Chapter 31
Cecilia
Weeks pass, and snow keeps falling from the sky, turning everything white.
The days blend into one another, and a calming routine finds me. Everything’s different now, better than before. Every morning Mikhail wakes me up with that wicked tongue between my thighs.
We end up skipping breakfast, and I’m almost always late to the piano practice in the study room he built for me, but I don’t mind. I’m locked in there for most of the day, except for when my empty stomach forces me to go downstairs for lunch or dinner and to socialize.
Most nights, my husband comes home before midnight now. I used to worry he’d stop coming back at all, like he did that time after we first kissed, but that hasn’t happened. I stopped worrying, stopped asking him where he goes or what he does. The dried blood on his knuckles usually tells me enough.
And I trust him—blindly, perhaps foolishly, even—but he hasn’t given me any reason to question his loyalty. If anything, he keeps on strengthening it more than I could’ve ever hoped.
He takes me out on dates, and we eat together, bonding over a newly shared passion—food. Although my father always had a cook back in San Maleno, I rarely indulged in anything or paid much attention to the flavors. My life was routine, control, and staying in line.
Now, my new-found freedom pushes me to explore things I haven’t considered before.
And wow—food is incredible.
After the Christmas dinner a few nights ago, Mikhail took me to a different party in New York.
He said they’d serve an exclusive nigiri by a chef Ali Nakamura.
He was retired, apparently, but the party was his daughter’s, so he came and prepared the dish one last time for her guests. It was phenomenal.
Rodion and Niko joined us there too, and when we all sat at the table, I got served more than just my plate of nigiri.
My husband’s hand snaked under the table, caressing my thigh idly as he carried out the conversation with his friends.
It’s a simple gesture he started doing recently when we’re out in public—possessive, yet caring and protective.
When he did it again that night, my stomach fluttered in recognition. It showed me I was constantly on his mind, even if he seemed lost in the table conversation. I loved it.
And I especially loved it when, out of nowhere, he caressed my kneecap, pulling my thighs apart. My breath halted, and I looked around the table, worried the others might have seen. They hadn’t. I shifted in my seat, sipping on my drink as his warm fingers crawled higher up my leg.
“You know how they are. Always prying,” Mikhail said to Rodion, a conversation I had tuned out of in favor of his touches.
I couldn’t react, couldn’t risk letting the others know what was happening under the table, that I was allowing it.
My thighs had succumbed to Mikhail’s pull, exposing me to whatever he planned on doing to me.
“Did you say something, sweetheart?” my husband asked, throwing me a knowing look.
He didn’t have to be more explicit than that. I knew he was asking for my safe word, and I knew very well I wasn’t going to say it.
“No.” I pushed my hair behind my ear, taking a nervous sip of my drink.
“My bad, then.” He smiled, and his fingers pressed at my lace thong, pushing into my soft pussy. I swallowed a whimper, wishing desperately my panties weren’t in the way. “Bathroom’s over there. You asked about it earlier.”
I hadn’t, but the fact that he could read my mind so easily, knew exactly what my body needed, made me shake my head at him in surprise. I excused myself and went, taking off my panties in an empty, fancy stall.
It wasn’t my proudest moment, and neither was the walk back to the table, knowing that beneath my dress, my pussy pulsed with the kind of need only my husband could satiate.
I passed a full-length mirror just then, and I saw myself in a completely different light.
My short hair was hanging to my shoulders, different from the length it once was, my lips fuller than usual from all the blood swarming there.
A velvet-black dress left my thighs half-exposed, showing me exactly where Mikhail’s hand had been just moments earlier, like an invisible mark only I could see.
Instead of feeling ashamed, I smiled a little, realizing I didn’t want to be someone else for once. I was starting to love the person I was seeing in the mirror, to understand her and show her grace.
So what if I wanted to go with Mikhail’s wild ideas? I needed to explore this new side of me I had never met. And he knew, I supposed, which is why he was the one person who could lead me somewhere dangerous without ever caging me.
I eyed him from a distance, sitting in that chair with his dark, charming aura. He burned like a torch, like a flame ablaze surrounded by dying embers. No wonder I couldn’t take my eyes off him…or that I wanted him to burn us both.
After I finish my piano practice for the day, Mikhail enters our bedroom, appearing in the vanity mirror behind me. He’s early tonight, much earlier than usual, but I don’t complain. Instead, I let him press his lips to the back of my shoulder, and I shiver.
“Hey,” he murmurs, raking his nose against the crook of my neck, breathing me in like he missed me.
I offer him a shy smile as I smear moisturizer over my face. “Hi.”
Throwing his phone on the bed, he begins peeling off his clothes, starting with his sweatshirt, revealing a taut abdomen and bulging muscles developed by chaos and violence.
The tattoos on his neck stretch out towards his chest, while the ones on his arms go all the way up to his shoulders.
When he works to unbuckle his belt, his back clenches deliciously, demonstrating a hint of the strength he possesses.
I don’t realize I’m staring until he catches my gaze, his pants low on his hips, revealing the V that leads toward the hard bulge beneath the material.
“See something you like?” he asks, peppering more kisses over my shoulder on his way to the en-suite bathroom. It’s quick—rushed, almost distant—and it triggers a line of anxious thoughts in my head. I know he usually takes his time to kiss me when he comes home.
“I need a shower,” he says. “Be naked in our bed when I’m back.”
I nod, my pussy fluttering at that deep voice and the clean command as the sound of streaming water fills the space.
Standing from the vanity, I bring my hands to the straps of the nightgown as I take the few steps toward the bed. But just before I pull them down, Mikhail’s phone vibrates on the sheets, lighting up with a string of messages in what appears to be a group chat.
Niko: What am I supposed to say to Wolfgang?
Niko: I can’t take myself off this job just because you asked.
