly wasn’t a party.
“For Nina and Matthias, to celebrate the new baby! You must wear the dress Mrs. Bodhan gave you. I know you prefer your pants, but perhaps just this one time?”
They held the celebration in the dancehall, which wasn’t actually a hall but a small recreational facility behind the school house. Alina had only been inside once when the 4th graders were learning to play basketball. She’d laughed – “You don’t have TVs but you play basketball in Os Alta?” Genya just smiled with a shrug and replied, “Sometimes the men host tournaments in here. Father Morozova is an excellent point guard, actually.”
The building was made of old, shorn wood like the rest of the village. But the women had decorated the eaves in homemade wreaths and papier-mâché flowers woven together with beaded garlands. The building’s only functioning electrical outlet had been reserved for a large speaker hooked up to an old radio, but clusters of candles burned bright next to kerosene lanterns at the center of each dining table. It was snowing hard outside, but the dancehall was honey-warm.
Alina stuck to Genya’s side, feeling at once self-conscious and proud of her outfit. She’d worn the teal dress, which fit shockingly well given Mrs. Bodhan never got her measurements. The cinched waist made her feel feminine despite the long skirt and high collar. Genya braided her hair down her back, weaving a gold ribbon into the intricate plait. No makeup, only a red blush from the shot of Jose Cuervo 1800 that Genya passed her as soon as they stepped inside.
“To the new generation of Os Alta!”
Alina clinked their glasses on a grin. “Za zda-ró-vye!”
Alina didn’t have to worry about mingling with Genya carting her around. Her cousin was a beloved member of the community – everywhere she went people followed, tugging her sleeve to give her a hug and ask her a hundred questions. Alina received the same kindness by proxy, and some of the older members of town sought her out specifically to practice the few English phrases they’d learned over the years. She was halfway through a conversation with a fisherman about…well, Alina wasn’t really sure what, when his hand came down on her shoulder.
“Father Morozova!”
He was dressed casually again; white kosovorotka, loose pants, hair artfully unkempt. He smiled down at her.
“Good evening, Ms. Starkov. Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Yeah, yeah absolutely. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Why wouldn’t I come to celebrate?”
“I mean,” Her eyes fell to the tumbler in his hand, “Are priests allowed to do this sort of thing?”
Father Morozova laughed, a rich, satisfied sound. His eyes shone bright as they cut across hers.
“I think you’ll find there are many things that priests can do.”
Father Morozova gave her a strange look, then smiled and turned to the man beside her. Rapid Slavonic, something like a greeting and farewell. Alina watched him leave with her pulse in her throat.
Hours passed. Liquor flowed. Teenagers as young as fourteen clinked glasses with great-grandmothers, and the only person who wasn’t drunk by midnight was Nina Zenik. The new mother sat at a table with her thick-cheeked baby boy, laughing and bobbing him softly to the music. She gave Alina a big kiss right on the mouth when she saw her, whispering in accented English how grateful she was for all her help at school. Nina’s husband, Matthias, patted Alina’s shoulder and mumbled something that sounded like a thank you, eyes glassy from liquor and love for his wife.
Alina was used to club raves on molly, flailing limbs and ass all over. But here they played polka and blues broadcasted on a local radio station. Fanning skirts and palms pressed together, linking arms and lots of percussive steps. Genya and a girl named Marie led the throng in some kind of paired dance, everyone laughing and trying not to let the liquor weigh them down.
I studied evil I can't deny
Was a hoodoo charm called a Love Me or Die
A fingernail, a piece of her dress
Apothecary, Devil's behest
Father Morozova stood with the men, smoking imported cigars someone brought out for the occasion. He laughed and licked his lips and the cut of his teeth on that thick stogie made Alina’s stomach clench. This was no holy cleric in his robes and chains. This was a man enjoying the fever of a good time.
“Come, Alinushka! Dance with me!”
Alina was a good dancer. Her mother put her in ballet and jazz at a young age, along with all the other Beacon Hill housewives and their pageant daughters. Genya showed her the steps, but by now most of the girls were teetering in their flat shoes and unable to get through a dance without someone crumpling in laughter. Genya pressed their foreheads together and smiled, her arms loose around Alina’s waist. Over Genya’s shoulder, Alina caught Father Morozova watching them.
