16. Sienna #3
Damian looks at me evenly, for a long moment, before answering. “I broke his fingers until I got answers,” he says finally, his voice cool and flat. “And then I took him out on the estate, and shot him.”
“Damian—” Valentina’s voice is warning, but Damian’s eyes are on mine. I don’t want to flinch, but I do. I can’t help it. Torture and death were never a part of my life before. There were other things, bad things, but not…
The look in his eyes makes my chest tighten. It’s like he’s gotten an answer to something he’s been wondering. Like I just answered a question for him, one that I didn’t even know he asked.
“Sleeping pills will help,” Damian says finally. “I made an appointment for you.”
“Konstantin can arrange security,” Valentina adds, and Damian shakes his head abruptly.
“I’ll take her.”
“I—” I blink at him. “You don’t have to?—”
“After what happened, I’m not trusting anyone with your protection other than me,” Damian says flatly. “I’ll go with you, and make sure that nothing happens. The appointment is tomorrow. We’ll go into town, see the doctor, get the prescription filled, and come right back. It shouldn’t take long.”
His tone brooks no argument. It’s clear that he’s not going to tolerate me saying anything against the idea…
and honestly, I’m not sure that I want to.
I don’t like being followed around by strangers, which is what the other security guards are.
I don’t know if I’d feel comfortable going without someone that I know.
I’d rather have Damian with me. And the fact that he cares enough to see to my protection personally, that he talked to Valentina, that he made the appointment …
It’s kind. It’s caring. It’s not what I would have expected from him, as cold and brutal as he seems, but it’s clear that he’s trying to take care of me. To make up, even, for what he can’t, or won’t give me.
It’s clear that he’s devoted to protecting me. It thaws a little of how I felt after last night, salves a little of the hurt I’ve felt because he’s ignored me since the night of the attack. What it doesn’t do is make what I’m starting to feel for him any less.
If anything, it makes it worse. I’m starting to fall for him, to see the man underneath the cold, hard exterior, and the knowledge that this is all temporary, that it won’t last, hurts more than it should.
He makes me feel safe. Cared for, despite his rough exterior. And I manage a small, hesitant smile, giving him a nod.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll go.”
Damian looks at me for a long moment, almost as if he wants to say something. And then, without a word, he walks away.
—
The next afternoon, I leave Adam in the care of Mrs. Horvat and the maids—and honestly, probably also Valentina—while I meet Damian to go to the appointment.
The same black Mercedes that I remember from before is parked out front, and Damian comes around to open my door, helping me up into the car.
I see his gaze sweep over me, taking in my yellow sundress and dangling earrings, the straw wedges on my feet, before he swallows hard and looks away, closing the door more firmly than necessary.
The drive to the doctor's office is tense and silent.
Damian keeps checking his mirrors, and I can see the shape of a gun at his back, where the fabric is tense against it.
The reminder of the danger we're in makes my stomach churn.
“Are we going to be all right, leaving the estate?” I venture, and Damian looks at me sharply.
“We’ll be fine,” he says firmly. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“I know,” I manage, although the worry still persists, nerves crawling in my stomach.
I’ve never been afraid of being outside before.
I’ve always loved exploring Miami on my days off, finding new vintage shops to wander through and imagine being able to buy whatever I want, breathing in the smells of cooking food and the salt air, feeling the rush of people all around me.
Now it feels like there’s a shadow behind every corner, danger at every stoplight. I hate it.
I’m glad to be back inside when we reach the doctor’s office.
It doesn’t take long for me to be called back for my appointment, a nurse quickly taking my vitals—glancing nervously at Damian looming in the corner—and then assuring me that Dr. Francis will be in to see me soon.
I have a feeling that the promptness of it all has something to do with Damian’s connections, and Konstantin’s last name.
Dr. Francis is a kind woman in her fifties who doesn't bat an eye at my intimidating escort. She asks me about my sleep, about the nightmares, about my stress levels. I answer honestly, very aware of Damian sitting in the corner like a dark, silent sentinel.
"I'm going to prescribe something mild," Dr. Francis says, scribbling on her prescription pad. "But I also want to talk about therapy. Trauma doesn't just go away on its own."
“I don’t really want to talk to anyone,” I say quickly. “I’d rather just… see how it goes. Maybe some better sleep will help. I could come back next appointment and then we see…”
“Mrs. Kutnezsov…” Dr. Francis pauses. “I’m not accustomed to handing out medication without following it up with therapy as well as prescriptions.
But as long as you make it to your next appointment, we can start with the mild sleeping pill and go from there.
I won’t approve any refills until you’ve come back. ”
The use of my married name still catches me off guard. "I... maybe. I'll think about it. I’d rather start with just getting some sleep."
“She’s fine,” Damian cuts in. “It’s nightmares, that’s all. She’s not depressed, or anything like that.”
Dr. Francis looks at him sharply. “Mr. Kutnezsov, trauma affects everyone differently. Sometimes the people we love need professional help to heal. "
Damian doesn't respond, but I see his jaw tighten. He looks at me, and I look back at the doctor.
“I’ll come back for a follow-up. I promise,” I say quickly, hoping I can actually keep that promise.
I don’t have health insurance. If all of this has blown over in a month—and God , I hope it has—I won’t be able to afford the appointment or the prescription.
But I’m just going to take the meds for now, and figure it out later.
“Alright. I’ll call it into the pharmacy. We’ll schedule your next appointment as well. As for everything else, you look healthy and in good shape.”
As we're leaving the office, I'm struck by how carefully Damian positions himself between me and everyone else. How his eyes constantly scan our surroundings. How he opens doors for me and keeps his hand on the small of my back, guiding me.
It's protective. Possessive, even.
And despite everything, it makes me feel safe in a way I've never experienced before.
"Thank you," I say as we get back in the car, Damian checking it thoroughly before letting me get in.
He glances over at me. "For what?"
"For taking care of me. For making sure I'm okay." I bite my lip. “For making the appointment, and…”
Something flickers across his face, but it's gone before I can identify it. "You’re my wife. It’s my job to protect and take care of you. It’s what I said I would do.”
His job . It stings, a little, to hear him say it that way. But I see his jaw clench, his hands tighten on the steering wheel, and I wonder what he’s really feeling, under that response. I wish I knew.
I wish he would tell me.
I can’t help but feel that this marriage might have been a good thing. That maybe it was a stroke of luck, in a life that, for me, has largely gone wrong in every possible way.
But Damian won’t open up to me, I know that. He barely treats me like his wife, other than to step in when I need protection or care. But marriage is more than that—even I know that. And if he won’t meet me halfway, then this won’t work at all.
I don’t even know if he wants it to work. If he wants anything more than to feel as if he’s completed the mission he set himself on when he took me from the warehouse, and then move on.
But a part of me is starting to feel as if I do. And as Damian starts the car, pulling out of the parking garage, I have no idea what to do about that.
Or if I should even try.