Chapter 25
Oh, I’ll get it wet. Nice and wet.
VALENTINA
Three weeks later
Roman’s been gone seven days.
While my vagina has been healing quite nicely—eager, in fact, for his return—I’ve had to find creative ways to amuse myself. I spent an afternoon in the greenhouse after the night he left.
I apologized over and over to Fleur since we learned anything floral-related is apparently one of my rare “not-things”. Over-watering, under-watering, knocking over plants, including one that only blooms once every five years. Ouch. I couldn’t keep a plastic cactus alive if my life depended on it.
Levka insisted I sample all his new brews. I did. By the end, I’d passed out in the confessional, where I drunkenly spilled every one of my recent sins onto poor Mikhail. I’m fairly certain he’s still recovering.
And now, in the spirit of redemption—or perhaps boredom—I’ve decided to play matchmaker.
Zina and Mikhail have been driving me crazy.
They bicker like an old married couple over everything.
Zina attends every mass and makes excuses to go to the chapel three times a day.
Sometimes just to bring him a meal. And don’t think I haven’t noticed Mikhail conveniently showing up in places where she is.
I’ve giggled when he’s offered to take her confession, which she adamantly refuses—so he offers her a verse, and she shoos him along.
Even Shalun and Poppy seem to mirror the two of them, but the one time Poppy actually caught Shalun, all she did was bat at him playfully.
If Roman were here, I bet he’d try and stop me. But he’s not here. So fuck him.
The study is perfect—isolated enough that no one will interfere.
And no windows. It’s cozy with a wall of books, dim lighting, and just one chaise lounge chair, other than the desk and its chair.
I told Zina I broke a valuable item in here.
Mikhail, I lured here with a handwritten note.
Thankfully, he left Poppy behind in the chapel.
And Shalun is taking his evening nap. Since it’s after dinner, and people are finishing their nightly chores and settling in, it’s the best time.
“I’m sure it’s nothing that cannot be repaired or replaced,” Zina says, her heels clicking crisply behind me before we enter the room. I overhear Mikhail’s boots thudding in from the opposite direction.
Perfect.
Zina glances back as he strides in, pausing at the sight of us.
She lifts a brow. “Did we call for a priest?”
I press my lips into a smile and shrug, offering the meager excuse, “If it’s so beyond repair or replacing, I figured a priest’s blessing might help.”
Zina sighs and rolls her eyes. “You will drive me to an early grave, milaya.”
Mikhail adjusts his collar and approaches. So far, they haven’t noticed the vodka bottle and the candles. “If I can be of service in any way to our lovely dama, I will aspire to be.” Yes, he’s taken up to calling me ‘lady’ in Russian.
“Da,” Zina agrees. “Where is it, child?”
“Over there.” I gesture to the bookcase.
As soon as they turn to the shelves, I scramble out of the room as fast as I can, shut the door, and twist the antique key in the lock.
Click.
A moment of silence.
“Valentina,” Zina calls, her voice sharp. “What are you—”
“I’ll let you out,” I sing sweetly, “when the bottle is empty.”
There’s a pause. I imagine them staring at the heavy wooden table with the hundred-year-old bottle of Roman’s favorite vintage vodka, along with two crystal tumblers and two candles with a single match.
“This is outrageous!” Zina shouts before unleashing a string of colorful Russian curses. “Open the door this very second, Valentina Makarova.”
My laugh practically sparkles. “That’s my name, yes.
And since my dear husband is not around, you must follow my command.
Besides, you really have no choice. Oh, by the way,” I stop them before they can get any ideas.
“If you pour it on the floor,” I add, crouching to speak through the small hatch, “I’ll know.
And I’ll tell Roman you dumped his irreplaceable vodka from 1902. ”
Mikhail chuffs an easygoing laugh while Zina rages. “You wouldn’t!”
“Oh, but I would.” I grin.
“Otkroy etu yobuchuyu dver’, Valentina! Klyanus’, ya podsiplyu kakie-nibud’ travy v tvoy chay, i ty budesh’ srat’ do Rozhdestva.”
I pause for a beat, then hear Mikhail chuckle. “She said if you don’t open the door, she will slip something into your tea, and you’ll be shitting until Christmas.”
Tossing my hair back, I laugh more because Roman has done far worse to my ass.
“What on earth are we supposed to do in here?” Zina asks, her voice closer to the door. I jump when she bangs on it.
“Drink. Debate ethics. Stare longingly into each other’s eyes or whatever it is sexually repressed middle-aged adults do. And there is a sturdy desk, so I’d suggest you use your imagination.”
