Chapter Eighteen - Kiara
Waking up, I’m disoriented, my eyes adjusting to the light streaks running over the bed and the noises of the city so close to my ear. The window in our room is ajar, the street symphony below rising to wake me up. Chicago is in full swing. Closing one eye, I pick up my cell phone taking note of the time. It’s not even 6:00 a.m. yet, but naturally, I haven’t been sleeping as well as I would in my own bed.
No. I’m in a defunct marriage bed fit for kings and queens. Not my perfect double mattress in my father’s townhouse that I long to be back in. I touch the space where the monster laid his head, a warm heat under my hand along with an outlined dent on Akim’s side being evidence of him sleeping beside me.
I still haven’t gotten used to the fact I’m a Bratva wife, in a Bratva boss’s lair—bound for eternity to him. Shattered from my world crashing in on me, I shudder, thinking about how vulnerable I was with him only a couple of nights ago. I can’t seem to hold on to my common sense when he touches me. A rush of heat flushes to my face. I’m ashamed about my dark attraction to a man who’s hell-bent on destroying the rest of my life.
Thank God, he hasn’t touched me since, but every night since, as his hard body lay behind me, growing restless, he reaches his protective arms around me, spooning me from the back, drawing me near. I pray for him to drift off to sleep so he can flip to the other side of the bed, giving me the space I need. That’s when I sleep. I’ve heard him murmuring in his sleep, waking to listen, wanting clues to the real man he is. He calls for someone, and I don’t know who or what it is. It’s the same person he called for when I put him to sleep. Whoever it is haunts him, and in this way, I feel a degree of justice.
Good. You can experience a special hell in your dreams, just like what you’ve caused for others.
This morning, I’m given a welcome reprieve. Akim’s gone, and it gives me time to prepare my thoughts as I head off to the shower, washing off as much of his touch as I can. The only saving grace I have is I’m able to come and go as I please, but really “freedom” to Akim is merely a wide arc of possession. I’ve thought about being on the run. On my way to visit my father, I pass the Greyhound bus station and stare at the ticket booth for too long, tempted to get a ticket and skip town. But what a life it would be, constantly looking over my shoulder, checking in and out of hotels until all the money on the black card Akim gave me ran out.
It wouldn’t work, and it’s only a fantasy, because he would hunt me down, and then he would likely kill me.
When I saw my father, a bodyguard accompanied us, eating next to us at an adjacent table, but being able to hug and touch him lifted my spirits.
“Dad. Good to see you.” I wanted him to be careful, so I nodded in the direction of the bodyguard who was watching us like a hawk and speaking into his Airpod every few seconds. Likely he was talking to Akim and reporting back.
“Ah. Good to see you too. Have you been okay since the wedding?”
“I’m fine.” I gave him a weary smile, his face wracked with guilt, but it’s too late. I’m in over my head, and I won’t be getting out any time soon. Having the bodyguard there stilted our conversation, and after it, I thought it might be better that I never see him again.
Sighing, I break the train of thought, letting the hot shower work on my muscles. I make my way through the hallway to the kitchen a little later, surprised to see Akim sitting at the table, multitasking, reading the paper and talking on the phone. Ramona pours me juice, handing it to me. Akim hasn’t recognized I’m behind the counter yet.
“Good morning, Kiara. How are you feeling?” She smiles, but I’ve got resentful feelings packed like sardines towards her as well. As far as I’m concerned, she’s on Akim’s side and not an ally to me.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I reply tartly. I take the juice as she coughs, leaning closer as I watch Akim from behind, studying the tattoo on the back of his neck. It’s writing, and so far, I haven’t been able to make out what it says. His back and shoulders are broad and seeing him bare chested in only shorts has to be a crime for any woman’s libido. He’s easy on the eyes, that’s for sure. A coiling of tension builds inside me as I drag my eyes off him.
“Perfect. I wanted to remind you of a little Russian custom we uphold as part of tradition,” Ramona whispers with a twinkle in her eye. I want her to go away already, and I wonder if in the future I can send her on a long holiday. She’s always praising the Utkins, but understandably, I only view them as barbarians dressed in well-tailored suits.
“And what is that tradition?” I mock, hoping to sabotage whatever it is.
“That the wife of the groom is to cook her husband a meal.” Ramona winks as the tension uncoils in my belly, a mischievous grin climbing over my face.
Now that’s a tradition I can get behind.
“Is it?” I draw out, my mouth twitching with bad, bad plans for my new husband. “You know what,” I say brightly, fooling Ramona. “He’s working hard, and I want to make sure his day starts off well. If you show me where everything is, I’ll get started.”
I’m going to give the monster a meal of his life. I don’t do breakfast, and it’s a bad habit, but today I’m ready to whip up a hearty, tasty meal for both Akim and me.
Ramona’s face lights up. “That’s the spirit! You’re going to be a good wife in time,” she praises with a fist. I roll my eyes behind her back while she retrieves the utensils, frying pan, and pots setting me up at the open kitchen island.
