Chapter Fourteen
Elena
I’m not sure how many times I’ve repeated this in my head, but for emphasis, I repeat it again, hoping it might change something: my life is a mess.
There should be nothing normal about waking up in a world where the captive becomes a captor’s wife without significant struggle, or where the captive begins to notice every single attractive detail about her captor. There should be absolutely nothing normal about...
I’ll stop, because the list goes on and on. But the bottom line is this: there’s nothing normal about it, and I’m crazy.
I grip the edge of the kitchen sink, drinking the glass of water like my life depends on it. The polished kitchen tiles are cold beneath my bare feet.
But I barely register the chill. My mind stays stuck on Leonid’s bare body, with the beads of water trickling down his chest, leaving trails as they disappeared below the towel.
My fingers curl around the marble counter as I fall into a trance.
I try to figure out what this is—this slowly igniting feeling that unfurls around my chest and scrambles my brain when he’s around.
Sometimes, when I’m alone, I’m crazy enough to secretly wish there was a world where the two of us could exist together without the violence and darkness that lurk around him. A world where I could get to know him beyond the dark suits, guns, and the need to always be on guard.
A world where Leo would be mine alone, to have, to hold, and maybe even cherish like it was written in the wedding vows, which is funny since I didn’t mean those words when I said them.
“It’s empty.”
My heart flies to my throat and I lurch forward, scrambling to catch the cup before it crashes to the floor. But my efforts are useless. The kitchen echoes with the harsh sound of glass shattering into a thousand pieces against the tile.
“Great! Now it’s really empty,” I huff, dragging a hand through my hair. . “Thanks to you.”
Leonid raises a hand in a silent order for me to stay put while he marches forward and drops to his haunches. He reaches for the bigger chunks of glass, meticulously heaping them in a neat pile on his palm.
“I didn’t mean to startle you. I honestly thought you’d recognize my voice by now.”
I open my mouth with a sharp retort, but clamp it shut before I say something stupid. His tone of voice makes me pause—it’s very un-Leonid-like. It’s much calmer and quieter than anything I’ve heard from him before.
I stare at the silky strands of his long black hair while he keeps his head down and his eyes sharply focused on the broken glass.
Thankfully, for my mental health’s sake, he’s put on clothes—a plain black cotton T-shirt and black sweatpants that look comfortable.
Even this outfit makes him appear different, in a softer and more approachable way.
He rises to his full height with the glass pile in his hands, and I’m forced to crane my neck backward to look at him.
“It’s not that I don’t recognize your voice. I do. But maybe a normal person would have given me a gentle tap on the shoulder before speaking, since I was clearly lost in thought.”
“I don’t think I’ve misled you by words, actions, or anything else to believe I’m normal.”
I don’t even need a minute to ponder that. “Sadly, that’s true.”
He pads over to the garbage can, dumps the broken shards into it, and walks back over to me with the warmest expression I’ve ever seen on his face. Then, he raises an eyebrow. “What were you thinking about?”
“Do you pester everyone, or is it just me?”
“It’s just you. Tell me.”
I blow out a breath, ignoring the thrill that flutters through me at his admission.
“Don’t worry your pretty head about it. It was nothing important.
” I briefly glance at his hands, which are resting by his sides.
A flicker of warmth settles in my chest at how quickly he intervened, squatting to clear up the broken glass before I could step on a piece and harm myself.
Almost every second of every day, this man surprises me. It’s hard to believe he’s the same man I practically ran away from in the bedroom. The same man I called a monster.
When I look back at him, his eyes are clouded. “What?”
“Thank you for helping me pick that up.” I point at his hands. “But you should wash them. We don’t want the pieces getting into your bloodstream.”
“I don’t think it works that way, Elena.”
I nonchalantly roll my eyes—a stark contrast to how I truly feel at the sound of my name on his lips—and lean my back against the cool counter with my arms folded across my chest. “Still. You should wash them.”
A ghostly smile passes over his lips. “I’m surprised that you actually care.”
“I’m a human being, warm-blooded with an actual beating heart, I must say,” I fire back. “Of course, I also care if you fall down and die right now, since that would make me the happiest woman alive.”
The smile returns, going all the way up to his eyes. My heart tightens at the sight, and I can’t believe I’m admitting it, but I actually find it so cute.