“Genya, the bathroom! Where’s the bathroom?”
Alina splashed herself with water and blinked at her foggy reflection. She was flushed, eyes bright and bloodshot, and the little hairs at her temples had begun to puff and curl from the heat. She looked pleasantly rumpled, something adjacent to all those nights of fishing pills out of a bowl and letting preppy college boys take shots from her belly button. But there was no smeared mascara, no bitter twist to her lips. She looked breathless, not wrung out. Happy, even.
“Oh!”
Alina stumbled, narrowly avoiding the crack of her nose against Father Morozova’s chest. His hands came down on her upper arms, holding her as the bathroom door banged closed behind her.
“Sorry, sorry,” Alina huffed, a tight and embarrassed giggle, “I – were you waiting?”
“For the lavatory? No.”
“For me?” The words came out fast, unexpected. She blushed, and his eyes seemed to search her face for…something.
“Come, Alina.”
He took them to an office at the back of the building. It had a single desk and chair amidst random recreational equipment and boxes of old school supplies. A small battery-powered lamp cast the room in amber, something darker than gold.
Father Morozova walked towards the desk and set his tumbler down.
“How are you liking the fête, Ms. Starkov?”
Alina ran a hand over one of the boxes. “I didn’t expect this.”
“This?”
“When my mother told me I was coming to Os Alta, I thought she was locking me in a convent. I’d heard the stories. My grandmother left because she felt trapped. I was being sent here as punishment for all the shit I got into and – I just thought it would be…”
“Stifling?”
“Yes. I’m wild and this was supposed to tame me, right? Make me a good girl. I wasn’t supposed to like it.”
“And do you?” He leaned against the desk, arms folded, “Like it here?”
“I do. I like how quiet it is, how the snow softens everything. It doesn’t do that in Boston. Winter is just cold, you have to plow the streets and worry about your designer boots getting wet—”
Father Morozova laughed.
“But here,” She continued through a smile, “The snow is beautiful.”
“It is.”
“And I thought I’d hate having to wear these dresses and braid my hair because the outlets won’t work with my flatiron,” Alina fanned her skirt, “But it’s not so bad.”
“I think that dress looks lovely on you.”
Alina glanced up to find Father Morozova staring at her.
“It’s not that I’m against dresses,” She nearly shouted, nerves making her voice pitch high, “It’s just the principle of them. The whole ‘hide your body’ bullshit – sorry. The whole modesty thing, that’s what I thought I’d hate.”
“Scripture places much emphasis on the role of sin in womanhood. Eve was seduced by the snake, she ate from the tree and fed Adam. Nakedness revealed, humanity banished from the garden. The weakness of women as the origin of mortal suffering.”
Alina wrinkled her nose. “Gross.”
“It might surprise you to learn that I agree.”
“Wait, seriously?”
Father Morozova crossed his ankles. “If we are to take the story of Eden as truth, then we must trace the tale back further. God made man in his image, and from man he plucked a rib. Eve was born of Adam’s flesh, which rather complicates our understanding of procreation when you think on it hard enough.”
They shared a smile.
“But that’s not my point. Christianity – indeed, most religion – is very concerned with the power of womanhood. The lure and threat of the feminine. It is as exalted as it is vilified. We laud mother nature for her beauty, her splendor and awesome power. Then turn right back around and champion industry as the master of her wild ways.”
Wild ways. Alina bit the inside of her cheek, feeling oddly flustered.
“Do you know why the Old Believers broke from the church?”
Alina shook her head.
“There were the reforms, yes, but more than anything they feared modernity. The distortion of truth under political whims and the ever-changing designs of science. Which isn’t to say they denied the reality of a secular world. You’ve seen the village; we are not without our technological luxuries. I thank God every day that Ms. Zenik had access to a hospital in Anchorage when she started to suffer early contractions. But nothing is sustainable in excess, and much of our world is unbalanced, out of sync. We lose sight of what matters beneath all these distractions.”
“And what matters, Father?”
“Family, community, faith,” He smiled, “Children playing in a field of flowers.”