Oh, I’m so wicked. And I’m sure there’s a special place in hell for me with trapping a priest. Thankfully, my husband would follow me down, knock the devil off his throne, and crown me Queen of Hell.
Zina’s ice-sharp voice slices through the air. “Valentina. Open this door.”
“I wish I could,” I lie cheerfully. “But I’m pretty sure the key just slipped out of my hand. Terrible butterfingers. Don’t bother yelling. I’ve instructed the other staff members not to disturb you.”
Rising, I sweep away with all the satisfaction of a woman who has done God’s work—with alcohol and a little forced proximity.
“This is all your fault!” Zina snipes at Mikhail.
With the sounds of their bickering fading, I disappear down the hall with a smug little smile on my lips.
I pause when I catch my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling, gilded mirror.
And smile. Nothing wrong with admiring oneself.
Especially in this dress. A royal blue cashmere, it’s molded to my body.
Roman left it for me before he vanished off to wherever, along with a note that simply read: Wear this if you want the world to bow.
Typical Roman. Over-the-top. Always assuming I’ll do exactly what he wants.
And he’s absolutely right.
I turn to the side, watching the fabric ripple like liquid ink over my hips, the neckline daring the world to look—and keep looking.
The sleeves are long and proper, but everything else?
Deliciously inappropriate, the neckline dipping in a daring plunge that frames my collarbones and the swell of my breasts like a lover’s hands.
I look like power. A temptress and queen waiting for her king to arrive at any moment.
Especially with the crown brand on full display. I trace one fingertip around it, admiring the faceted jewel he created. The level of dedication and craft was unparalleled as he’d applied each thin needle. I don’t cringe in horror anymore.
As I pass the kitchen, I peek in to find the staff cleaning from washing dishes to spraying down the drainage system for whenever they cut meat.
I smile to myself because Emilian has banned me after the unfortunate incident.
Another “not-my-thing”. I wasn’t exactly tired of everyone waiting on me hand and foot.
I love it. But I also hate not feeling productive.
And since I have no memory of past endeavors, I decided to try my hand at cooking breakfast.
When the pan caught fire, and the crepes looked more like charcoal briquettes, Emilian forced me out himself, waving a rolling pin the whole time.
I look forward to sharing how I busied my time when my husband finally returns.
Of course, he left me a lavish letter, complete with a wax crest seal and handwritten calligraphy, detailing the gifts he’d left me, his solemn promise to return, and instructions to be ready for him at any time.
Apparently, that includes no masturbation.
I failed hard, which is also why I’ve tried to keep busy.
One of those ways is to take a bouquet of black tulips—compliments of Fleur—to the local cemetery in the evenings.
After picking up the flowers and slipping on my coat, I make my way to the graveyard. It’s small but secluded, nestled near the bluff’s edge where the wind always carries a chill. The air is sharp with sea salt, tangling in my hair and tugging at the hem of my coat as if urging me to turn back.
I don’t.
Instead, I breathe it in. It reminds me of when Roman took me walking along the shore just last week.
I’d wandered ahead, stooping to collect the random things the sea coughed up—bits of driftwood, gray stones, a rusted key, a brine-coated glove.
He’d watched me like I was the rarest thing on that beach, even as I laughed over something as silly as a tangled clump of sea glass.
I blink the memory away as I pass through the crooked gate.
There’s no real reason I come here. Not one I can name. The graves are unmarked—just smooth stones, neatly spaced, weathered like they’ve always been here. I shouldn’t care. But I bring a tulip for each one anyway. Always black.
One by one, I kneel and place them. Tulip. Stone. Tulip. Stone. Something like reverence settles into my bones, even though I don’t know who lies beneath. Or why I always feel like I’m being watched here.
Maybe it’s just the wind.
A twig snaps behind me. My spine locks up, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Hand twitching, I slowly move it toward the dagger in my belt. A little something I’ve kept in Roman’s absence. With him, I could walk into a den of wolves and feel safe. But without him…
Then, I hear it. Rustling in the patch of nearby woods. I squint, trying to make out anything between the silhouetted trees. There are only a couple of dim lanterns at each cemetery entrance. I’m keenly aware of my vulnerable position, especially with this white coat.
I tell myself it’s the groundskeeper. But they always do their work early in the morning. Hope sparks as I wonder if it could be Roman, but he wouldn’t take this route. Not behind the manor. He always loves to make an entrance.