Chapter Twenty-Four
In which Andrey is a judgey asshole.
Iris…
Andrey has a gym on the second level of his penthouse that is almost too pretty to be used.
There are rows of gleaming, silver barbells, impeccable mats, even the well-used hanging weight bag somehow looks distinguished.
I’ve watched more than once, misty-eyed as he walked from the gym back to our room.
How his sweats hung low, his perfect Adonis belt leading toward his pearled cock.
His back would be rippling with muscle, each one precisely sculpted and the riot of tattoos spreading across his back.
A crow on one shoulder with eyes so sharp that I swear it's following me.
More tattoos where blood pours from skulls, and another that's a waterfall of gore.
Stars for each shoulder. Everything stops abruptly where a shirt's neckline would be, and above his wrists.
In a suit, you'd never imagine he’s this dark carnival of muscle and ink.
There's one on his right ribcage that pulls at the corner of my memory. It's a skeletal bat, wings spread, positively vibrating with rage. I can't explain why, but it's uncomfortable to look at for very long.
I've taken to using the rowing machine or the running track when I don't have enough time to launch the USS How Many People are Required to Protect Iris?
It's a production that requires four security guards in addition to Melina.
I always make sure to wipe everything down and be out of the gym before Andrey gets home.
He's had a lot of late nights recently, so when I hear him say, "We need to talk." I yelp and nearly choke myself with the barbell I was using.
He easily pulls it off me with one hand and sets it back on the rack. Is he angry? It’s hard to tell from his beautiful, remote face. It’s not in his expression, it's more of a glow behind his eyes.
"You're home early," I say, sitting up and trying to regain my dignity and also a towel to wipe my face.
"It seems I have things to deal with here," he says.
"Like what?" I've been so good these last few weeks, the perfect Mrs. Morozova in public and all those endless events. Hell, he should be feeding me cheesecake and rubbing my feet for how awesome I've been.
Taking his damn time to shrug out of his jacket and loosen his tie, he carefully puts them on a clean table by the door before turning to face me again. "There was a gossip piece about you today."
Oh, I'm feeling good and defensive now. "I've seen several about you, too," I snap. "But you'll notice that I don't come storming into your gym session like I have been personally wounded."
His perfectly-shaped brows draw together. "You have?"
I roll my eyes so hard that it's a miracle they don't get stuck looking at the back of my skull. "Oh please, the Parade of Despondent Girlfriends? Jessica must be busy killing the stories. I'm certain that she's been seeing them all."
"We'll discuss those later, then." His jaw is tightening. It's a perfectly sculpted jaw, square, and manly and he has just enough 5 o'clock shadow to really sell the brooding anti-hero look right now.
For fuck's sake, Iris. Pay attention!
"What were you doing with Senator Sinclair?" Andrey says sharply. "You and your sister were flirting with him? It is not a flattering piece about you."
The nausea still lingering after our encounter with that pervert yesterday surges up again, and I leap to my feet.
"He approached us," I say angrily. "He claimed he was shopping for his precious little daughter's birthday gift and he had a camera crew following him around.
He knew me by name and introduced himself. He is one creepy bastard."
"You have no idea," Andrey growls. It's late enough in the afternoon now that the room is mixed between the last rays of the sun and evening shadows. Half of his face is cast into shade, and I'm hit hard by the sense that he's capable of far worse acts than I've seen.
"I recognized the pose," he says, putting his hands in his pockets and strolling toward me. His eyes are cold now, whatever heat there was fading. "How you put your heads together, creating that unattainable, wet dream of identical twins. What the hell were you attempting to do there?"
Verdict: Judgmental as fuck.
Groaning silently, I really wish Rose hadn't done that. "It's like muscle memory," I confess. "Rose must have been feeling nervous because she went into our classic twin thing. Believe me, I had no intention of flirting with him."
"The picture is not flattering," he repeats. "The image makes it look like his eyes are fixed on your breasts. It's also not doing much for his image, he looks like the quintessential, dirty old man."
Sinclair is maybe only eight years older than Andrey, but it seems like the wrong time to remind him of that.
"Well great," I snap. "We all looked like assholes.
I would think you'd be angrier at the disrespect a U.S.
Senator is giving your wife. I'm sorry if that embarrassed you, but it certainly wasn't intentional.
In the same way I'm sure you didn't expect those twelve heartbroken girls to gallop to the nearest gossip site, each one claiming that they were your longtime girlfriend.
About how much they loved you and how they would wait for you forever. "
Okay, I might sound a little snarky. Actually, I sound extremely snarky. Though I think any new wife would be embarrassed by having her husband's past shoved in her face like a clown with a cream pie, leaving me covered in globs of custard, looking like a fool.
"Those stories hurt you," he says gravely. "I am sorry. It was not under my control and I'm certain you already know they were lying. I never dated anyone more than three or four times at most."
"See, that's what I thought," I say triumphantly. "I know you hate people so much that more than a couple of times would drive you crazy."
He doesn't seem to see that as the compliment I meant to offer, but he shakes his head.
"Tell me why you and Rose do that- the games.
The crushing of men's hearts. You don't get anything material from it.
