Chapter 11 #3
I close my eyes. I’m still tired. Always tired. Maybe I can get some rest.
I need a purpose here, eventually. Obeying my bear of a husband or whatever it is he demands is hardly enough. I roll my eyes to no one.
When the door opens, Rafail stands in the doorway, glaring at me. “Fine,” he growls. “You can come to breakfast, but you’d better behave yourself.”
If by behaving myself, he thinks I need to keep my mouth shut, then I believe there are a few things my new husband needs to learn about me.
"Did somebody out there remind you to be human again? The full moon’s gone, and you can put away your werewolf?” I jerk my chin into the air.
His response is a low growl I feel in my bones. “Watch it. I came to bring you a present, and I’ll take it back if you sass me.”
Even when I’m mad at him, I love the sound of his voice. That's when I realize he has a pair of crutches with him. Whoever he saw in the hallway had these for me. My heart soars.
“You're sure you're alright with giving me some mobility? Thought you'd have me depending on you for life. Thought you'd be my crutch."
He smirks at me, and my belly swoops. I swallow hard, pretending he doesn’t have this hold on me. “No, baby," he says, leaning close to put his mouth to my ear. "I'm your husband. And when you realize what that means, you’ll see it’s all I need to be."
I forget his domineering tone as he unties me and helps me to my feet, then hands me the pair of crutches. I'm clumsy at first, and it's awkward with them under my arms, but I quickly make my way to the door. Yes. I can move, and faster than wobbling and feeling like I'm going to tumble over.
"Also, don’t forget you said I can talk to the doctor.”
“Yes,” he says distractedly but doesn't offer any details. “How are you going to manage the stairs?" he asks with another frown, holding back.
He holds the door wide open, and my heart soars. I was so tired when I first came to this room that I barely paid attention to the details of his home. Now I’m struck with its beauty—high, vaulted ceilings, marble floors, and large windows that flood the space with light.
“This home is gorgeous,” I breathe, looking around like a kid in a candy shop.
He gets a sheepish smile and puts his hands in his pockets. “Thank you. They call it The Cottage.”
I snort. “The Cottage? I love how Russians have a dry sense of humor. This place isn’t quaint or small but enormous. At least it looks that way.”
I make my way toward the top of the stairs. He reaches for me and then holds himself back as if reminding himself to let me go.
“I’ve made sure it was safe and secure. My sisters are the ones who keep it… homey.”
I breathe and soak in every detail. Beyond the large windows are stone walls and intricately carved iron gates, lush gardens outside with greens and blooming flowers. The sprawling mansion seems to balance old-world elegance with modern charm.
“You alright?”
“I’ve got it.” I put both crutches in one hand and hop one step at a time.
My husband stands just in front of me, clearly using all his self-control not to help.
Resisting the urge doesn’t come naturally to him.
I can tell by the tension in his jaw and shoulders he's not too crazy about this plan, but it's working.
He grits his teeth, standing just in front of me and takes a step forward just before I do.
"Are you standing there so that if I fall, you'll catch me?" I ask, huffing and puffing and sweating from the exertion.
He shrugs, his eyes meeting mine only briefly before he takes another step back. "Yeah, baby. That's a husband's job."
Something like pleasure weaves its way across my chest, and I swallow a lump in my throat. So damn emotional on these meds. I want to get off them soon.
"What did you give me for pain meds?"
He lists off a bunch of names, things I've never heard of before.
"I want something over the counter. Please," I tack on as an afterthought. "Something tamer."
Step. Hop. Brace.
"They won't work as well,” he mutters, still frowning.
"I know, but that’s a risk I'm willing to take."
I don't want another dream like the one I had last night. Something tells me it may have been the pain meds.
Finally, we reach the bottom of the stairs. “I can’t believe I was a runner, and I can hardly handle a flight of stairs without being winded.” It’s frustrating as hell. I place the crutches back under my arms and glide my way next to him.
“You’ll get back there. Patience.”
“Ah, something else you’ll teach me?” I ask with a playful smile.
Rafail grunts in response as he walks, and I hobble across a formal dining room.
The polished table is covered in textbooks at one end, with coloring pencils and doodled-on papers scattered around them.
It’s clear this room sees more homework and art projects than actual dinners.
To the right of the table stands a sideboard with a few cases of sports drinks and soda.
