Chapter 32
“Valentina will give me all the answers I require.”
ROMAN
No, I admit I did not expect this would be the first time Valentina would meet my mother, but it’s as good a time as any.
Unlike my father and brother, Mamma and I have a healthy relationship. Tonight will be a worthy test. Valentina will undoubtedly wonder why she and my mother have never met. And I’ll admit, I have no worthy explanation. I’ll leave that to my equally cunning mother.
“Roman, you have been a very bad boy again, haven’t you?” Mamma scolds me, her eyes nearly feral, as commanding as mine.
I shrug, not losing my grin.
Valentina bucks and mouths, “Get out”. I grin. But as my Queen commands…
As soon as I leave the hot, wet heaven of her pussy, Valentina stands straight up, turns around, and burns her eyes against mine.
So adorable with her fists balled as she stares me down, covered in my teeth, my welts, my everything.
I tilt my head and smile at my cum dripping down her thighs and onto the chapel floor.
With a huff, she shoves me out of the way. Naked and unashamed, I hug my arms and eye her as she picks up one of the towels Mikhail left.
“I did not give you permission to wipe yourself off, did I, Moya Koroleva?” I croon.
A sweet smile encroaches on her face, but I read the mischief there as she takes two steps toward me. Flashing me a grin, Valentina promptly shoves the wet towel right in my fucking face.
“You didn’t give me permission to do that either,” she snipes, and by the time I chuck the towel away, she’s out of reach, wrapping a fresh blanket around herself and walking down the platform steps and to the aisle.
Despite my own cum coating my face, I cock my head, admiring how my wife walks with a noticeable limp and congratulating myself.
But I’m more intrigued by how she will address my mother—unless she’s too embarrassed and departs without a word.
My chest tightens. I hope for something in the former definition.
When Valentina pauses before my mother, though she is shorter, my wife rises, standing tall and proud. And then…oh, great heavens, Valentina crosses one foot behind her, curtsying low, bowing her head, and holding the curtsy for a good few seconds.
“Vasha Blagodat,” Valentina begins, and my mother and I both lift our brows in surprise. Seems my Jewel has been practicing her Russian. In this case, she addressed my mother in a dramatic regality of ‘Your Grace’.
“It’s an honor to meet you. If you’ll pardon my barbarian of a husband,”—she tosses her hair back with a knifing glower—“I would love to invite you to share a late-night refreshment with me in the sitting room. Chef Emilian will be only too pleased to help me entertain such an esteemed guest. Naturally, I will change first and meet with you shortly.”
I reach for a fresh towel and wrap it around my waist as Valentina limps out of the chapel, leaving my mother and I alone. Zina and Mikhail stand outside the door, equally awed. Pride fills me more.
“Roman Leonid Makarova,” Mamma addresses me, her voice sharp and authoritative. “Ty vstretil svoyu ravnuyu.” You’ve met your equal. “I am adopting her. You are the accessory, moy syn. If you let her go, I will personally castrate you.”
I throw my head back with a hearty laugh before advancing to she who birthed me. My mother snivels as she eyes my state, but it doesn’t take long for her to roll her eyes and offer me an approving smile. “You have some explaining to do, Roman.”
“Hmm, indeed.”
“I suspected you had stolen away your brother’s bride,” she notes, expression shrewd and matter-of-fact.
“One cannot steal what belongs to them,” I correct.
She nods. “Your father had no right—”
“Chto bylo, to proshlo.” What’s past is past. Old Russian saying.
“I do not blame you, Roman.” She removes her gloves and taps them against her palm, her eyes cautious.
“And I kept my distance in case my suspicions were true. I did not wish to take the risk of exposing you or your home. Not until I was certain your father and brother were not tracking my movements.”
“Spasibo, Mamma.” I tighten my grip on the towel and glance at the entryway to the chapel. Valentina is gone, but I still keep a low voice. “The situation with my wife is…delicate to say the least.”
“Oh?” She lifts a brow.
I briefly explain the circumstances surrounding the car crash, including Valentina waking with no memory. And how the entire manor staff, as well as Sasha, have all agreed to play the farce.
At first, she says nothing. Simply appraises me in the sharp, piercing way I inherited. Nothing like my father and his reckless egotism.
After a heavy heartbeat or two, Mamma finally says, “I have some questions.”
“Ask me anythi—”
“Not for you.” She stiffens, lifting her voice. “Valentina will give me all the answers I require.”