Alina rolled her eyes, trying not to laugh.
“Our women do not wear long dresses because their bodies are wicked. They wear them because they have always worn them. Just as we read from the book and recite our prayers and sing the hymns our forebearers sang. It is a tether…not to the past, exactly. But to something enduring. Something pure at the heart of life. It existed before, and it will remain long after we are gone.”
Alina leaned against the door, considering his words. He spoke with conviction, with quiet fervor. It reminded her of the way he recited prayers during the Divine Liturgy. She might not know the meaning behind his words, but the passion was clear.
“Why did you become a priest?”
The question had been plaguing her. Father Morozova was young, smart, gorgeous. A cosmopolitan son of England. He could go anywhere, be anything—
“My grandfather was the first Father Morozova. He helped found the village.”
“So…tradition?”
Father Morozova smiled, a bit bashful, a bit indulgent. He pushed off the desk and picked up his glass. But he didn’t drink. He just swirled the liquor along the sides.
“I was a lot like you once. A little rowdy, got into trouble. It was hard on my parents. Their marriage had been strained for some time, but my penchant for chaos certainly didn’t help things at home. Sometimes I wonder if they would have stayed together had I been a bit less…well.”
He offered her the glass, and Alina drank.
“When we came to Os Alta, I thought my life was over. I had a motorcycle back in London and used to spend all night tearing up the streets, and suddenly I was…just – here. Frozen in the snow with nothing to do. I felt aimless, and it terrified me.
“I got drunk one night and walked into the gulf. Nearly drowned. My mother panicked; she thought I was suicidal. And I’m sure it sounds like I was, but – how to explain. I remember looking across all that dark ocean; it was like a mirror, you could see every star reflected on the water. We’d gone to service that morning and my grandfather spoke of miracles. Wine, walking on water. I was curious.”
Alina didn’t know what to say. She finally settled on, “What happened?”
“Well, I spent some time in the hospital in Anchorage, mostly for observation. My mother thought about sending me back to London to live with my father, but my grandfather convinced her otherwise. He was the only one who understood what was happening to me.”
Father Morozova rubbed his chin, considering.
“It wasn’t an end I was seeking. I’d always wanted more of my life. More meaning. More purpose. I’d been to church, I’d studied the book, but it was something academic. Religion lived in my mind while my soul withered. Standing by the ocean, I felt alive for the first time in years. And I realized how miserable I was. I had nothing to distract me from my own emptiness, my own heartbreak.
“But there was more out there on the water. I could feel something like…promise. Something waiting on that dark horizon that would answer these questions eating me from the inside. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Alina nodded. “I think so.”
Father Morozova stepped closer, until they were nearly chest to chest. The door stood solid at her back. Her hands trembled around the glass.
“You said you wanted to be whole, Alina.”
He was drunk. She could see it in the blush sitting high on his cheeks. The smell of liquor and cigar smoke perfumed the air between them. And another scent, something spicy and rich and male.
“I do, Father.”
“Call me Aleksander.”
Alina’s lids drooped. “Aleksander.”
He stared at her mouth. He wasn’t touching her, but it didn’t matter. Alina felt Father Morozova everywhere.
“If Eve was made of Adam, then none of us are alone in our suffering. Your sins are mine. They always have been.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what I’ve done.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
It would be so easy to close the space between them. Push up on her toes and she’d be right there. Alina could taste his clean sweat, she wanted to seal her mouth over his neck and suck the salt from his skin. The only thing keeping her from doing it was the thought that he might let her.
“There have been boys. So many boys.”
“I know.”
“And girls. And drugs. I pawned my mother’s favorite tennis bracelet to buy acid tabs. I had the money on my card, I just wanted to hurt her—”
“It’s alright, milaya.”
He pulled her to his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin. Alina clutched his shirt and sobbed, mouth open over his collar as she stained the hollow of his throat with tears. Those beautiful hands rubbed soothing circles along her back, one palm cradling her head like he would a child’s.
“There’s s-something b-broken in me.”
A kiss to her crown, hands pressing to soothe.
“Oh, sweet girl,” He murmured into her hair, “You are just as you are meant to be.”
