Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Matysh
What would Mikhail have thought about what I did to the love of his life? The thought swims around my head over and over.
I got something from her that my brother never did. And for some reason, after tonight, without even knowing for sure she’s pregnant, this kind of submission feels more powerful than that.
God, I’m so fucked up.
I made a deal with Boris to marry Catarina and conceive an heir that will bridge the gap between our families. Catarina was in love with my brother. Not me.
And I’m a sick fuck for enjoying her pussy the way I am.
Yet here I am, unable to keep his fucking bride off my mind.
Ne zabud' svoye obeshchaniye (Don’t forget your promise), Matysh.
Even knowing what just happened is wrong, it replays in my mind in an endless loop overnight and I struggle to fall asleep. I feel the warmth from Catarina's body seeping through the sheets, surrounding me, and for some reason I want to move in closer to wrap my arms around her.
But I don’t. I won’t betray my brother by going soft—or involving any emotions—for the woman. Plus, that’s never been me!
When morning comes and I open my eyes, I feel more exhausted than I have in weeks. I don’t feel any better at all.
I have to get used to the way things are.
I gaze to my left to make sure Catarina is still nestled into the bed beside me. She is.
I know she still has one arm restrained, and part of me expected her to gnaw her arm off to get away from me. It wouldn’t have taken away from her beauty.
And that thought is fucking bothersome.
Which is exactly why I need to loosen up my leash on her outside of the bedroom—within reason, of course.
I untie the rope, then tiptoe out of bed as quietly as I can, grabbing my phone so I can log into the camera over my balcony and keep an eye on it over breakfast to make sure Catarina doesn't try anything.
The last thing I need right now is to go chasing her around through the woods in the middle of the day, where anyone can see it.
I get dressed and give her one last look before slipping from the room, intentionally leaving the door unlocked. Posmotrim, smozhesh’ li ty poslushat’sya menya, ogonyok (Let’s see if you can listen to me, Little Flame).
I make my way to the kitchen, ignoring the lingering guilt in my chest. I shouldn’t feel guilty for fucking my wife. But I do. Fucking hell.
Leonidas, my personal chef, is already in the kitchen making breakfast. “Nachal'nik (Boss),” he greets with a simple nod.
A stack of envelopes, newspapers, and magazines sits on the kitchen counter. I grab them all as I take a seat.
“What’s for breakfast?” I ask, skimming through the mail. Leonidas drones on about the different options he's preparing, while I try to distract myself with literally anything other than my cock balls deep in Catarina.
I usually have the same thing for breakfast every morning. Oatmeal with a helping of blueberries and bananas, with scrambled eggs and rye toast on the side.
I realize the options he's giving me are for Catarina specifically. She's barely been eating, and at my instruction, he's been trying to make food more enticing to pique her appetite. I don't think it's working right now, but there's no harm in trying.
After a few minutes, I hear footsteps in the hallway and assume it’s one of the house staff wandering around, but then Catarina pops her head in the kitchen.
I stare at her almost in shock for a moment and then raise my brows at her choice of attire—one of my black robes from my closet. “Interesting choice,” I mutter.
Her cheeks flush with…either anger or embarrassment, but she doesn't say anything as she takes a seat. Leonidas gives her the whole spiel about what he has prepared. Catarina looks hesitant and I just stare at her.
“Eat whatever you want,” I say, my tone leaving no room for argument. I look over her shoulder at Leonidas and subtly nod my head, letting him know to bring anything she wants over to the table. She settles on a plate of French toast with turkey bacon and scrambled eggs on the side.
I keep my eyes on Catarina as she stares silently at me. Eventually, she gives in and she pushes the eggs around on her plate before taking a bite.
That seems to whet her appetite because every bite she takes thereafter is a little more enthusiastic.
And for some reason, the fact that she’s eating brings me strange relief.
I continue looking through the newspaper and the pile of mail on the table as I spoon oatmeal into my mouth. I stop when I see an elegant burgundy envelope with a dark green wax seal in the center. I know what it is before I open it. It's the same thing every single year.
