Chapter 23 – Scarlett
A few days had passed since the mind-blowing sex that left me questioning everything I thought I knew about this man. The more I tried to get him out of my head, the longer he stayed.
I wasn’t expecting that night to turn out the way it did, which is why the whole thing hit me differently. Every time I was alone, I’d replay the incident from start to finish, reveling in the sensation that came with the memory.
I would always end up wet and craving him so badly. With everything happening at the moment, I wasn’t sure what I wanted anymore, and a part of me hated myself for being so confused.
This shouldn’t even be up for debate. Roman was a monster who kidnapped me and forced me to marry him just because he had a beef with my father. I should hate his guts and jump on every opportunity to get the hell out of here.
I shouldn’t be distracted by how good his dick was or how skilled he was with his hands and mouth. Sure, the man knew how to please me; he was excellent at exploring a woman’s body. He was so good in bed that even without penetrating me, he somehow managed to make me come.
I’d only seen techniques like that in movies or read about them in erotic novels. Never did I expect to experience it firsthand. Maybe I was still new to this, but I honestly didn’t think that making a woman come with just the tongue was a thing.
I used to think oral sex was exaggerated—maybe that was because no one had touched me the way Roman did. It was as if a veil had been lifted from my face, and my eyes were finally opened. I didn’t realize what I’d been missing until he showed me in the best possible way.
He didn’t rush it, didn’t make it about his own desires either. Instead, he took his time to explore my body, to better understand how to please me. That night was all about me, all about branding me as his own.
I still couldn’t believe that I’d damned the consequences of my actions and said the things I said to him. I praised the way he touched me and even confessed to loving his hands on me. As if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, I also admitted to being his property.
He didn’t have to force me to say it, nor did he have to cajole me—I said what I said of my own free will. And at the moment, I meant every single word.
I hadn’t admitted it yet, but that night, Roman earned a fraction of my respect. Not just because he listened to my body and satisfied me in ways I didn’t dream of. But because he was able to get me to confess my inner thoughts without even saying a word.
He was a real man.
If only he were more human and less of a monster, my stay here would not be all that bad. But at the end of the day, he was what he was, and I didn’t think I could change that.
We hadn’t spoken since that night, and I barely saw him these days. He always left for work too early, before I woke up, and returned too late at night, after I’d fallen asleep.
I couldn’t tell whether it was a coincidence or his cruel way of avoiding me. But why would he want to avoid me? Was he already tired of my presence?
These questions and more kept overlapping in my mind. However, the most important one I’d been asking myself was why I cared so much.
If he decided it was best to avoid me like the plague, then he should keep his distance. So what if I hadn’t seen him in a while—it wasn’t like I was missing him or anything like that.
What was there to miss, anyway? Our fights? His commanding presence? His intimidating look, or the intoxicating scent of his expensive cologne?
With or without him, I’d survive, and I’d be okay. I’d been a loner all my life anyway, and thanks to my father, I was already used to people ghosting me.
Deep down, I knew I was starting to feel attached to this man, and his absence felt heavier by the day. Honestly, it unsettled me more than I cared to admit, leaving my mood constantly clouded.
I was sitting in the chair by the window that afternoon, my legs pulled up in front of me. My mind was a tangled mess, my thoughts jumbled together in a way that made my head ache. I sat there in silence, trying to make sense of my situation and understand my husband-slash-captor.
Just then, I heard a knock on the door, soft and gentle. At first, I was almost startled, thinking it was him, but then I remembered that knocking was the last thing he’d ever do.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“It’s me, ma’am,” a gentle voice replied from the outside.
I recognized it.
“Come in, it’s open.”
The door creaked slightly, and she walked in, her head bowed in reverence. Her footsteps were soundless against the floor as she walked toward me.
“Hi, ma’am,” she greeted me.
“Hi, Mia. How are you?”
“I’m good,” she answered, raising her head to meet my gaze. “I hope you don’t mind me asking how you’re doing.”
I heaved a sigh. “That’s thoughtful of you, Mia. I’m fine, thank you.”
She hesitated for a moment, as if unconvinced by my answer. “You look gloomy,” she said, a small smile spreading across her face. “I think I know something that might cheer you up.”
I squinted my eyes, suspicion creeping into my gaze. “What’s that?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like you to follow me, ma’am.”
I stared at her for a moment, amused by her willingness to lighten up my mood. She was a mysterious teenager with a kind heart and a beautiful smile that could brighten anyone’s dark day.
“I promise, you’ll like it, and if you don’t, you’re free to taunt me forever,” she added, her voice smooth and enticing.
