Chapter 17
17
Fiona
K irill slides under the silk sheets, keeping an inch between us. He stares at the ceiling, his jaw twitching.
I sink deeper into the luxurious bed and then face him. I hug the pillow, breathing in his scent and studying him.
He releases an anxious breath, then carefully turns toward me. Nerves fill his expression. He asks, "Do you need anything?"
Amused, I shake my head, biting my lip.
He glances at my mouth, then meets my gaze again, prodding, "Are you a light sleeper?"
I answer, "I don't think so. Why? Are you?"
"I often wake up in the middle of the night. Perhaps I don't require a lot of sleep," he claims.
I pout. "So I'll be left alone in bed all the time?"
Surprise flashes in his eyes. "That would bother you?"
"It depends. Are you a spooner?" I tease.
He arches his eyebrows. "Spooner? "
"Yeah."
He admits, "I don't know what that means."
I sarcastically laugh. "Sure you don't."
He shakes his head. The line on his forehead deepens. He insists, "I don't."
My smile falls. "You honestly don't know what spooning is?"
"No."
"How is that possible?"
He shrugs. "I don't know. But are you going to tell me what it is?"
"It's a form of cuddling," I offer.
His expression hardens. He blinks a few times and stays quiet.
My stomach dives. "You don't like to cuddle?"
He swallows hard.
I hold my fingers a few inches apart, teasing, "Not even a little?"
He opens his mouth and then shuts it. He looks past me, breathing deeply.
My insides quiver. I quietly state, "It's okay." I turn and face the window, trying to hide my disappointment.
He sighs, slides one arm under my head, then curls his other arm around my waist and tugs me into him. He brushes his lips against my ear, asking, "Is this how you like to cuddle?"
Tingles zing down my spine. My butterflies throw a new party in my stomach. I push my ass into his pelvis and sink into him, lacing my fingers through his. I turn my head, smirking. "So you do like to spoon."
He pins his eyebrows together. "This is spooning? "
"Ha, ha. Funny."
Silence fills the air, turning tense.
My chest tightens. I turn onto my back, asking, "You really didn't know what spooning was?"
He hesitates, then pushes a lock of my hair behind my ear and shakes his head. "No."
I cautiously ask, "So you're the type of guy who doesn't like to cuddle?"
He studies me for another moment, then reveals, "I haven't had anyone in my bed since I was eighteen."
I laugh, exclaiming, "I married the virgin king!"
"Not exactly," he states with a straight face.
I snicker for another moment, then realize he's not playing any games. I immediately got serious, staring at him.
He grinds his molars, looking more uncomfortable by the minute.
I slide my hand on his cheek. "I'm confused."
He briefly closes his eyes and then pins a shameful gaze on me. He lowers his voice, confessing, "I had a girlfriend once. Then... " He looks away, clenching his jaw.
I run my thumb over his chin, softly asking, "Then what?"
He meets my gaze, answering, "Then everything changed." The color drains from his face.
My insides quiver so hard that I feel nauseous. I wait for him to continue.
He adds, "She couldn't look at me anymore."
"Why?"
He stares at me, and more embarrassment washes over him .
I put my hand on his chest, caressing the raised scar tissue covered in ink, and putting two and two together. I answer my own question. "Because of your scars?"
He barely nods, trying to keep his expression neutral, but it's full of pain.
My heart aches. I slide closer to him, running my fingers through his hair and cautiously asking, "So you haven't had sex since then?"
His voice comes out flat. "I didn't say that."
"You said you haven't had anyone in your bed," I remind him.
He stares at the ceiling for a while.
I decide he's done talking, so I offer, "Sorry. I didn't mean to pry into your private life." I turn on my side and inch away to give him some space, thinking that's what he wants.
He immediately pulls me back into him, creating a cocoon around me with his body.
I sink into him, turn my head, and smile.
"I make it a point not to lie to people who are important to me. There aren't many on my list, but you're one of them, Fiona. So I'll be honest with you," he declares.
My heart soars. I turn to him and state, "Then I'll always be honest with you."
He smiles for a moment, but then it falls. He announces, "I've had lots of sex, but no one's been in my bed. Until tonight, only a few of my personal staff and several Omni—all of whom are sworn to secrecy—knew their king was the snake man."
I admit, "I'm not following."
A fresh, uncomfortable expression appears. He reveals, "The hissing wasn't something new. "
I continue to stare at him, not understanding.
He adds, "The only time I have sex is during Underworld rituals. And I won't hide my past from you. I've taken part in many acts, but I've always had a mask on."
I process his statement, and he waits, watching me intently. Then I blurt out, "So you haven't dated anyone since you were eighteen?"
His face turns red. "Yes."
I gape at him, unable to fathom it, then ask, "Why?"
He grinds his molars, replying, "I know what I look like, Fiona."
I scoff. "I think you're sexy. Your scars give you a bad boy vibe, but that's not a turn-off."
"You don't have to say that. I'm fully aware of the disgust women feel when they see me," he claims.
I jerk my head back.
He clenches his jaw.