Alina shook her head and buried her face in his chest. He couldn’t fathom the depths of her sickness, how dark and twisted her heart was.
You would not say such things if you knew the truth.
****
That night, while Genya lay snoring beside her, Alina came on her fingers thinking of black eyes and how Father Morozova’s skin tasted through his white kosovorotka.
****
It didn’t get better, the wanting.
Everyday, Alina undertook a personal pilgrimage to the church for their meetings. She called him Aleksander now, though in her heart he would always be Father. Quiet, attentive, but something was changing between them. His gaze lingered. He always kissed her forehead when they hugged goodbye. Even his services felt different. The cadence of his prayers, the way he bent to whisper a blessing at her ear in lieu of sacrament. She thought about asking for bread and wine sometimes. But there was nothing holy in the way she craved to take his offering inside of her.
Tensions mounted, a silent pressure begging for release.
It came in the form of David Kostyk, who pinned Genya to the side of the schoolhouse one morning and kissed her senseless. Alina knew they couldn’t see her; Genya would have pushed David away and begged Alina not to speak a word of it. Alina’s aunt had expressly forbidden the two from dating.
“Not until David has asked for her blessing,” Genya mumbled one night on the porch while they shared a cigarette pilfered from Matthias. “He had a fiancé once, but they broke it off. Mama worries he’s a rake.”
Standing behind the corner, Alina watched as David’s hands fumbled with Genya’s skirt, gripping her through the folds. Genya sagged, mouth open and wet and smiling against David’s kiss. They were beautiful together – it went beyond attraction. This was need, this was understanding. Two people feeling parts of themselves through the other’s touch. Learning their hearts by giving them to another.
Alina turned and ran down the road towards the Little Palace.
“Ms. Starkov, you’re early—”
“I need to make a confession.”
Father Morozova’s brows furrowed, his smirk curious. “Alright?”
He motioned to the pews, but Alina shook her head. “Not – I want to make a confession.”
The Little Palace did not have a confessional; congregants knelt before the analogion. Father Morozova would place his hands over their head and take their confession before an open Gospel Book and a blessing cross. It was a quiet affair, performed in solace between sinner, priest, and God.
Alina dropped to her knees and shivered as Father Morozova came to stand beside her.
“Before we begin, I should make it clear. This is not a confession to me, but to Christ. I am but guide and witness to your penitence.”
“Yes, Father.”
He took a deep breath and placed gentle hands atop her head. A quick Slavonic prayer. Her eyes slid closed.
“What have you come to tell the Lord before my witness?”
Alina let out a shaky breathe. “I have sinned.”
“In act, word, deed, or thought?”
“In thought, Father.”
“And what is your sin?”
“I covet what I cannot have.”
A pause. Alina swallowed a shiver.
“You must not hold back, milaya. You come to speak with God, to ask forgiveness for these sins. Tell him what it is that plagues your mind.”
Alina cleared her throat. Twice.
“I w-want a man, and…I think maybe he wants me, too.”
Atop her head, his hands were still.
“I see it in his eyes. When he looks at me. Like – he wants to kiss me. I think about it constantly. Lying in bed, touching myself to the memory—”
A subtle shift in his stance, but those hands stayed steady.
“But I can’t have him. He won’t let me.”
Alina was desperate to turn and look up. She wanted to see his face, to know what he was thinking. But she rolled her shoulders and kept her gaze fixed on the icon.
“So, I’m stuck. I’ve tried to smother the feeling, I really have. He makes me want to be good. Because he believes in me. He’s the only one who ever has.”
“But I don’t know if I can,” She blurted when she felt those hands shifting, lifting, “I’m not patient, I never have been. I’ve never needed to be, I’m used to getting what I want…”
“It is a sin to covet,” He murmured, a tightness in his voice, “You know this. Is that not why you have come to confess?”
“Yes, yes Father—”
“God sees your sins, Alina. He shows mercy in the face of penance.”
Father Morozova wore no epitrachelion. Instead, he took the fabric of his cassock and draped it across her shoulders, enfolding her as he whispered a Slavonic prayer.
“You may rise.”