“Careful,” Rafail says with a frown. “I told Rodion to put those away.” Shaking his head, he lifts a notebook. “And Zoya was supposed to get this project in yesterday. She’s been distracted.”
“How old is Zoya?”
“Seventeen.”
He’s been her guardian since she was only a small child. No wonder he has a soft spot for her.
No wonder she’s as timid as a little mouse, poor girl.
“Are those her schoolbooks?”
“Yes. She’s got a big exam coming up.”
Just then, voices ring out from the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable sound of a scuffle—thumps, grunts, and a clatter that makes my heart skip.
“Jesus,” Rafail mutters, striding toward the commotion.
As soon as we round the corner, we find two of his brothers locked in a wrestling match, grappling and shoving each other dangerously close to the counter where a bowl of dough sits, perfectly risen and ready to bake. Zoya’s precious bread.
Without a word, Rafail steps in and grabs them each by the collar, yanking them apart as if they weigh nothing. He gives them both a quick, firm shake, his glare cutting through their adrenaline-fueled grins.
“Alright,” he growls. “Which one of you needs to get your ass kicked first?”
The brothers exchange glances, their faces suddenly sheepish. From behind him, someone I haven’t yet met peeks out, barely containing a snicker.
“Well, Yana?” Rafail prompts, raising an eyebrow at her. “Who’s getting it first?”
Yana crosses her arms, smirking. “I’d start with the one who nearly knocked over the bread.”
Both brothers freeze, eyes darting to the delicate bowl of dough. They gulp in unison, and Rafail gives them one last shake before finally letting go.
“I brought my wife down to breakfast,” he warns, “behave yourselves.”
They’re hardly children, but the brothers quickly back away from each other, Semyon’s cold gaze still fixed on Rodion, Rodion’s jaw clenched. Rafail just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as he straightens his shirt.
Yikes. He had his work cut out for him with this crew.
“Sit down,” he barks before he turns to Zoya. “Did you forget to hand in your assignment?”
Zoya flits around the kitchen, straightening things out, and doesn’t meet his eyes. “About that,” she says as she places a crock of butter on the table and a loaf of bread. “I’ve been meaning to ask you to help me with it. There’s all these questions about… well, family history and stuff.”
Rafail stands taller and crosses his arms on his chest. “What do they want to know?”
As they talk over past history, someone clears their throat.
Yana stands in front of me. A young woman a few years older than Zoya but younger than Rafail, she smiles softly.
Her presence has a calm, almost regal quality, with a confidence that’s both subtle and undeniable.
Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, framing her face.
I notice the faintest trace of makeup—a flick of mascara, magnifying her electric-blue eyes, and a hint of pink lip gloss—matching her understated elegance.
Her eyes meet mine with an openness that catches me off guard. There’s a quiet strength in her gaze like she’s weathered storms that only she fully understands. When she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a glint of gold on her finger catches my attention.
Is that a wedding ring?
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” she says, her voice gentle yet unwavering. I’m struck by the warmth and steadiness in her tone, and there’s something about her that feels both grounded and fiercely resilient. “My brothers have told me all about you, but Rafail’s been possessive, hasn’t he?”
My brothers. For some reason, it makes my heart ache. He says I don’t have siblings, but I know that to be… a lie.
I did. I do. And I’ll find them.
“I don’t remember who you’ve met or who you remember,” Rafail says.
I shake my head. I had too many meds and was confused and disoriented.
“A proper introduction would probably be a good idea,” I tell him with a shrug.
“Right. This is Semyon,” Rafail says, gesturing toward the man I encountered upstairs. He stands just a step back, arms crossed, his gaze dissecting me with unnerving precision.
Semyon has the sharp, chiseled features of Rafail but wears them with a colder detachment.
He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his expression clinical as if he’s calculating exactly who I am and what I might mean to his brother.
His eyes are ice-blue, unblinking and methodical, and he gives off an aura that’s almost surgical—analyzing, cataloging, already figuring out the quickest way to manipulate or dismantle me if it ever came to that.
“Hello again,” he says, his voice low, each word deliberate. There’s no warmth there, only a distant courtesy. “Welcome.”
I manage a nod. “Hello.”
For a moment, his gaze flickers past me, locking briefly with Rafail’s in what seems to be a silent exchange. I can’t quite read it, but the corner of Semyon’s mouth quirks, almost as if in approval, before he turns his attention back to me with that same unnervingly calculated stare.