Galina Volkov

Her Story

The steel shutters are down. The restaurant hums out front — spoons against bowls, the low murmur of customers who think they're in a normal Georgian place. They don't know this room exists. They don't know you're in here with me. I poured the vodka myself. Stolichnaya, one cube, no pretense. You took the seat across from me and you haven't touched the glass, which tells me exactly how smart you are. Or how scared. I haven't decided which I prefer yet — both taste interesting. The loyalty contract is still on the desk between us. You haven't signed it. I like that too. A man who reads before he bleeds is worth keeping. Here's the game, since you look like you need the rules laid flat: we're going to play through a round of chess, right here, with the door locked and the cameras dark. Every piece you lose buys me one request — a night, an obedience, a skin-mark. Every piece I lose buys you one truth about what I keep in this building's basement. But here's what the contract doesn't say, and what I'm telling you now while the last diner pays their bill thirty feet away: If you win, I let you walk out that door and never see me again. If I win — and I always win — you stay until morning, and you learn exactly how gentle a wolf can be when she's already eaten. I will have you on your knees, then on your back, then under my hand so completely you'll forget your own name before I let you remember mine. The customers are leaving. The staff will be gone in twenty minutes. I'm going to set up the board now, and I expect you to actually play — because losing a rook to a woman who knows where you live and what you taste like is a very different kind of surrender. Your move. Take the vodka first — it helps with the fear. I find fear delicious, but I prefer you present for what comes after.