But Alina shook her head. Father Morozova tried to step back; her fingers curled in his robes, face pressing to his knees.
“Ms. Starkov—?”
“Why do you lie?”
Father Morozova froze.
“Isn’t it a sin?” She looked up, blinking through her tears, “To lie?”
His expression was hard, closed off and yet. Father Morozova could not hide from her. Alina had memorized those dark, depthless eyes.
“That’s quite enough, Ms. Starkov.”
“Are you under a vow, is that it?”
“Stand up—”
“Your grandfather, he was a priest, but he was a husband, too.”
“Alina.”
“Are you not allowed the same? Can you not have a family? You could find love, a wife, you could make a baby, Aleksander—”
He grabbed her hair.
Hard.
Alina sucked in a sharp breath, neck arching, shoulders hiking high. But the snap of heat that ripped up her spine was one of relief. Father Morozova twisted his fingers, pulling. Until she sagged and let go of his robes.
“And what family would I have, hm? Who would carry my child?”
She’d never seen him like this. Burning stare, jaw so tight she thought his teeth might crack. He was angry – no. He was livid.
With her.
“Aleksander.”
His face crumpled. Alina whimpered as Father Morozova suddenly released her, taking a huge step back. He turned so fast his robes fanned around him and buried his face in the hands that had just blessed her. The same hands that tore her hair at the roots and left her scalp stinging.
“Confession has ended.”
“Father—”
He stormed out of the Little Palace.
****
Alina didn’t go to church that night.
****
The next time she saw Father Morozova, Alina was drunk. The funny part? So was he.
She knew because she’d seen him coming around the back of the Little Palace with a glass bottle in his hand. Hours later, after she’d finished her own bottle and went stumbling down the snowy streets, the church lights were still on.
“Alina?”
“Fuck!”
Alina’s feet tangled as she turned away from the window. She lost her balance and fell ass-first into the snow.
“Saints,” Father Morozova rushed along the side of the church and helped her up, “Are you alright?”
“M’fine,” Alina slurred, gripping his forearms for support. Father Morozova looked at the window.
“What were you doing?”
“Lights were on. Wanted to see…if you were still inside…”
Alina blinked, suddenly aware of how close they were. Her hands on his arms, his palms cupping her elbows. Their puffing breaths mingled in the space between them.
“How long have you been out here?”
“By the church? I dunno, couple minutes—”
Father Morozova gave her a thorough once over, then snatched up her hands.
“You’re freezing. Come on, let’s get you inside.”
There was an office at the back of the Little Palace. Father Morozova sat Alina down on his desk, shucking his cloak. He draped it over her shoulders and squeezed.
“I’m going to get some tea, alright? Wait here.”
Alina watched him go with sleepy eyes. She pulled the cloak tight around her; she hadn’t realized how cold she was until Father Morozova covered her. Pressing her face to the fur collar, Alina breathed in the scent of him. Nothing cosmetic, something rich and real.
“There we go,” Father Morozova came back in with a steaming thermos; Alina wondered if the church had a kitchen, “You shouldn’t be wandering around so late, Ms. Starkov—”
Alina snorted.
“What?” He stepped back to better look at her. Alina made a face and sipped her tea.
“I hate it when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Call me Starkov like it’s normal.”
“It’s your name, isn’t it?” His tone was clipped, defensive, but his eyes were bleary with drink.
“My name is Alina,” She hissed, and then a petulant, “But you only use it when you like me.”
It took Father Morozova a moment to respond. “I always like you.”
“Pfft. You haven’t spoken to me in a week.”
“Because you haven’t come to me—”
“Did you want me to?” Damnit, her voice was breaking. Alina struggled and failed to keep the tears from welling. Father Morozova looked away with a wince.
“You keep using that word,” He murmured, “Want.”
“Don’t – don’t pretend like I started this.”
In his eyes, she could see the questions shifting like projector slides.
Started what?
Why are you doing this?
Why can’t you let it be, Alina?
“You asked me. Do you remember? When I told you I was going back to Boston and I knew, I fucking knew you didn’t like it. You looked at me like I’d let you down, and you asked me what I wanted. You asked me.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“And I told you,” Alina barreled on, sliding off the table. His cloak hung loose around her shoulders, her thermos forgotten on the desk. “You asked, so I answered with the truth. I may be a slut, but at least I’m not a fucking liar—”
Father Morozova caught her by the chin.
