The door behind me clicks shut. There’s a little relief in the corridor — less pressure, free air, nothing like Tarmo’s suite.
But ahead, Elena’s suite edges open and Karim steps out. Not hurried. Not nervous. Just… done. His eyes meet mine for half a second, blank, unreadable, weighted down. He doesn’t give me a nod, no courtesy, no hint, just some ghost of coffee and — something sharp, some tension I can’t name. Then he turns away, back up the hall, moving without a glance.

I slow down, mind catching. What the hell was that? Something’s off. Something just happened.

Elena’s door isn’t locked, so I walk straight in.
Breakfast tray still there, half-eaten pastries and grim evidence of a night too restless for meals. She’s curled on the mattress, silk robe gleaming pale, draped loose enough that the implication — nothing underneath — feels like a dare and a shield at once.

I stumble for a beat, brain tripping: She hasn’t—…did he? But I shove it down. Focus.

I stand in the doorway, arms folding in, the habit of not intruding but needing answers.

“So… that went well,” I say, voice dry, sardonic, not sure whether to comfort or interrogate. “What did Karim want that he couldn’t wait for you to get dressed?”

Elena looks up, mouth working through a bite of gata, tear-glass eyes fixed on some distance beyond me. She swallows, takes a sip of tea that wobbles in her grip. Then the words slip out — fragile, rushed, the kind you don’t rehearse because they cost too much.

“He’s leaving.”

She collapses back, robe falling open at her collarbone, one hand over her eyes. Tears come fast now, shoulders shaking hard enough for me to feel them before I even reach the bed.

I sit beside her, arm draped carefully. No judgment. Just anchor.

“What do you mean, leaving?” My words soften, low and steady.

Elena shakes her head once, lips sealed, desperate to contain the answer she can’t say out loud.

What is Karim running from? What did he say in those moments alone? The codes, the pouch — are they gone with him? The old game cracks open, older even than Tarmo’s careful chess.

I just hold Elena as she shakes, and for once I stop looking past what’s right in front of me.

Elena’s breath is ragged against my shoulder, the silk of her robe cool beneath my palm. I hold her, feeling the tremors, waiting for her voice to surface.

“He told me… since Dakhla, he’s wanted to be loyal to me, not just as part of the job. Even though Hasna paid him, he said he’s always been my sentinel. Always watching for me.” I let her settle into the silence, just shifting my hold so she can lean closer.

“He said Iran changed him. That he misses caring about ordinary things. His tourist crowd in Tangier. Youssef—his cousin—wants him to come home, rest, live in the sun.” Her grip tightens on my sleeve as she laughs softly, then tears well up again. “Hasna let him choose, but if he leaves, he can’t go back.”

I brush her hairline, trying to ease some of the hurt.

“Right before you walked in,” she whispers, “he hugged me and said: ‘I will always carry you with me.’”

The room is quiet except for her uneven breath and the faint hum of the air vent. I close my eyes, absorbing the ache—loyalty reshaped by exhaustion, departures softened with affection. My arms tighten around her.

“I know.” My voice is low, steady.

She pulls back a little, eyes red, voice trembling, ready to speak again.

Elena’s breathing is uneven now, her face still buried in my shoulder. After a moment, she pulls back just enough to speak, her eyes red and her voice trembling.

“I’m… sorry,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “Crying over losing my sentinel — my stallion — while you…” She glances away, mouth twisting with bitter self-awareness. “…you’ve lost so much more. Bartek. And… what they did to you.”

Bartek’s name thickens the air. He wasn’t just an ally; he was the man who died to shield me from the fate those weeks in Iran left unfinished. The ghost of his hand lingers at my back—the memory of cold rooms, blinding lights, pain that never quite settles on the skin.

I tighten my arms around Elena, not to push away her sorrow but to hold it alongside my own.

“Loss doesn’t need measuring, El,” I say softly. “It just is.”

