Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
VIKTOR
Avelina disappears around the corner, and I stare after her, the furrow of my brow still in place. It’s too early for Leon to have a nap, and Sofia was absorbed in the puzzle. It doesn’t quite make sense.
Grigory storms off after giving me one last piercing look.
Matvey hums deeply. “We gonna talk about what just happened?”
I glare at him. “Nothing to talk about.”
“You would have gutted those two soldiers if I hadn’t got between you.”
I roll my eyes. I wasn’t going to do it—at least not yet. It was just to drive the threat home.
I shift a little on my feet. I don’t quite understand what just happened. The men’s words echoed in my head, and then my feet carried me to them as if I’d been possessed. Because hearing them talk about Avelina like that… I clench my jaw and exhale hard.
“If you like her, you should ask her out.”
My attention snaps back to Matvey.
“Preferably before you start killing our men, yeah?”
“I don’t—” I start to protest, clearing my throat when my voice nearly cracks with the lie. “I don’t like her.”
Matvey’s brow arches, and I can see the skepticism practically slide across his expression. “No?”
“No.”
He hums again. “Right.”
“I don’t date,” I grit out. “You know that.”
“No, you don’t. All the more reason to ask her out if you like her.”
“I don’t,” I croak, hoping I sound convincing. Because the thought of asking her out does something to me. It makes my heart race with anxiety—that’s definitely it—at being rejected or laughed at.
But something in the back of my head flickers to life at the idea, and a spark of something ignites at the thought of asking her out. Of going on a date with her...
But it’s a fool’s dream.
Someone like me? On a date? It’s laughable at best.
Matvey looks hard at me before shaking his head and heading back to the rec room. I follow him and watch as he picks up the puzzle mat with Sofia’s incomplete puzzle before anyone can ruin the progress she’s made on it.
I stare at him. Surely, he understands that me dating someone would be a very bad idea.
I’ve got…too many issues. How can you go on a date when you can’t touch the other person?
When you can’t stand to hold hands? Or when you crave an intimate dinner but can’t even hold eye contact? What kind of woman deserves that?
I grunt softly. Avelina deserves better than some awkward, uncomfortable dinner with me. It’s better to just leave well enough alone before that little inkling of something takes root. Because it’ll only end badly. Very badly.
I go upstairs and find her in the children’s bedroom. I beckon her into the hall, and she tiptoes out to me.
“I’m sorry about all that, Avelina. They shouldn’t have spoken about you like that.”
She shakes her head. “This is their home. They should be able to say whatever they like. I’ve been thinking, I should leave—”
Panic rushes through me. “No,” I growl.
“But I’m already feeling much better—”
“No. You can’t risk that social worker taking the kids away from you. You need to stay here until you’re fully recovered.” I cross my arms in front of my chest. “And I’m not taking no for an answer.”
The mention of the social worker has her chewing her bottom lip before she looks up at me with a small smile. “Thank you, Viktor,” she whispers.
A few days have passed. Avelina is getting better slowly, but she still looks tired.
Everyone is sitting around the tables in the courtyard, enjoying dinner. And the moment the dessert plates hit the table, I glance at Avelina.
She thanks the cook politely, a small smile on her lips, but when she thinks no one’s looking, she nudges the plate an inch away from her. Just like every other night.
And sometimes she even skips meals, saying she’s not hungry—but at the same time, she looks longingly at the food.
I’ve never seen her take so much as a bite of dessert.
Not once. At first, I thought maybe she didn’t have a sweet tooth.
But then I overheard Sofia asking her what her favorite dessert was, and Avelina replied that this particular cake—dark chocolate with raspberry drizzle—was her absolute favorite and how much she loved it.
So, tonight, I asked the cook to make it just for her.
But still…nothing.
She sits there with her hands folded neatly in her lap while the cake sits untouched in front of her. It’s driving me insane.
I pick up my fork, stab into my slice, and watch her over my plate. “You don’t like it?” I ask casually.
Her smile falters. “Oh, it looks wonderful. I’m just…not really hungry for dessert.”
Not hungry. She says it so smoothly, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
But I don’t buy it.
I’ve seen the way she sneaks bites of cookies when she thinks no one’s watching and the way her eyes light up when Sofia gets an ice cream. She likes sweets.
So, why won’t she ever eat them here, at my table, when I’m watching?
I chew slowly, suspicion curling in my gut. Because something isn’t adding up.
The following afternoon, Avelina’s laughter fills the space as a butterfly lands on her outstretched finger. The sound has a warm sensation traveling across my whole body and back.
We’re in the vegetable garden, and she sits near an empty planter box, her sundress spread around her legs that are tucked beneath her. Her auburn hair is pulled up from her face into some clip at the back of her head.
My sleeves are rolled up, and I look away and focus back on the watering I’m doing until the small sound of seeds rattling in a packet catches my attention.
A sheepish smile fills her face when I look at her. A packet of flower seeds is in her hand.
“What are those?” I murmur.
“Daisy seeds,” she says slowly, that sheepish smile turning a little wider, a little bolder. It steals my breath right away.
“Daisies?”
“They’re my favorite flower. I ordered the seeds online, and they arrived this morning. I was going to plant them since you said you weren’t using this planter.”
My eyes move to the empty box. I did say that. And when I don’t answer, she turns back to the box, poking her finger into the soil haphazardly. The tightness that appears in my chest is something I’m very familiar with. Panic.