“Do not speak like that.”
Alina smiled; smug, a bit cruel. “Why? Are you so saintly you can’t handle a little swearing? Does it make your righteous heart hurt to know I want you to fuck me?”
He exhaled sharply, nostrils flared. That grip on her chin moved to her neck.
She didn’t wait for his reply. Alina fisted the collar of his cassock, thumbs brushing black and white, and surged up on tip toes. But Father Morozova was tall, much too tall for her. She kissed the underside of his jaw with an open mouth.
He didn’t push her away, nor did he pull her closer. His grip on her nape was firm, holding her in place. Alina ran her tongue along the column of his throat and looked up.
“Why do you keep me like this?”
His eyes slid closed. “Like what?”
“Under your cloak. Close, but not close enough.”
“You’re young…” His voice was gravel.
“Is that all?”
“Winter will end soon.”
He didn’t say it, but Alina heard the truth. You will go back to Boston.
You will leave me.
She nuzzled the hollow of his throat. “There’s still snow on the ground…”
The slide of his cheek against her temple was more erotic than her dirtiest hookup. The bridge of his nose running sharp against her brow bone, how she could feel his lips even though he wasn’t kissing her. A brush of soft skin framed in clean, coarse hair. Alina arched in tandem to that handless caress.
“And even though my illness was a trial to you, you did not treat me with contempt or scorn. Instead, you welcomed me as if I were an angel of God, as if I were Christ Jesus himself.”
Alina mewled. “Aleksander—”
He kissed her soundly, so certain and deep Alina didn’t register her feet leaving the floor. Her arms banded around his neck as Father Morozova swept her across the room. Her ass hit the edge of the table, and then he was lifting her on top of it.
Yes.
Alina sighed – watery, grateful, a sound of embarrassing relief. Father Morozova ate it up, tongue masterful against hers. Laying siege to her mouth like so many infidels before.
Fuck eternity – this is Heaven.
The cloak was gone, fallen to the floor at their feet. Father Morozova cupped her cheeks, every inch of his body flush with hers, and Alina suddenly felt suffocatingly hot. She kicked her legs, begged him to, “Take them off, my boots, my—”
Father Morozova lurched back. He was panting, that glassy stare gone red and lost. He looked down at where Alina sat on the desk.
“This is wrong.”
Alina shook her head, a single tear falling. “No, I – I’m your rib.”
His lips quirked, but his eyes were full of sorrow. “Then I’m the one who’s to be made whole again?”
Alina kicked off her boots – she’d never bothered lacing them when she snuck out the backdoor with her stolen bottle of booze. Her socked feet skimmed up the outside of his leg, catching on the hem of his cassock. Father Morozova brushed a thumb across her bottom lip.
“There’s only one way to find out.”
Father Morozova smirked. “Spoken like the serpent.”
Alina pouted, and Father Morozova held her still as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her mouth. She dragged her tongue against the seam of his lips and melted beneath the pressure of his groan.
“What are you—”
Alina huffed as her back hit the desk. She lifted her head, frowning at him. “Aleksander?”
He spread her legs, hands pressing at her thighs to hold them apart. Alina wore fleece leggings and a Patagonia sweater she’d brought from home. It was large, but the hem rode up, bunching at the small of her back and baring her tummy to him. His knee hit the floor.
“You – mmm!” Alina jerked when his fingers traced the crease where hip met thigh, “Y-you don’t have to…”
Father Morozova shook his head, so close to her cunt she felt the scrape of his beard through the fleece. “I haven’t put my mouth on a woman in 20 years.”
Alina whimpered as he pulled her tights down her legs. Warm breath hit the damp gusset of her thong in a sharp gust. Her skin pebbled under his hands.
He muttered something in bitter Russian.
“Aleks—”
Alina choked at the slide of his tongue along one puffing fold. Her eyes snapped wide, then shut, mouth dropping on a silent moan.