Anger fills me. It erupts from the way he's been treated due to whatever it is that happened to him and resulted in permanent marks all over his body. But it's also for another reason. I growl, "Don't do that to me."
Surprised, he asks, "Do what?"
"Don't talk to me like I'm pitying you. I just told you I wouldn't lie to you. And the first night I met you, I very embarrassingly blurted out that I thought the scar on your face was sexy. Or did you forget?" I accuse.
His eyes widen.
I scoff. "What about Valentina? You two seem super close."
"She's my only friend," he announces .
The claw in my gut reappears. I huff. "So she says."
In a stern tone, he scolds, "I told you at the restaurant she was my friend and nothing more."
I glare at him. "So I'm supposed to believe she's never been in your bed?"
His eyes narrow. "Of course she hasn't. And I just told you that no one has."
Internal chaos ensues from my jealousy, spinning with sadness, and thinking of how alone he must have been. Then, a new insecurity takes over. I blurt out, "So whenever we're at an Underworld event, women you've fucked are going to be trying to get your attention?"
He chuckles. "That'll be the day."
"It's not funny."
His face falls. "Every woman I've ever fucked has looked at me in disgust. Even with a mask on and tattoos covering my scarred skin, there's no escaping it."
" Every woman, huh?" I challenge.
"Yes. I'm being honest with you," he retorts.
I jab him in the chest. "I'm not every woman. Or am I?"
He looks at me in confusion.
My emotions ball up in my chest. In a shaky voice, I point out, "I've never looked at you with disgust. I've only ever looked at you with the exact opposite. So you're not looking close enough or not interested in my attraction for you." Hurt, I turn away from him, blinking hard, suddenly exhausted from too much stress and not enough sleep.
"Jesus, I'm a fool," he mutters, then tugs me into him and curls his body around mine.
"Yeah, Kirill, you are," I mumble into my pillow .
He sighs, and the weight of the world flares around us. He tightens his arms around me and presses his mouth to my neck, kissing me, then adding, "I don't know what I'm doing, my beautiful bride."
I take a few deep breaths, then turn onto my back. "And you think I do?"
He studies me for a moment, then slowly smiles. "I guess not." His grin grows.
I softly laugh.
He replicates my amusement until we're both fighting tears.
He gradually stops and strokes my cheek. Vulnerability floods his expression. He hesitates, then asks, "So I wasn't imagining things all night?"
"What things?"
Nervousness radiates from him. He takes his time before he reveals, "You weren't disgusted. You were okay when you realized I was who you had to marry?"
My butterflies awaken again. Anxiety floods me as I speak my truth. "No. I was elated it was you."
Happiness lights his eyes. He stares at me, then lowers his lips to mine.
We slowly kiss, lazily rolling our tongue against the other's, his body hardening and mine turning into a damp mess. Our limbs entwine, and fingers grip the other's skin until I'm whimpering underneath him.
I widen my legs and lift my hips.
He enters me, and his girth pushes against my walls, creating a new frenzy of welcomed sensations. His guttural groan dances against my ear as if in relief .
I cling to him, keeping him close, kissing him with more intensity, watching him study me with the same curiosity as before.
He thrusts to the speed of our kisses, and I reach for his ass cheek, pushing my fingers into his muscle, needing more. He responds by forcefully entering me so hard I see stars.
"Oh my God," I whisper.
He mumbles, "Is that what you want, little bird? Me deep inside you?"
"Yes," I barely get out.
He flicks his tongue in my mouth a few times, keeping his thrusts in sync, never taking his eyes off mine.
"Kirill," I mutter, closing my eyes and tipping my head back.
His hand slides over my throat, his thumb pushing against my clavicle.
I moan, my heart racing faster.
"Sexy little bird," he says against my neck while kissing it.
"Please," I beg, wanting the high I've never had before him.
He wraps his fingers around my throat, puts his face over mine, and presses each fingertip into my flesh one at time, as if I'm a piano.
I whimper louder, and a tremor runs through me.
He groans, thrusting deeper inside me.
"So good," I admit. Heat rushes through my veins, and tingles light up my core.
"The best," he praises, pressing all five fingers down at the same time.
A burst of pride floods me, tugging at my heart. No one's ever called me the best or played my body so skillfully. And I want nothing more than for it to be true and to be the best he's ever had.
"How do you tap out, my sexy wife?" he questions .
I blink fast several times.
"Good. But you've already been choked too much tonight, and you have to let your brand heal," he asserts.
Alarm bells ring in my head. I forgot I even had the plastic wrap around my neck. But I shake my head, and my voice falters. "N-no. I'm good!"
He chuckles, gives me a chaste kiss, then pulls away when I slide my tongue into his mouth. His lips twitch, and a flush creeps over his glistening skin. He leans into my ear and declares, "Don't worry, my queen. There's more than one way. And your king's going to fill your pussy so deep with cum you're going to feel my warmth for days."
"Yes," I whisper, pushing my pelvis eagerly to meet his thrust.
His determined gaze sears into mine. He thrusts harder and faster, keeping his hand in the same position, not increasing or decreasing the pressure.