She continues to move her finger here and there, and my throat runs dry.
My neat, orderly system. The precise, meticulous lines I’ve worked so hard to maintain every time I planted something new—ruined. I suck a sharp breath in and push it out, trying to keep my expression neutral. “What…” I clear my throat when I hear the clear alarm in it. “What are you doing?”
She grins at me. “Planting them.”
“You’re not planting them in straight lines?”
“No.”
It takes everything in me to keep my breathing even. Her simple no, and I can feel a vise around my lungs that’s almost denying me of oxygen. “Why, er, not?” I stutter.
Her brow crinkles, but a smile graces her face. “Because flowers don’t grow in neat lines in the wild. So, they don’t need to here either.”
I blink. Once. Twice. Three times.
I want to march over there.
I want to fix what she’s ruined.
I need to fix it.
My autism makes me crave order and control in the chaotic world around me.
But then she spears me with that sunny smile, and it’s like the world stops for a brief moment.
It’s just me and her. The radiant feeling of her gaze on my face travels through my body, and the tension seems to evaporate for just a second.
“Is that okay?” Her voice is calm, sweet.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
I don’t want to be the reason her smile slips from her face. I don’t want to see it melt away into something else. It’s genuine and beautiful. And I want to keep it that way. For as long as I can.
I move closer to her, gritting my teeth as I catch the zigzag lines and overlap of the seeds she’s pushed into the holes.
“Thanks,” she says, her smile softening around the edges again, and my heart thumps harder. She looks at ease. Happy. And I can’t ruin that by imposing my need for orderly lines on her. That’s what an asshole would do. And a part of me doesn’t want to sour her opinion of me yet.
Dusting her hands off, Avelina moves to stand.
A startled cry leaves her as her foot gets caught in the edge of her skirt.
She stumbles, her bare hand grabbing my forearm and using it to balance herself before she falls right over.
My eyes jerk to her hand.
I stare at it, eyes wide.
My arm tenses beneath her fingers.
I count in my head. One, two, three, four, five—any second now it’s going to happen.
And then…
Nothing.
I suck in a sharp breath and blink. The sharp stinging sensation that usually follows touch, the need to pull away, doesn’t come. Not even when her hand tightens as she untangles her foot from her skirt.
Instead, it’s like electricity running through my arm. A zap that races from where her hand touches me, making my heart hammer into my ribs.
This is an anomaly.
A fluke.
A one-off. My head tumbles to find a logical explanation for it. My mind works overtime. And those thoughts that never seem to stop speeding fire even faster.
Frowning fiercely, I study her for a second, then the hand on my arm. Why doesn’t her touch bother me?
Then it clicks like a missing puzzle piece.
She needed it. Like Queenie sometimes needs me to stroke her and give her comfort.
Avelina needed to grab me to keep herself from falling.
From hurting herself. And for some reason, allowing myself to be touched when it comes in the form of helping or providing comfort… doesn’t seem to trigger me.
Avelina’s cheeks turn a rosy shade of pink. “Sorry,” she giggles in embarrassment.
I nod. And as she removes her hand, I find myself missing the heat of her skin…
“I didn’t realize my foot was caught in my skirt. Thanks.”
“Anytime,” I rasp, hoping it doesn’t sound as breathless to her as it does to me.
She smiles and starts off toward the bench once more, leaving me there, gaping slightly at what just happened. It was just a brief moment. But it’s rocked everything I’ve ever known in a matter of mere seconds.
I watch as her skirt swishes with her hips before she grabs her large sun hat from the bench. Placing it on her head, she spins and looks at me. But my mind drifts to the flash of pale skin of her legs beneath her skirt.
Would her legs be soft like her hands?
And how would her hands feel touching more than just my forearm…?
“Viktor?”
I blink, shaking those thoughts from my head.
“Are you coming?”
I swallow thickly. “Yeah. I’m just going to finish up here. I’ll catch up.”
She nods and starts back to the house. My eyes trace the curves of her body, the flare of her hips, and my mind drifts again to the feel of her fingers against my forearm. I’ve never had the desire for a woman to touch me. But the thought of it being Avelina seems to turn my blood into fire.
Would it feel good to have her touch me as she clings to me?
To let her touch me like no one else has as I sink into her?
I’ve never shied away from indulging in sex with other women.
I’m not a robot—I have needs. But my aversion to contact has made it less about the intimacy and more about fulfilling my basic urges.
I always prefer any woman I have sex with to be tied up or handcuffed.
They normally think it’s just what I’m into.
But for me, it’s about controlling the situation so that their hands don’t touch me and ruin it for me.
And most women don’t seem to mind. They think my command of no kissing is a game, and it only turns them on more.
But Avelina… Would kissing her and having sex with her feel different? Would she enjoy sex like that? Or would she demand she touch me? And would kissing her make me hard like I think, or would it turn me off like it normally does?
My pants tighten at the image of her nails raking down my back, head tossed back in pleasure, lips parted as her body flushes beneath mine. Sweat slicks her body, and my name is a husky whisper…
I shake my head. Get it together! I scrub my hand down my face. It’s got to be that dress she’s wearing today. It’s made my mind drift off in a strange direction. I hang up the watering can and straighten out the tools we used earlier, pushing away all those racing thoughts.
There’s no point in going down that road.
I’d be setting myself up for disappointment. Failure.
It’s better to just keep those images as what they are. Fantasies.
Because Avelina deserves better than me, that’s for damn sure.