Niko: Let me at least come with you to LA. Don’t be a fucking idiot again.
Rodion: *sigh* Do I even want to know?
Niko: Another one of his suicide missions. He’s pissing me off. Wants to go hunt that asshole by himself.
I pick up the phone, reading them again, my pulse quickening. Suicide mission? What the hell are they talking about? Who is my husband going after?
Victoria and I rarely discuss the business, and when we do, we don’t usually go into detail. All I know is drugs are involved, and the East Coast is their domain—minus half of Chicago, which is now shared with my father.
But if my husband is involved in something potentially threatening to his life, then it’s my job to know.
I don’t want him to die; even just the thought of losing him makes my stomach churn.
It’s always a possibility, considering his line of work, I know that.
Yet, somehow, I never really considered it, never cared until now.
I wait for him, still dressed, on the edge of the bed, the phone in my restless hands. When he finally returns with a towel wrapped around his waist, his brows rise, throwing me a questioning look.
“You got some messages,” I say, handing him the phone.
His jaw clenches under that dark, wet hair as he slowly takes it from me, reading through them.
“What’s going on, Mikhail?”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” he answers, throwing the phone back on the bed as he runs a hand through his wet hair, heading to the dresser.
I get up, following him. “Even your friends are asking you not to do whatever it is you’re planning. And if they’re asking you that—” I shake my head. “Please, talk to me.”
“It’s just work, Cecilia. You know what I do. Don’t ask me to be something I’m not.”
“I’m not asking you to do that! But this sounds dangerous. And it sounds like you’re leaving again. Tell me I’m wrong.” I really, really want to be wrong right now.
“You’re not,” he says, and my entire body stills. “It is dangerous. But like I said, you have nothing to worry about, because even if I’m gone, you’ll always be protected. Don’t think I haven’t taken you into account, Lastochka.”
I shake my head, stepping back from him, his words scurrying down my spine like icy snow under warm clothes. It’s not protection I need, but him by my side. How can he not see it? How can he not even acknowledge what we have?
For a second there, I thought…I thought we had something. That he actually made some space for me in his hollow heart. Turns out, I’m the only one with skin in this game. And the worst part is, I brought this all on myself by letting him break down my walls.
“When?” I ask, my gaze taut. “And why? I at least deserve some details—or are you just going to fuck me and leave me like you’re coming to a brothel every night?”
He steps closer, removing the distance between us, then wraps his hand around my neck. I hate that my legs turn to water at the gesture. That I crave his touch, and that he can see it. “You forgot the part when I make you come. That’s no way to treat a brothel whore, now, is it?”
I snort through a creeping blush. “Lucky me.”
Releasing his hold on me, he gets dressed in a pair of briefs and gray sweatpants. I cross my arms at my chest, ignoring the demented beat of my heart at the sight of him half naked.
“This is because of Wolfgang, isn’t it? About the debt you’re so desperately trying to pay back.
” He doesn’t answer. “Have you even stopped to consider that maybe the person you should be seeking forgiveness from is not him, but yourself? That maybe, no matter how much you do for him, you’ll never feel like it’s enough? ”
“Everything has a price, Cecilia—everything and everyone. I don’t get to stop paying yet.”
“And then, after you’ve ‘paid’, what? You’ll stop being you? Stop putting yourself in danger?”
Silence.
“I should’ve known,” I say, “I should’ve known a man crazy enough to get himself captured by my father wouldn’t stop at that. You say you’ve taken me into account, but you haven’t. You dragged me into this marriage, and now, you’re about to leave me without a husband.”
“We are what we are. I wish I didn’t have to go, but what I want doesn’t matter. Some things just need to be done.”
“Right.” I nod, tears lodged in my throat, before I head to the bed and shove myself under the covers.
That night, I turn my back to him, pretending I need to rest when, in reality, I can’t stop thinking about our fight. Behind me, Mikhail has fallen asleep on his back, seemingly unbothered about the prospect of his death.
I don’t understand his calmness about this, but I do understand there is trauma in his past. Something triggered this decision for him to want to leave, and maybe if I find out what it is…or if I talk to him again once I’m less panicked, I could make him understand—
No.
I shake my head against the pillow, knowing full well changing his mind isn’t going to happen. He already decided this without me. Seeing those messages was pure luck. Maybe the solution isn’t talking to him, but to Rodion or Niko, or even Wolfgang. But even that sounds like a shot in the dark.
My husband stirs, his big arm wrapping around my waist like it does every single night.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath trembling as I let him bathe me in his warmth.
I don’t want this to be one of our last moments together—I don’t want this to be just a memory years down the line.
I want us to last, as crazy as it sounds.
Turning to him, I nuzzle my face in the crook of his neck, the same place I use as my pillow before sleep usually takes me. I can’t help it. He feels like a home I’ve never had, safe and liberating—the one place I get to be myself for once.
I let out a long sigh, my muscles loosening until I lose track of time.
The next time I open my eyes, my hands are fisted in the sheets, gripping tight. I look to my right, and my husband is still here, sleeping quietly.
There was blood, so much blood dripping down my mother’s carpet in her bedroom in San Maleno. There was a shadow approaching, and there was me, dropping the knife I’d used to strike my mother in the heart.
The familiar nightmare replays in my mind like a broken DVD, pulling me up to a sitting position with my head in my hands.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
On my next inhale, however, my lungs halt. Because this felt different—something felt slightly different about this nightmare. A disembodied voice, maybe. I could’ve sworn I heard it telling me something. But the more I try to recall it, the blurrier the whole thing gets.
I run my hands through my hair, trying to shake off the visuals as I lie back down next to Mikhail. His protective arm immediately seeks me out, as if even in his sleep, he noticed I was gone.
Tomorrow. Maybe I’ll remember it tomorrow.