The Imperial Winter Ball.
I survey the envelope for a moment and consider it.
Normally, I would just toss it aside with no interest in attending.
It's a fundraising event for Russian cultural heritage in the city, so I usually just send a cheque.
I enjoyed attending it in my twenties; after that, though, it felt like nothing more than a burden.
But right now… I realize this could be a good opportunity.
The whole reason I married Catarina was to make a statement. We're bridging our families together despite the attempts to keep us apart. What better way to do that than to make our debut as a couple? Besides, the security is thick there, and no one would know that she’s pregnant yet.
I don’t even know for sure if she’s pregnant yet.
I shake my head and then open the envelope and see an elegant invitation with gilded snowflakes dripping along the sides and my name written in the center in a dainty cursive.
The date is for this upcoming weekend and I wonder for a moment why I'm getting the invitation so late, but it occurs to me that the past couple of weeks have been so hectic, I probably missed it.
I adjust in my seat, turning to face my wife. “We'll be going to the Imperial Winter Ball on Saturday,” I say to her, flicking my eyes up from the envelope to stare at her. She pauses halfway into a big bite of French toast and raises her eyebrows.
“I don't want to go,” Catarina says, biting the food and turning her attention back to her plate.
“I don't recall asking,” I retort. “You're my wife now. People will be expecting to see you at my side at events like this.”
“Do you really think that's a good idea?” Catarina shoots back at me with a sharp tone. She sets her fork down with a clank. “I thought there was danger? And won’t I look foolish moving on right after—”
“They'll believe it because we'll make them believe it,” I cut her off. “This is why we got married in the first place. We need to show our enemies that we are united, and we can't do that by staying here all day. We're going, and I will have plenty of security in place.”
“First of all, I never agreed to marry you. Second, you can't control everything that I do,” Catarina snaps, shaking her head. “You seem to think you're the only person who matters in this relationship, but it’ll take both of us to convince everyone else this is real.”
“You're right, you never agreed. That didn't stop it from happening though. Did it? When you signed that certificate, you signed yourself over to me. Period.”
“You keep talking like you’re in charge,” she sneers. “You forget I still have a voice in this.”
“You do have a voice,” I say, letting a smirk curl my lips. “I just decide when you get to use it. And as we saw last night, I can make you use it.”
“You’re unbelievable.” Catarina’s skin turns red and she quickly looks down at her plate.
“And yet, here you are, wearing my ring and robe, eating my food.” I stare at her, feeling a familiar flame of excitement in my chest. “We're going to the ball. End of discussion. Be prepared to talk about baby clothes and Lamaze classes with certain people, too.”
We sit in silence for a few moments, and she stares at her plate, her appetite clearly gone.
“Maybe you should start practicing the smile you’ll give when someone congratulates you,” I add, my tone teasing. “You’ll have to look like you’re happy to be the mother of my heir.”
“That’ll take some acting,” she mutters.
“Then it’s a good thing you’re so goddamn dramatic.”
“We don't even know for sure that I'm pregnant,” Catarina says, shaking her head.
“We'll find out soon enough.” I smile at her and watch the dread cross her face. “Dr. Ivakin is coming to see you today.”
Her eyes widen. “Why couldn’t you just order me a pregnancy test?”
“Because I prefer to be as concrete as possible. Surely…you’re not scared of a little truth?
” I taunt her. “If you are indeed carrying my child, you might as well get used to me knowing everything that happens to you. Every breath, every heartbeat, every meal will be closely monitored for the next nine months—and possibly beyond. Maybe I want two heirs.” I blurt out the last part in a way that even has my chef making a face. It was too far.
Catarina opens her mouth to argue, but instead mutters under her breath as she stands to her feet, shoving her plate away. I chuckle as she storms off, my robe swallowing her tiny little body.
It’s almost endearing, how easy she is to piss off.