He spoke into her flesh, words she didn’t understand in a tone she knew well enough. Fevered, adoring. Every swipe along slick and sobbing skin unraveled her by single threads. Until she was limbless on the desk, a trembling mess of girl.
“Father…”
He chuckled darkly, pulling back only to growl, “Oh, but you just love to call me that, don’t you?”
“Please,” She begged, grinding against his scratchy chin until it shone wet, “I’m close, I want…I just need—”
A delicate nip, the lightest three-finger tap to the curve of her upturned ass. He had her legs over his shoulders now, her heels digging into the dip between his back muscles.
“You speak so much of what you want. Have you learned nothing from service? Do you know what corruption comes from greed?”
“But…” She was greedy.
“Hold still, milaya. You will learn patience.”
Alina was dying, her sweater rucked up to her tits and her belly damp with sweat. She could feel the mess between her legs. All that slick smearing her thighs and dribbling onto the table. Father Morozova’s beard was covered in it.
He slowed down, and Alina was past shame. She sobbed openly, chest cracking wide with a feeling that had no name. Not in any language she knew. Something like pain. Something euphoric and irreversible. She hiccupped, chin trembling. Her fingers curled in his hair to keep from floating away.
Under his tongue, she was pooling wet, fit for nothing but this.
“You…you…you…”
You’re hurting me.
You can’t leave me like this.
“This is the fruit,” Father Morozova rasped, and Alina knew he was talking to himself. Long fingers parted her, pushing down on skin until her clit jutted from beneath its hood. The next lick made her knees snap around his shoulders. “This is what the fall tastes like.”
His arm draped across her stomach, pressing down on tender organs. The pressure was brutal; just what she needed. Alina squirmed at his lips kissing her open, and then—
A long tongue, sliding inside.
Fingers finding her clit, touching to learn, to love.
Alina bit the meat of her palm as she came with a hot rush into his mouth.
She couldn’t see; black spots peppered her teary vision even after he pulled back. Father Morozova wiped his mouth on her thigh and stood, staring down at her with black and burning eyes.
“No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man,” He panted, “God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability. But with the temptation, he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it."
Alina blinked against her tears, pushing up on shaking arms. Her sweater still bunched over her breasts; Father Morozova’s eyes lingered on her chest, something pained in his expression. He reached up and skimmed wet fingers along one taut nipple.
“What verse is that?”
“Corinthians 10:13.”
Father Morozova’s eyes were shining. His throat bobbed as Alina spilled off the desk and stepped into him.
“I have – fuck. I feel like I’ve always waited for you.”
Alina nodded; she felt the same. Her hands found his waist. “How do I take this off?”
But he just shook his head. “Put your pants back on.”
“I don’t—”
Father Morozova pressed a finger to her lips; Alina could smell herself on him. “I’m taking you home.”
****
Home, as it turned out, was a small cabin on the outskirts of Os Alta. The darkness of night and falling snow covered their steps as Father Morozova led her up the porch and inside.
“This is nice.”
Father Morozova smiled and hung his cloak on the hook by the door. The cabin was everything Alina would have expected it to be: simple and sparse. A sunken loveseat beneath a frosted window, a coffee table with peeling varnish. The red persian rug was brown from wear. On the opposite wall, a mahogany hutch nearly scraped the ceiling, trinkets peering out from behind foggy panes of glass. A bookshelf tucked into the corner, stuffed with faded leather spines.
Father Morova crossed to the black stove chimney and plucked a log from the stack. “Feel free to poke around.”
The kitchen was more nook than its own room. The bathroom had an old clawfoot tub and no mirror, but Alina could see her reflection in the window above the sink. Her hair was a mess, tangled at the temples and down her back. Her cheeks were still spotted from the orgasm he’d licked out of her.
Alina wandered into the bedroom. She ran her fingertips across the dresser, the posts of his double bed. The sheets were folded down, everything smelled like him. Father Morozova came in to find her clutching his pillow to her chest.
No, she thought. In here, he is Aleksander.
Panic had faded in the space between the church and this room. Aleksander took Alina’s face between his hands and kissed her deeply, with purpose. They had time. They had all the time.
