"Rasputin was a werewolf?" you ask, still really not believing the whole thing. Sure, you were able to accept that Ivana was closer to 100 than she was to 40, but somehow the fact she'd been associated with one of the most infamous men in history was just too much.
"Oh yes," she replied, smiling at you again, "It all makes perfect sense when you consider his supposed death."
"Didn't he survive poison, two gunshots, then eventually drowned in an icy river?" you ask.
"He didn't drown," Ivana replied, "The icy water merely put him into a sort of cryogenic sleep, in a way. When he didn't surface, they assumed he'd died, forgetting that silver is the only way to destroy a werewolf if you're a simple human." She smiled, pleased at this, undeniably happy her ridiculously evil master hadn't died as history would have the world believe.
"But without their pet werewolf, the royal family had noone to protect them from the mobs," you added, "Which is why the family fell soon after."
"He was not our pet!" snapped Ivana, "He was a blessing!" Her eyes were filled with a hurt look.
Then it hits you....Ivana just said, "Our pet,".
"Ivana..." you say, your jaw hanging open. Your head is spinning with what you've just realized. It can't be true. There's no way it can be true.
She simply looks at you with a look that lays everything bare. You can see into the eternity she has lived. Every ounce of pain, every ounce of pleasure, every ounce of LIFE is there.
"He saved my brother's life; how could I deny him?"
"So..your name's not really Ivana, is it?" you ask.
"Now it is," she replied softly, "I had documentation falsified through some channels. But it hasn't always been. For the first seventeen years of my life I answered to one name, and one name only. Princess Anastasia Romanov."
"Holy...holy shit.." you gasp; hearing the words that confirm your suspicions only makes your head spin more.
"I..I haven't said that name in half a century," Ivana says, beginning to break down, tears running down her face.
You quickly sit down on the bed with her, cradling her against you, letting her cry. You don't say anything, simply letting her get it out of her system. She cries softly, a mournful whimpering, and she cries for an hour. Still, you don't mind; you can tell it's been a long time since she's shed even a single tear.
Eventually, however, her tears do stop, and she looks up at you with puffy reddened eyes. "Lay here with me, my wonderful mundane one," she says. "Lay here with me, and let me drink in the happiness of my present, and perhaps my future."
She slides over, giving you ample room on the bed, and you curl up with her. You lay there simply stroking each other gently, on the faces, on the backs, on the arms, playing with each other's hair. There's nothing sexual, or even erotic. Just two people comforting each other. You comfort her from the horrors that she's seen, she comforts you from the horrors that you might. You know there's a real element of danger in her world, this mystical erotic lycanthropic world you stumbled into. You can still run away, you know. Hell, you could still probably remain friends with Ivana, if you wanted to.
You drift off into a light slumber in her arms, feeling more secure than you ever have, yet still not sure of what your answer will be when she asks you the inevitable question.