Spasms overpower my core, desperately trying to hold on to his erection as it slips in and out of me. They start to slow, then viciously escalate until I'm unable to focus on anything else.
My body convulses against his hard frame and then his cock expands. I cry out, "You're a fucking god!"
His low groan vibrates against me. He thrusts through it, burying his seed deep inside me until we're both peaking with a rush of adrenaline.
He releases my neck, collapsing over me, holding himself up on his forearms. His hot, ragged breath hits my shoulder.
My chest pushes against his, trying to get air.
He rolls onto his back, tugging me into his arms.
It takes a while until my focus returns and my breath normalizes. I slowly lift my head .
He stares at me, his lips slightly curved.
My smile overpowers me. I lean up and kiss him, retreat, and tilt my head.
He caresses my back. "What's the look for, my little bird?"
I arch my eyebrows. "I'm the best?"
He grins. "Yes." Then he slides his hand in my hair and pulls me back to his lips.
We kiss for a while and then I settle into his arms. He slides his palm over my ass, and we lie here, content and sated.
I break the silence minutes later, propping myself up on my elbow. I trace the snake over his chest, saying, "You know how you said you would tell me whatever I wanted to know once we said our vows?"
He nods. "Yes."
"Is anything off-limits?"
He hesitates but then surprises me by saying, "No. Nothing is off-limits. Whatever you want to know, I'll tell you."
"What if it's not about me?"
He sits up, rests against the headboard, and gently pulls me into the same position. He asks, "What do you want to know, Fiona?"
I gather my thoughts but decide there's no easy way to ask and that direct is best. I trace the scar on his cheek and question, "How did you get your scars?"
He tenses. The remaining flush on his skin disappears, and he looks away.
"You don't have to answer?—"
"I will tell you," he interjects, pinning his gaze on me.
I nod, pick up his hand, and kiss his branded skull mark .
He takes a deep breath, then flatly states, "What you've heard about the Petrovs is true. They traffic and rape women. Sometimes, children too."
A chill runs through my bones.
"I am not like them," he reiterates.
I scoot closer, sliding my thumb over his hand, insisting, "I know you aren't."
"Do you?" He peers at me closer.
"Yes."
"How?"
I shrug. "I don't know, but my heart tells me you're different."
He releases a deep breath, then continues, "On my eighteenth birthday, my father and uncles took me to one of their whorehouses. They had a new group of women in the house. My father wanted me to help break them in. I refused."
My pulse pounds hard between my ears. Disgust and shock fill me. No matter how much you're warned about something, hearing it again doesn't make it any easier.
Kirill looks away, then confesses, "To punish me for my disobedience, they strung me up by a rope. My father cut my face. My oldest uncle took the knife around my body. My father's youngest brother made hash marks under the parts where I tattooed snakeheads."
Bile flies up my esophagus. I gape at him.
His father and uncles did this to him?
He keeps his head turned toward the window. A tremor runs through his hand.
I squeeze it tighter and put my arm between his back and the headboard .
He continues, "They told me that no woman would ever want me. They said the only way I'd ever have sex again was with one of their whores."
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
He slowly meets my gaze with a painful but hardened expression. "That's the quick version. Do you mind if I leave it at that?"
I nod, then rise on my knees and straddle him.
He blinks hard, trying to eliminate his emotions.
I put both hands on his cheeks and kiss him.
For a moment, he doesn't return my affection, then finally does, but he retreats quickly. "Do you have other questions you want answers to right now?"
I start to shake my head but then stop.
"Go on," he orders.
I gather my thoughts and then ask, "In your letter, you said you had flaws. Is that what you think your scars are? Flaws?"
He swallows hard. "Yes. They changed the entire course of my life."
My heart hurts to learn how he got his scars and what he thinks about himself because of them. I assert, "Flaws make us who we are and influence how we deal with things."
He stares at me in silence.
I trace the mark on his cheek again, and he closes his eyes, strumming his hand across my lower back. I add, "They say strong people turn flaws into strengths."
His eyes fly open. Something passes over his expression and then a short chuckle flies out of him.
"What's funny?" I question .
He pins his blues to mine, then reveals, "They say your brother is like him, but they're all wrong."
Confused, I ask, "What do you mean? And who are you talking about?"
His lips twitch. "Your father."
The grief I feel surrounding my father creeps into my chest.
Kirill cups my chin, looking into my eyes, then declares, "You are the most like your father, not your brother."
I swallow the lump in my throat.
He arches his eyebrows. "You don't believe me?"
I shrug. "Everyone says Sean is like him."
Kirill shakes his head, insisting, "No, my queen. You have your father's heart and head more than your brother."
I stay silent, wondering if it's true.
He asks, "Do you remember in my letter the story I told you about your father and the moon?"
"Yes."
More pain fills his sharp features. His face darkens, but then he states, "Your father is the one who found me. I was still strung upside down and bleeding. He took me to safety and nursed my wounds until they clotted."
More nausea churns in my gut.
Shame fills Kirill's face. He adds, "The night he took me to see the moon was the second time he saved me. It was the night I almost killed myself. So when I say I'm only alive because of him, it's not an exaggeration."