A quiet chuckle fell from my lips. “Fine.” And with that, I rose to my feet. “But you’ll have to tell me where you’re taking me.”
“Uh….” She toiled with her fingers, then scratched the back of her head. “I can’t do that, ma’am.”
I tilted my head to the side, my smile retained. “Why not?”
“Because it kinda spoils the whole surprise thing.”
“Surprise?” I yanked up my brows, wondering if there was something glamorous planned for me.
“Oh, no—not like surprise-surprise,” the words tumbled out of her mouth in a rush. “But it’s a surprise—my surprise—not your husband’s or anyone’s.” She paused, her eyes shining with innocence, as if she were trying to make sense of her own words. “I’m confusing you, aren’t I?”
“No, I think I get you.” I laughed, the first genuine laugh I’d had in a while.
She did the same, our shoulders shaking in sync.
Mia took me to a secluded section at the top of the mansion, a place I didn’t even know existed. It was quiet and serene, our echoing footsteps punctuating the silence.
Finally, she halted in front of a door and glanced back at me with a warm smile. “You ready?”
Unsure of what lay on the other side of the door, I just casually shrugged my shoulders, keeping an open mind. I was tense and curious at the same time, thinking whatever this was, it better be worth it.
She grabbed the door handle, inserted the key, and then unlocked it with a soft click. Mia quietly pushed the door open, and what I saw inside the room took my breath away.
My brows arched in surprise as I followed her inside, eyes drinking in the sight before me.
The room was wide and airy, washed in soft natural light that spilled through the windows, dust floating lazily in the beams. Tall shelves lined the walls, and jars of brushes were arranged meticulously by size.
Tubes of paint were stacked in neat rows, and over a hundred tripod easels were scattered across the space. Each painting was a work of art that told a different story with bursts of colors and brushstrokes.
Some canvases featured unfinished sketches, but almost all the others were detailed portraits that turned the place into a mini-gallery.
“Wow,” I exclaimed softly, drinking in the beautiful sight as I walked through these tripod easels.
“I told you you’d like it,” Mia said, her voice laced with some kind of satisfaction.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, running my hand over a painting, feeling the brushstrokes beneath my fingertips.
“According to my grandmother, your husband’s late mother used paint here,” Mia said, stepping closer to me.
“She painted all of this?” I asked, turning to face her.
Mia nodded.
“She was skilled,” I said, my voice laced with admiration.
“Very skilled,” Mia answered. “Every day after she passed, your husband would come in here and sit for hours. Alone.”
Her words opened the window to a dark time in Roman’s life that he’d never spoken to me about.
I moved toward a small wooden cup filled with brushes, my fingers grazing the surface.
This explained why he was discussing the painting on the wall when I first met him at Josie’s. His mother used to paint, and from what I saw, she was damn good at it.
There was clearly a lot that I didn’t know about this man—a whole lot of secrets buried beneath the surface. The fragments of his past I’d learn from his sister and now from Mia hinted at something darker than I’d thought.
If only he could confide in me, maybe, just maybe, I could help ease his burden.
The room felt warm, almost inviting, as if it were waiting for someone who understood what art could do to a broken heart.
I felt lighter in my chest, eager to immerse myself in these paintings and let my emotions flow onto the canvas. That was the best way to express myself, rather than keeping them buried inside.
As grateful as I was, the question lingered in my head.
“Mia?” I turned to face her. “How did you know I love painting?”
Her lips curled into a radiant smile. “Let’s just say I’m good at observing people.”
“How do you mean?”
She heaved a sigh. “Well, for starters, I’ve seen the way you study the portraits in the house.
You look at them with the eyes of an art lover.
” She paused, shrugging slightly. “And I may or may not have once overheard you explaining a painting to Nikki and Natasha in the hallway. That kinda confirmed it.”
My mouth slacked in a thoughtful pout. “Hmm. That’s actually clever.”
She beamed at me, lowering her head.
“Thank you, Mia,” I said, my voice dripping with gratitude.
“You’re welcome, ma’am,” Mia answered. “I’m just glad to see that spark in your eyes.” She let out a soft sigh of relief. “I’ll leave you alone now.”
I watched her bow her head with a smile before walking out of the room, her shoes scuffing against the floor.
As I settled in, I picked up a brush and sketched the first lines on a blank canvas. Unexpectedly, I found comfort in a room that held Roman’s past. While my confusion about him didn’t disappear completely, I felt like I’d never been closer to understanding both him and myself.
The act of painting eased my turmoil, offering me a quiet escape from the weight of these unspoken emotions.
There was more to Roman Tarasov than met the eye. Maybe someday, if I didn’t decide to run away from here, I just might uncover the secrets of his past.