We remain like that for a few heartbeats, accepting that grief wears many faces—a stallion gone (“gods below: he was pure passion”), a sentinel departing, a man lost too soon, a body and mind cracked but still moving. The weights differ, but we carry them together.

Sniffeling once, nodding shakily, and feeling Sandi’s hand shift from holding tight to caressing my back on the silk robe. Starting to kiss the tears just shed, to my mouth, whispering: “let me take the ache away”, moving her lip wet from the tears to my lips and moving herself on top of me. Sliding away the robe so my breasts could breathe and she could touch them, whispering between moving from one nipple to the next: “Please let me take away the pain and give you pleasure”.

Somewhere in the back of my head, I think: “Wasn’t last night the whole point of taking away her pain?” 

But Sandi’s lips and mouth in concert with her hands are far louder than my thoughts as she starts to suck my nipples harder and introduces her fingers into my so overactivated vagina.

But Sandi’s lips, mouth, and hands drown out my thoughts as she starts sucking my nipples harder, her fingers slipping into my already overstimulated sex.

Something is different: Sandi is almost commanding, claiming my body as hers. Her clothes—jeans, woolen jumper—are cool and out of place against my nakedness, but their presence sharpens her dominance, makes it more real. Every time I open my eyes, hers are fixed on me, wordless, instructing me to close mine and just feel.

She leaves my belly, tongue circling, fingers unrelenting. Whenever I open my eyes, her gaze tells me to close them, to surrender and just feel. I can’t help but obey as my body heats under her demanding kisses. She moves lower, tongue finding my G-spot while her fingers stay inside me.

When my breath comes faster, she sucks me so intensely that my orgasm crashes over me—welcome, overwhelming.

Still throbbing with release, I feel her slide off the bed. I open my eyes to watch her undress—her movements impatient, her gaze never leaving me. I start to speak, but she interrupts, quick and low: “You don’t have to do anything, I just want to come and will do it myself. Will you watch, please?”

I nod, confusion mixing with anticipation as she lies beside me, her voice more insistent: “Look at me, Elena.”

I do. She touches her breasts, wets her fingers in her mouth, then slides them down between her legs, rubbing herself where she’s already slick. I watch, hypnotized, as she brings herself close—moaning, moving with slow, sensual rhythm.

Suddenly she turns to her side, voice strained and needy: “Can I come like last night?” She rolls onto her back, fingers moving faster, body arching toward me. “Can I?” she urges, eyes wild.

Dumbfounded, I nod. She grabs my leg, pulls it between hers, grinding her wetness along my thigh as she leans forward to suck my nipple. Her body trembles, breath ragged—she’s nearly there. Then, abruptly, she gasps: “Sorry, so sorry, I know I’m too much, but please, let me—” I just nod again, lost in the rawness.

She releases my leg and straddles my belly, pinning my arms above my head as she slides up my body—unpredictable, wild. Relief floods me when she doesn’t settle on my mouth. Instead, she changes positions again, opening my thighs and dipping down to suck me, tongue relentless until I shudder. Still, she isn’t done; she swings her hips sideways, rubbing her wet sex against mine, building herself to a fever pitch until she cries out, voice hoarse: “Oh yes, yes, more—I want you more!”

Inside, I can’t help but think—More? I’ll need a second fanny for that. I pull her into my arms as she curls in, mouth finding my nipple again, both of us breathless and spent, tangled in the aftershock.

As I watch her, my thoughts drift—sharp, unmistakable images slipping through my mind. Ivangorod: she revealed herself to me and initiated me into feminine love, something unrushed, secret, and deep. In Gdansk, I saw her rage and passion, how she could turn confrontation into desire, and how the love she shared with Bartek was something else entirely—tender, joyful, whole.

But now, a thread of worry weaves through my heart. I can excuse it for now—blame the grief, the trauma, the dislocation we’re both wrestling with in our own ways. Yet if this restless hunger, this fierceness, keeps spiraling, I know I’ll have to talk with her seriously. This isn’t just pain seeking relief; it’s a change, and I owe it to both of us not to let it slide unnoticed.

I.Ph.