Akim swings around, seeing me in the kitchen after finishing his call. “What do we have here?”
“Don’t you worry,” I say in a sweet, syrupy voice. “Keep working and stuff. I’m going to make you breakfast. I’ve been told it’s tradition, and I don’t want to break it,” I lie with the glint of revenge in my eye.
“Hmm. I like this tradition. Where’s your apron? I prefer, if the chef is my wife, that she’s naked,” he jokes, waggling his eyebrows, Ramona blushing profusely.
“You two!” More ingredients come out of the fridge as I respond to his little banter game.
“Oh, husband. It’s a privilege for you to even have a wife,” I remind him sarcastically. “Breakfast is coming right up!”
Akim shakes his head, continuing to bury his head in the paper and Ramona leaves me to it. I flip on the radio next to the stove, exhaling as I look at the ingredients on the bench. A cartoon of eggs are my first to tackle. Cracking the eggs on the side of the bowl I create an egg mixture for an omelet, but this isn’t going to be just any omelet.
This one’s going to be on the spicier side, and I’m sure my husband’s going to love it. With all the food in the pantry, I have no doubt the house chef has chili. Found. I check in the fridge to find what I’m looking for, also adding cayenne pepper, fresh, hot chilies, and ginger.
Preparing a side of spinach, I toss in raw onion slices tucking them under the first layer of spinach, hopefully undetected. Get a bite of that, Mr. Utkin. Next, I splash it with balsamic, but add extra vinegar for additional flavor.
Oh. You want me to play wife? Then I’m going to play havoc with your food.
I don’t think about anything as I cook, giving myself permission to relax and listen to the tunes coming out of the radio. Oddly, it brings a strange sense of peace, even being with him. I hear him talking softly on the phone, listening intently to the other person at the end of the line. A human moment, his legs crossed, his face softened, not so hard and filled with ruthless intent. Chopping, I keep watching, his mouth curling into a smile. A twinge pings in my belly, but I dismiss its origins.
I could get used to this. A random thought passes through my mind, surprising me as I toss ingredients into a bowl. Conflicted feelings fly about Akim. What about two nights back? He’s taken your virginity. You might as well give in.
I shut down any thoughts of blissful emotions, carrying the past forward. Remember what he did to you and your father. This is a man who will stop at nothing to have what he wants. Using the spatula, I scrape the omelet out of the pan and onto the plate, the only telltale sign being the red specks in his and not in mine. Smirking, I lick my fingers, as I boil a few baby potatoes to finish loading them up with chili powder and paprika. They do taste good, but the only thing hitting his palate is going to be blazing heat.
“Husband dearest!” I call out, trying to stop myself from keeling over with laughter.
“Kiara. If you’re this happy about cooking, maybe you can do it more often.”
I smile, but my eyes give him a different story. “That’s not such a bad idea, Mr. Utkin. This is my first meal so before you race ahead, have a taste.”
“I’m sure it’s excellent,” he replies, brushing me off and I can tell he’s hungry, his eyes fixed on the plate in front of him.
“Your breakfast is served, and I’ve got all the food groups you need. Protein, carbohydrates and vegetables.”
“Well, it smells fantastic. I’m looking forward to whatever you’ve made for me,” he compliments warmly, confusing me with his fleeting glimpses of tenderness.
Sliding the plate in front of him, I have to hand it to myself. I’ve made it look like a normal plate that nobody would ever suspect is loaded with hot, spicy surprises.
“It’s good. You’ll have a blazer of a day at the office. Are you going in?” I ask, making small talk and giving away hints as a prelude of what’s about to come.
“Yes. I’ve got a new gin bar I’m opening downtown. You’ll be on my arm to attend once we’ve finished with the renovations. You can come and see it with me if you want, just say the word.”
Scrunching up my nose, I take a bite of my bland omelet, eyeing him off with a smirk.
“Hmm, maybe.”
“What’s the face for?”
“No reason.” I dig into my food chewing, but keeping my composure as Akim takes the first bite of his zinged-up omelet. His face changes, registering the heat, but he gives back a smirk of his own. He can’t possibly eat the rest of it, it’s way too hot. Come on! “How is it?”
His eyes cling on to mine, his mouth grooving into a smile. “Perfect.” He wipes his mouth, the table silent, but I watch him takes numerous gulps of water consecutively. “I think I might need some milk with this, though, not water. Can you get me a glass, Mrs. Utkin?” I’m not used to him calling me that, and he knows it, using it as a weapon.
His composure unsettles me. He didn’t react like I thought he would. He never does. “Sure.” Miffed that my plan didn’t completely pan out, I pour him a glass of milk, but watch as he wipes the sweat from his brow, eating every bite.
Handing it over, he grins, shaking his head. “You have a fiery spirit, Mrs. Utkin. I like it.” Coughing, he drinks the milk, stabbing one of the smaller potatoes and shoving it into his mouth. “Mm… good.”
Unnerved by him, I eat the rest of my meal in silence.
What’s it going to take to get under his skin?