My eyes trace his intimidating profile as he steps forward and stops just inches beside me by the sink before turning on the faucet. His body heat scorches me, seeping through the thin fabric of my T-shirt and warming my arm.
He scrubs his hands under the rushing water and angles his head to the side, staring at me with a smirk. “Nice to know you’ll be the first person to pop a celebratory bottle before my funeral.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. I might be the second,” I tease, and I don’t expect what comes next.
He laughs. It’s a full-blown sound of pure joy that doesn’t only rumble at the back of his throat, but makes my body thrum with satisfaction that I made that happen.
It’s silly. I shouldn’t care about this moment, being squished beside my husband by the sink in this massive kitchen. But I do care. I take notice of everything: the ease in his deep voice, the light in his beautiful gray eyes, and the casual way his broad shoulders relax as he speaks to me.
He shuts off the tap, but doesn’t move away. The smile lingers, but the look in his eyes grows serious with concern. “Talk to me, Elena. I know you don’t believe it, but I want to know what goes on in that pretty head of yours.”
“You think my head is pretty,” I deviate.
“And you think mine is, too.” He sighs. “Don’t change the topic.”
You, I want to say. I was thinking about you.
The words hang heavy at the tip of my tongue. I want to tell him, I really do. But trust is a powerful thing, and as much as I’m pulled to him, I’m not sure we’re at the point where I feel comfortable enough to reveal the deepest and darkest desires of my heart.
The subtle tick in his jaw lets me know he senses my reluctance.
With a grunt, he pushes away from the sink and struts over to the refrigerator.
Pale blue light washes over his hard facial features as he opens it, and I watch in complete suspense as his hands work.
First, he grabs two apples, followed by a bunch of grapes and two water bottles.
He closes the fridge, grabs a big bowl, stuffs the items inside, and walks back to me.
He hands me the bowl. “Here, hold this.”
Frowning, I take the bowl quietly, then yelp as my feet leave the cold ground.
“Leo, what is this? My legs work perfectly fine.”
“I know that.” His reply is gruff and unbothered. “But your feet are bare.”
I want to murmur something sarcastic, but in my peripheral vision I catch sight of his big feet, which are covered by black slippers. It’s extremely strange how extraordinary he looks in these ordinary clothes.
I bite my tongue and roll my eyes. “We’re out of the kitchen now. Can you please put me down?”
Our faces are so close that our lips are barely inches apart.
Why on earth am I suddenly being cradled in his arms like a big baby?
Does it feel nice? Heck, yes. My side squishes against his hard chest and his body warmth works likes magic, having an immediate stress-relief effect on me.
His heady scent makes my knees weak and stirs a flutter that settles between my thighs.
But it’s unusual and suspicious to be carried like this in Leonid Narazov’s arms. I could be on my way to my death and wouldn’t have any idea.
He gives me a fleeting look, then looks away. “No.”
“Of course,” I scoff. “Your favorite word.”
He goes quiet, and my curiosity rears its head. My grip on the bowl tightens and I draw it closer to my chest. The silence and suspense is killing me.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere,” is all he offers.
I decide to remain quiet and, perhaps, enjoy the ride. I know, sooner or later, everyone is going to die. If it’s my turn tonight, there’s nothing I can do to change my fate.
Leonid takes us past the spacious living room, the grand foyer, and finally through the heavy doors.
He practically skips off the porch and down the steps leading to the yard.
A cold breeze greets us, immediately pulling at our hair and ruffling our clothes.
His men stationed by the entrance keep straight faces, looking toward nothing in particular, like they don’t see us.
Hot awareness creeps up my neck, but Leonid ignores them and doesn’t stop walking.
He takes a curve around the side of the house, where green grass stretches endlessly across a field.
He crosses the picket barricade, edges into the field, and finally stops by a large brown hammock tied between two trees I could have sworn I’ve never seen before.
He drops me on the hammock and I scoot over to the side, folding my legs beneath me as I create room for him.
“How’s it possible that I’ve never noticed this place before now?” I ask as he sits down beside me.
Leonid looks up at the night sky, keeping his gaze on the moon that shines through the darkness. It’s so bright that I can see him clearly—every hard line of his face, the bow curve of his firm mouth, and the unguardedness in his eyes. His solemn look throws me off.