I haven't heard that you've used extortion or blackmail mentioned once, that you refused gifts. So why?"
Sinking down on the bench, I rub my sore thighs. I don't owe this pretentious asshole anything. I'm not the one in the press with random women praising my incredible sexual skills. Even though he's being decent about it instead of blustering and trying to smother my outrage.
"When we first started being the adorable tag team twins act," I say slowly, trying to find my way, "it was because we had just graduated from Catholic school.
Catholic boarding school. Specifically, an all-girls Catholic boarding school.
There was never a moment where we were allowed to date normally, so we were both stupidly boy crazy by the time we graduated.
After the abduction, we did it for control.
Smug, self-indulgent men who thought they were irresistible.
It was fun to force them to their knees, give them a little humility. "
I smile bitterly at the memories. "They all seemed to remind us of the Chads, so it was one more punch in the throat to that shit organization every time we… It wasn't rational, I guess."
“The basics of what happened to you two and Violet were clear," he says completely neutral. "That hedge-fund corporation and the men-"
"The Chads," I clarify. "Identical bleached teeth and sweaters slung over their golf shirts." I'm grateful for his tone, because I couldn't stand it if he showed me pity. We've had plenty of fucking pity.
"Ah, yes. The Chads," he agrees. "I knew at least enough to defend you and Roman's group, to make sure the right people were punished." As the sun sets, he's entirely in shadow now, and the whole look of his face sharpens, the curve of his cheekbones and his eyes, glittering black.
"Thank you for killing them all horribly," I say, twisting my towel between my hands. "If you all hadn’t stopped them, they would have just kidnapped someone else. Someone who didn't have a Bratva to save them."
"What happened to you there? Not the facts, I know those. Violet said that you and Rose came back changed from that weekend. Roman said they were worried that they would never pull you out of it."
I don't want to tell him anything. Really, I want to go after him for all of these tragic, jilted girlfriend stories.
But I talk anyway, though I don't look at him.
"Jonas Kennedy, he was the one who planned on marrying me.
He was in his fifties. Violet, Rose and me, we were mostly together at their compound.
Kennedy, though, always found a way to get me into a corner and tell me all the things he was going to do to me.
How he was going to share me with his special clients, but I would still have to be the sweet, perfect wife or he'd have someone beat the shit out of one of my sisters.
"That was their thing, you know." I finally look up, and his face is immobile in sculpted lines, like a statue's.
"Violet hauled off and punched the main Chad in the face, which was so deeply satisfying to watch.
" I sigh ecstatically. "But then he hit Rose hard enough to knock her to the ground.
She bit her tongue, there was blood everywhere.
"That's when he told us that if any of us misbehaved, one of the other sisters would be punished for it.
Something as simple as using the wrong fork at the dinner table could mean my sister would have to starve for five days.
My poor Rosie with her swollen tongue -" I swallow back a sob.
"I wished it had been me. If I was standing closer, he would've hit me instead of her.
Violet took it the hardest, of course. Rose never blamed her.
You don't blame the people you love for the actions of psychotic, fucking assholes.
The Chads deserved to be put in the ground in pieces.
"I'd lie awake at night, thinking about what my life would be like with that sick bastard.
The thought of having to bring children into the world with him?
" I shudder violently, like a cold gust of wind just roared through the gym.
"Roman was brave and wonderful and got us out of there, that's how I met Melina.
" I smile a little. "She was so good with a gun.
Rose and I practiced with her for a year after. "
Looking up at him, I give him a dark little smile. "I'm a very good shot."
This seems to amuse him and he tilts his head, like he's trying to hear me better. "Go on."
"That's it really," I say. "It was a way to fuck with the minds of guys who were the type of men who’d fucked with ours. It gave us a little chunk of power each time we pulled it off. Now, I can see that it was mean and childish. Most of those guys never knew what hit them."
"I see…" He's utterly still, watching me. I'll bet this is how he gets people to crack on the witness stand. Well, that and his incessant tapping. "There will never be a way to make it right for you, Rose, and Violet," he says, standing up and walking toward me.
"I've seen hundreds of cases, no, thousands of cases of women who've been brutalized and tormented like you were.
There is never enough punishment to rain down on the men who cause it.
But based on your tone and how you talk, I can see that it doesn't seem to matter to you in the same way any longer. "
"It doesn't," I shrug. "I'm married. There's no more tag teaming. That would be disrespectful." Then, I can't resist adding, "No matter how this marriage started."
He makes a tiny, almost imperceptible movement and I wonder if my words hit him.
"There are better ways to dispense justice." There’s a glow in his eyes, something red and orange like an explosion in the dark depths. It glitters malevolently for a moment and I catch my breath before he blinks and his gaze is smooth and impervious again.
"Do you want to take a shower?" He runs his hand over the back of my hair and I involuntarily lean into it for a moment. "Chef Tess was going to serve us something special tonight, I told her to leave it in the fridge and we'd heat it up later."
"Sure." There are tears on my face, when did that happen? "Is there dessert?"
Andrey crouches gracefully in front of me, cupping my cheek with his big, warm hand.
"For you, wife? There is always dessert."