I finish my breakfast, keeping a close eye on my phone to make sure I don't get any notifications about her sneaking away, before going to my office and emailing the event organizer to let them know we're coming.
While I am working on a few remaining tasks, I hear a knock on my office door letting me know that the doctor is here.
Dr. Ivakin is older than the dirt beneath the city. He was already old when I was a child and has been working for my family for as long as I can remember. God knows how old he truly is; nonetheless, he is still working, thankfully.
“It’s good to see you,” I say as I greet the old man, rising from my desk. He just grunts and holds out his doctor's bag, not saying much as I lead him through the halls to Catarina's room. As expected, she's sitting by the window with a book in hand.
Catarina jumps to her feet and sets the book down, nervously wringing her hands in front of her as the two of us walk into the room.
“Catarina might be pregnant and we just need confirmation of that from you,” I instruct Ivakin.
He sets his bag down on the dresser and digs through it. “I don't have any tests on me, but I can take a vial of her blood and use that. I should have the results in a few hours and I can call you to let you know.”
“Do whatever you need,” I say, walking over to Catarina and placing both hands on her shoulders as I sit her back down in the chair.
Ivakin approaches with some tools in hand and sets them down on a table nearby before giving her a cursory exam.
He listens to her heart rate through his stethoscope, writing it down in his notebook before taking her blood pressure. He checks her eyes and her throat like she's going in for an annual physical exam.
The entire time, she’s dead quiet.
She goes pale as Ivakin grabs a needle and approaches with it. I watch as her eyes widen in fear.
“Umm, couldn't I have a cup to pee in,” Catarina asks, jumping to her feet and backing away from Ivakin before he can approach with the needle. It’s amusing to see how she’s afraid of a small routine needle when she’ll literally go toe-to-toe with me.
“I don't have one on me,” Ivakin says, moving closer to her and rubbing a cotton swab of iodine on the inside of her arm.
Catarina trembles as he holds her arm steady, preparing to slide the needle into the vein. Just as he's about to, she yanks her arm away from him and shakes her head, terrified.
“I'm not so good with needles,” Catarina admits, holding her arm close to her chest as her face grows a deep shade of crimson. “I really think we should do this another way.”
It's a brief moment of vulnerability that Catarina doesn't want me to see, but I find it oddly…attractive. I'm about to open my mouth to encourage her when Ivakin grabs her arm and pulls it down against her will.
“This will be quick,” he says, bringing the needle closer.
“Stop!” Catarina yells, trying to yank her arm away, but Ivakin is gripping her too strongly. Surprisingly strong for someone as old as he is.
He doesn't listen to her and holds the needle steady as she shakes and screams. “Let me go!”
The moment I hear her scream, something shifts inside me. Any semblance of calm I had is gone in an instant, replaced by this dark, primal urge.
Who the fuck does he think he is laying his hands on her like that?
His fingers dig into the flesh of her arm. He brings the needle closer and Catarina cries out in pain.
“Let her go!” I take a few quick paces across the room and stand in front of Ivakin before grabbing his hand. I shove him away from her and he stumbles backward, nearly falling on his ass.
It feels like something else takes control of me completely as I walk over to him, wrap my hand around his neck and slam him against the wall.
He stares at me with wide eyes and shock on his face.
“Ona skazala stop (She said stop),” I say through gritted teeth, squeezing my hand tighter around his throat. “Don't you ever hurt my wife again. Understand? Come back with a goddamn cup.”
“Yes, Sir.” Ivakin nods his head and I let go of him, taking a few steps back as my chest rises and falls rapidly.
“Get out!” I shout, pointing at the door. He grabs his bag and the few things he had pulled out of it and hastily rushes out of the room, stumbling over his own feet. I stare at the empty doorway, knowing that Catarina is beside me, still shaking from the whole ordeal.
In the back of my head, Mikhail's voice echoes. Protect her.
But this sick feeling churns in my gut, and I know what I did has nothing to do with my brother.