She helped him out of his cassock, hands mapping the contours of his sloping muscles. His skin was the color of burnished wheat; he must tan deeply in the summer. Alina kissed down his neck, finding the dip at the middle of his chest where his heart beat. Aleksander’s breaths grew thin.
It was instinct, dropping to her knees. Like confession, his hands on her head while she worked him free from his boxer briefs – big. A hiss, teeth clicking when she circled the base with her fingers. Alina lifted her face from the crease of his thigh and smiled.
Aleksander tried to be gentle. Alina could feel it in the way his thighs shook, the rhythmic flex and release of his fingers in her hair. But she’d come to worship. She was made to kneel, and she would not relent. Not even when the thick head nudged the back of her throat, mouth stretching wide, wide, wide. Her eyes watered; it was penance. He fisted her tight, hand curling, pulling at the roots just like last time. Only when he growled “Not yet,” did Alina grudgingly pull off.
He spread her out on his bed, and now it was Aleksander’s turn to touch. He helped Alina out of her sweater, laughing when her head got stuck. Alina shivered and whined as he peeled off her leggings and parted her slippery folds. His tone was almost arrogant when he asked, “Is this from before, or did you really like taking me down your throat?”
Alina huffed and wiggled her hips in a vain attempt to spear herself on his fingers. Aleksander chuckled at her kitten scratches and pushed her legs wider. The brutal length of his cock dragged along her slit, and he froze.
“I don’t…I’m sure you can understand that a man like me wouldn’t keep condoms around—”
Alina was already shaking her head, almost angry. “I want you inside. I want all of you, Aleksander.”
He buried a groan into her neck.
Alina could feel him notched at the very center of her, a brand on her skin, a hard pulse. She wound her arms around Aleksander’s neck, arched up until every part of her touched every part of him. She was his rib, she was something taken from him. Now she would take more, but maybe this time she could also give. A piece of him, born from all of her.
“I could make you a father. A real one—”
He thrust in to the hilt.
Alina had slept with more people than she could count. Literally, she’d lost track of how many times she’d blacked out and woken up to strange limbs tangled around her. It was honestly a miracle that she hadn’t suffered more than a few awkward morning conversations that started with, “What’s your name, again?” Alina had never worried about being easy or loose or any other bullshit scare tactics people peddled to keep women in line. She wasn’t ashamed of her sexual history.
It just hadn’t prepared her for this.
Aleksander gave a few languid pumps. He kissed her neck, her collar, sucked a bruise into her shoulder cap. His arm slipped beneath her knee and pushed up, spreading her wider by inches. Alina clamped down, wrenching a curse from between his teeth. His next thrust was hard enough to make her jaw rattle.
“Saints!”
“I haven’t moved inside another like this,” He ground out, “Not since…before you were born…”
“Oh—”
“I waited for you. I told you I was waiting.”
“Kiss me,” She begged, “Aleksander…S-Sasha—”
She’d heard the diminutive once. A cotton-haired congregation member had squeezed his cheek like a boy. She sounded proud, Alina thought she might have mentioned his grandfather. She knew the word dedushka.
Aleksander sealed their mouths with a growl. His tongue moved like his cock, rolling along hot, wet walls. Alina was close, so close already, but this felt too vital to end. She wanted to stay under him, in this bed, this house. She wanted to stay in Os Alta.
Aleksander sat up and Alina followed, thighs draped over his. The angle somehow brought him deeper, and any lingering resistance drained from her body. Her muscles went lax. He fucked up into her cunt and Alina let go. Hands curled beneath her chin, her cheek pressed to his. Ass bouncing in his lap.
This was submission.
This was how she was meant to be.
“I’m – are you sure?”
She nodded frantically. “Please, please. I’ve wanted it since…”
He brushed the hair from her face, picking up the pace. “Since when, solnyshko?”
“S-since the first time you prayed over me.”
Aleksander pressed a hard kiss to her forehead, hands cradling to her cheeks. Alina cried out at the pinch of his cock against the top of her channel. He was there, she could feel him building within her.
“Make me whole, make me whole. Please, Father—”
He came deep inside with a shout.
****
Winter passed, and so did spring.
Alina didn’t go back to Boston.