She turns without another word, disappearing from the chapel.
I don’t stop her. I know better than to ask what her plans are.
My mother will say her piece one way or another.
And if a storm should come because of it, I will do whatever it takes to hold onto my wife in the fallout, through better or worse.
A half-hour later, the three of us are sitting in the salon, helping ourselves to tea, decaf coffee, and some light snacks.
My wife is a vision as usual. After her shower, Valentina wove her hair into a simple side braid, donned a simple but elegant black dress with long sleeves and a tasteful hem at the knees with tights and black ballet flats.
I selected something equally as casual with my slate gray sweater and slightly stressed black jeans with suede shoes.
“You know, moya devochka,” My mother addresses Valentina with an edge of cunning, “Roman has always been… let us say precise in his affections. And his wrath. I remember when he was twelve, a boy at his school—twice his size—liked to shove smaller children down the stairs for sport. Roman never confronted him. Not once. He just watched. Quiet. Too quiet.”
My wife’s eyes flick to mine as she lifts her teacup to her supple mouth, looking up at me from beyond her long lashes. “Is that so?”
“One morning, the school called me,” Mamma goes on.
“They found the boy in the ravine behind the academy, neck-deep in a pit of vipers. Real ones. We were hours from the nearest zoo, and suddenly there were vipers? He was alive, but delirious, and his parents pulled him out of school. Roman? He just came home, took off his coat, and asked what was for dinner. Not a scratch on him.”
After a sip, Valentina pauses, meeting my mother’s eyes, her lips parted, expression eager for more. She’s hanging on Mamma’s every word.
Plucking an olive from the charcuterie tray and popping it in her mouth, she adds, “He never confessed. Not to me. But I found a map in his desk, hand-drawn, with a list of reptile breeders and a delivery route. Yes, at twelve, my son was not born a storm—he studied how to become one. With honor. With calculation. And God help the ones who deserve him.”
Valentina presses her lips into a smile. They share a secret exchange, one where my wife practically screams, “I deserve him”. She does. And I deserve her with equal measure—because I studied her with honor, with calculation, and the power of a thousand storms, claiming her as the eye.
“Do you have any other stories of Roman?” Valentina wonders, her voice sparkling.
Mamma taps her lips, sliding them into a grin.
“Roman never liked injustice. But he didn’t like praise, either.
He once saw a boy slap a girl on the school bus, hard enough to make her bleed.
The next morning, that same boy showed up with his arm broken in three places.
When the nurse asked what happened, the boy said he had fallen down the stairs.
One problem. He lived in a one-level ranch.
Moreover, there were no bruises on his legs.
No scratches. Just a shattered arm and a story no one believed.
Roman? He looked bored when they announced it at school.
Came home that night and set the table without a word. ”
Valentina surveys me, her fingers tight and toying with each other. A lovely flush fills her cheeks, and her violet eyes catch the candlelight, making her seem to glow.
“What did he say?” she asks Mamma.
“I asked him if he had anything to do with it,” my mother notes. “He said, ‘You always told me to be kind to girls.’ That’s when I knew—he wasn’t going to be good. He was going to be just. A storm, quiet, controlled, and deadly. The kind of storm you pray is on your side.”
Valentina smiles, so faint but soft and warm. Despite her eyes on her tea, I’d wager her thoughts reflect my mother’s last words—and how she knows I will always be on her side. Even when I must punish her.
“Roman, be a good boy and give me and Valentina a few minutes alone.”
With a wry smirk, I rise, following my mother’s command. My wife’s eyes trail me, her gaze expectant. I lower my hand to capture her chin and rub my thumb along her cheek, uncertain if I’m reassuring her or myself. Her eyes soften, smile deepening.
When Mamma huffs her impatience, I take my leave. But it doesn’t mean I won’t know what they will discuss.
Once I’m at the other end of the hall, closer to my study, I tune my digital interface with the security cameras in the salon. I don’t want to believe my mother would betray me, but I also know she holds Valentina in high esteem. High enough for her to tell the truth?
Another storm I will weather—one way or another.
Sitting down in my study chair, I monitor the feed. They paused for a glass of wine.
Mamma studies her like a chessboard. Not with malice—but with the same cold calculation she once used to analyze kill orders and mark dossiers. That same stillness she carried while training me to kill before I could drive.
Or when she stared down at my father after catching the cheap stench of a new whore’s perfume on his collar.