Chapter 21
I don’t tell Roman what I remember
VALENTINA
ONE WEEK LATER
Her blood pools into my black coat.
I scream and kick at the man dragging my little body away from her. I tear a clump of her blonde hair. Her eyes are still open. He’s just leaving her in the cold, her blood turning the snow and ice the color of my father’s wine she drugged so she could try to escape…with me.
My father shoves me into the car. I hold the clump close to my chest. And cry all the way home.
I gasp awake, stirring from the dark and disturbing dream.
It’s still dark. And the bed is cold. Roman isn’t here.
My spine prickles with icy fear and hot frustration at the space where he should be. Shaking off my misplaced need, I reach for the journal he brought me the day after he fucked the living hell out of me. It’s beautiful. Black leather. Gold-tipped pages. My initials in bold red colors on the front.
Picking up the pen, I write down the dream. It was the strongest memory so far. My very heart shudders.
Slowly, I turn to the previous page where I’ve marked other notes, memories, glimmers.
A comfortable warmth helps thaw the chill in my blood.
Sasha. He has dark hair. Our wounds match. A small corner in the library. I lean on his shoulder while we drink vodka. Our relationship is platonic, familial.
Other random memory shards curl in my mind. Of playing piano till my fingers bled, dancing at parties like a golden siren, where my father let me show off. An envied princess.
I press my lips into a firm line when I eye the other page.
A wine cellar. Ropes bind me to the support beam. A cane hit my back. Again and again. I spit fire the whole time.
I flip to another page.
The barest image of black pearls. Violet petals. And my gold dress slipping from my shoulders to pool on the floor.
And notes.
I remember notes written in flawless calligraphy. Short and deadly sweet. Possessive. The kind Roman would write.
But nothing of the past two years with him. No memories of walking the halls of this manor. No memories of him fucking me in this bed. No memories of Zina or Mikhail or any of the staff I’ve met. It’s like the past two years haven’t existed.
I turn to the very back page, peel the end where I’ve cunningly hidden one significant question on a small piece of paper. An invisible fist grips my lungs.
Is Roman Makarova my husband?
When the door clicks, I secure the pasted end page. I don’t pretend to be asleep. I just hold the journal in my lap and lean back against the pillow, sighing as the man of the moment sweeps into the room.
“Ahh, Valya, you’re awake,” he says, one hand in the pocket of his casual black slacks, the other calm at his side. He looks like sin. A white collared shirt, sleeves rolled up to show his forearms, throbbing with virile blood.
Roman may be thirteen years older than me, but he fucks like a ruthless beast who breaks and worships all in one.
His deep chest with broad shoulders, chiseled features, and the perfect spill of his blonde hair in his low ponytail all conspire to heat my blood.
Somehow, sculpted and rugged have collided to create the god before me. Eyes like hypnotic green jewels.
My heart rate spikes and my inner muscles tighten at his presence. He was right. My body, my soul, could never hope to forget him.
When I lift my eyes to his, he’s smirking because he caught me eye-fucking him.
Roman makes his way toward me, nodding at the journal. “Another dream?”
I lower my head and quietly say, “A nightmare.”
“Fuck.” He sighs heavily and crosses the space between us. I don’t flinch when he sits on the bed and draws my chin to him. “What do you need, Moy Samotsvet? I apologize for my absence. But I am here now. The day is yours. Whatever you desire.”
He leans closer, voice dipping into a sinful whisper. “If you want to stay curled up in bed watching those ridiculous horror flicks, I’ll hold you and feed you popcorn kernels one by one. If you’d rather take an extended tour of the manor and meet the remaining staff, I’ll be at your side. Or…”
His lips ghost the shell of my ear, and I shiver.
“I could take you up to the cliffs and fuck you until the sea itself remembers you screaming my name.”
I don’t pull away when his lips meet my neck, but I do clutch the journal tighter and squeeze my thighs before the urge to hump him overwhelms me.
“What about a combination?”
He lifts his head, raising a brow, waiting for me.
“The tour first,” I say. “And a tour of the grounds. And it might be extreme, but you can fuck me wherever you want, including the cliff.”
Roman’s voice is soft but firm while tracing a finger along my jawline. “Are you sure you want the tour first? After all, I’ve already taken you wherever I want—hot tub, springs, against the wall…And don’t pretend you didn’t want every second.”
I stiffen, especially since I’m still sore. But not like I was that morning. I slept for twenty-four hours, and he didn’t fuck me until later that day. And he’s right. I have wanted it. Not that I won’t bring a storm of curses the whole time. Ones he welcomes.
I lock eyes with him. “Tour first.”
He chuckles, rubbing his lips along my bare shoulder before hooking a finger under the silk strap. “You’re not going on a tour in your nightgown, Valentina.” A glint appears in his eye. Dangerous. Excited. “Lucky for you…I have a surprise.”
“A surprise?” I arch a brow, trying to play it cool, but I can already feel my cheeks flushing.
Roman touches my cheek, a gentle press of his fingers. “Come. Humor your husband.”
That word husband tastes strange again. Some days I wear it like silk. Others, like iron.
Still, I let him lead me across the room.
The lights are soft, subtle illumination blooming from the sconces as he brings me to the tall mirror beside the wardrobe. There, hanging delicately on a velvet hanger, is a dress.
Red.
Deep, lush, utterly decadent. The color of blood and wine.
As I reach for the dress, Roman slides the nightgown straps down my arms, baring me before the mirror.
I feel the bulge of him from behind me, and when he glides his knuckles along my arm, I tremble, nearly wondering if he will give in to his hunger here and now.
But I breathe a blessed sigh of relief when he lets me try on the dress.
It’s simple, yes, but devastating. A low V-neck just enough to reveal the inner curve of my breasts, hugging the waist before flaring gently above the knees. Black lace trims the skirt. Feminine. Bold. Timeless.
My breath hitches.
“Roman…”
I feel the pearls before I see them. Cool beads kiss the hollow of my throat—black as midnight. The memory flashes again. They are not the same pearls, but they make my skin crawl and burn all at once.
The clasp clicks, and I stare at myself in the mirror. The red. The pearls. My hair, unbound and curling over one shoulder.
Stand at the window. Wear nothing but the black pearls.
A chill skitters up my spine, and I blink hard, swallowing a hard knot. I don’t tell Roman what I remember. Instead, I meet his eyes in the reflection. He’s watching me—intensely, reverently.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “So fucking beautiful.”
I can’t help it. The way he says it, the sincerity in his voice… it breaks something inside me. I look away before he sees the shimmer in my eyes.
“You ready for that tour?” I ask, voice steady even if my hands are trembling.
He doesn’t call me on it. He just slides his palm against the small of my back and presses a kiss to the top of my shoulder.
“Only if you’re not too sore,” he teases again, that wicked gleam returning.
“God, you’re incorrigible.”
“You married me, Mrs. Makarova.”
“Allegedly,” I mutter.
But I take his arm anyway, the pearls cool against my collarbone, the dress rustling softly with every step as he leads me from the bedroom.