40. Peace Mila
I t’s been two months since I decided to give Rafael a chance, and they’ve been the best two months of my life. The kind of happiness I never thought I’d deserve, let alone feel.
My lecture wraps up, and while everyone lingers to talk or say goodbye, I grab my bag and slip out. My feet carry me outside, heart racing like it always does when I know he’s waiting for me. And there he is, leaning against his car, looking utterly delicious, like a vision carved out of my fantasies.
I barely make it to him before I press a kiss to his mouth. Rafael deepens it before I can pull away, his hand curling possessively around my waist. My heart swells. True to his promise, the past is never brought up again. With him, I don’t feel guilty every second of the day anymore. We buried the past, live in the present, and for the first time, I’m looking forward to the future.
“How’s the project going, Mila?” he asks as he opens the car door for me.
“Great,” I tell him, settling into the seat. “We’re hoping to be finished and published in a couple of months.”
He nods as he slides into the driver’s seat.
“Elliot’s going to train us on a new machine next week,” I add, a teasing smile creeping onto my lips. “Admit it—you were wrong about him. He doesn’t want in my pants.”
Rafael hums, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re the prettiest woman in the world. I have trouble believing that every single soul doesn’t want you.”
I shake my head, laughing softly. “How did you not flip your marbles when you found out I was working in his lab?”
He glances at me briefly. “Because you told me to trust you around him,” he says simply, “and I was determined to show you that I do.”
The words make my chest ache in the best way, and I swoon, just a little. Truly, there hasn’t been a single day when Rafael hasn’t shown me how much he loves me.
We pull into the driveway of the mansion, a place that has grown on me over the last month since I moved out of the penthouse. Rafael is still the Pakhan of the mafia, yes, but he listens to me. When I said I wanted distance from the mafia, he gave it to me. He doesn’t expect my active participation in anything, keeps the events I’m required to attend to a minimum, and shields me from the darker corners of his world. Peace. I’ve finally found it.
When we step inside, Rafael immediately takes my bag and sends me upstairs. “Go,” he orders gently, his hand brushing my lower back. “I’ll draw you a bath.”
By the time I’ve undressed and made it to the bathroom, the tub is steaming, and he’s sitting next to it on the floor, waiting. My unhinged, possessive husband, who still refuses to let me out of his sight for too long.
“Come in,” I say softly, smiling when his head snaps up. I don’t have to tell him twice. He shrugs off his shirt, steps out of his slacks, and lowers himself into the water with me.
I reach out instinctively, my palms brushing against the scars carved into his chest—scars with my name etched into them. My fingers trace the grooves, and I press a kiss to one.
“You like that you’re carved all over me?” he murmurs, his voice a deep rasp. “In my chest? In my heart? In my soul?”
His words are unhinged, dark, and so utterly Rafael. And I do—I love it. I love him.
“I love you.”
He tilts his head back, savoring the words like they’re air and he’s been drowning.
“Again.” He hisses.
“I love you.”
His lips curl into a smile. “Again.”
“I love you so much, Moya lyubov ’.”
He laughs, the sound deep and rich, like velvet. “You finally figured out what it means.”
“Teaching me curse words, huh?” I tease, my brow arching. “Since when was ‘my love’ a swear word?”
Before I can get another jab in, his mouth is on mine, silencing me with a kiss. It’s slow but consuming, like he’s trying to fuse us together.
I brush my fingers over his hands resting on my thighs. They’re rough, calloused from years of violence and his obsession with carving.
“Been sculpting recently?” I ask, tracing the lines of his knuckles.
He nods, his gaze darkening.
“Aren’t you tired of sculpting me?” I taunt, though my voice carries no real bite.
“I’m lucky enough to call the most beautiful creature alive my wife. That is enough inspiration.”
I roll my eyes, though my cheeks heat. “It’ll get to my head.”
“Good,” he says, pulling me closer.
I can’t help but think back to the first time I stumbled into his carving room. I remember the way he froze, panic flaring in his eyes, as if I’d discovered a part of him he’d kept hidden. The walls were lined with sculptures, variations of me. My face, my body, moments of us together immortalized in stone.
He was terrified I’d be turned off, scared his obsession would send me running. But instead, I was drawn in, unable to look away. That room didn’t scare me; it consumed me, the same way he does.
We made love right there. He stared at me the whole time, his gaze flicking between me and the sculptures, like he couldn’t believe I was real.
Now, that obsession is growing on me. It’s not just something he feels, it’s something I need.
Rafael’s voice cuts through the peaceful silence of our shared space. “Your uncle tried to reach out to me again.”
I freeze, my body tensing against his. My shoulders tighten, and he doesn’t miss it.
Immediately, his hands find my shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the knots with practiced ease. “Relax, Moya lyubov’ ,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm. “You don’t need to do anything you don’t want to.”
“I don’t want to meet him,” I say. “I don’t even remember him.”
Speaking of remembering, I still don’t remember that day—the one that changed our entire lives. I don’t remember the moment I set Rafael’s world on fire. It’s like my brain is shielding me from it, as if it knows I’m not strong enough to face it. My mental health has gotten so much better now, but I know deep down that if those memories came rushing back, it would all come crashing down. And honestly? Selfishly, I don’t want to remember.
“Okay, Kroshka ,” he replies simply, his hands still working their magic on my tense muscles.
I bite my lip, debating whether to continue. The words spill out anyway. “He swears he’s different from Milos, but I don’t want to take that risk. I can’t.”
Rafael hums, his fingers moving from my shoulders to my hair, coiling a strand around his finger as he always does when he’s grounding himself—and me. His tone is calm, but there’s an edge of steel in it. “I’ll send a strong message for him to stop his attempts.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, my body finally relaxing against his touch. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“Always,” he says, brushing a kiss against my temple. “No one will ever disturb your peace again. Not while I’m here.”
After a minute of silence, he chuckles. “I’ve heard you’ve been harassing the Bratva women.”
I shake my head, unable to hold back a smile. He’s changing the subject deliberately, steering me away from thoughts of my uncle. It’s just like him to distract me with his teasing. God, I’m obsessed with this man.
“Asking them to donate the clothes they no longer wear is hardly harassment in my eyes,” I say, tilting my chin up in mock defiance.
“Oh, is that what you call it?” His lips twitch. “Natasha called me, said you interrogated her about every dress in her closet.”
“I didn’t interrogate her,” I protest. “I encouraged her. There’s a difference.”
He raises a brow. “You threatened to send her husband into the ring for sparring if she didn’t.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Her husband likes sparring. I was doing her a favor.”
“Uh-huh,” he drawls, his hands finding my waist and pulling me closer. “You know they’re all terrified of you, don’t you?”
“They are not,” I argue. “They love me.”
“They do,” he admits, his voice softening. “But you terrify them just a little.”
His eyes scan my face like I’m the only thing worth looking at. “My fearsome, soft-hearted wife,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my cheek.
My big, bad husband that is only sweet to me.