Chapter 11 Lily
LILY
The bag is heavy in the wrong way. Not the good kind of heavy—like I am prepared for every possible scenario, apocalypse included. No. This is a smug, judgmental kind of heavy, the kind that drags behind me like it knows it’s full of bad decisions.
I glare down at it as I haul it across the polished floor, like maybe sheer intimidation will make it less… Gwen.
Because that’s what it is: a Gwen-packed suitcase.
And a Gwen-packed suitcase means exactly zero actual clothes.
I should’ve known better. This is the same woman who once declared a silk robe “business casual” and, with a glass of wine in her hand, informed me that “coverage is for cowards.”
So when Nadia warned me, she’s not going to pack you anything sensible, I laughed it off. I thought, fine, let her pack a few things. I mean, it’s my honeymoon. I love Aleksandr. I want to look good for him. I want him to want me. A little lingerie is not a crime.
But an entire suitcase of nothing but lingerie?
That’s a felony.
Fishnet stockings. Satin teddies so sheer they could pass for fog. Garter belts. Lace scraps that I’m not even sure count as fabric. Not one bra that can be worn under a shirt. Not one pair of underwear that doesn’t require a prayer and a maintenance schedule. One piece was literally a ribbon.
Do you know what was not in there?
Clothes. Like, normal clothes. Jeans. Sweaters. Anything that would let me walk through an airport without immediately being escorted out by security.
So, at four in the morning—while my brand-new husband was laying in bed just watching me in pure amusement—I staged a tiny rebellion.
I ripped out half of her “collection” and shoved in whatever I could find in my closet: three pairs of jeans, two shirts that actually cover more than a single inch of skin, two pairs of sweatpants (because I like comfort, sue me), one sundress that doesn’t scream take me now, and a few skirts.
Skirts for easy access. Because, yes, I want Aleksandr to have access to me.
God. I can’t believe I’m thinking that.
Now I’m wrestling this Frankenstein of a suitcase down the stone steps, praying that TSA doesn’t ever unzip it.
Because nothing in here is folded. I didn't have the time. And I know the very first thing they’ll see is the crotchless thong I forgot to take out.
Which, to be clear, is not underwear. It’s…
pussy decoration. I will die on that hill.
And as if that wasn’t enough of a disaster, Gwen didn’t pack a single book.
Not one. Like she honestly thought I would spend a week with Aleksandr, surrounded by beaches, champagne, and silk, and not bring backup in the form of three fantasy novels, two thrillers, and my annotated copy of Pride and Prejudice.
Luckily, past Lily knows future Lily, so I took matters into my own hands.
I packed a backpack. A very heavy backpack.
I drag it across the floor now, hunching over as I wrestle the straps onto my shoulders.
It’s stuffed with hardcovers and paperbacks, my favorite journal, and enough pens to survive an apocalypse.
The weight nearly tips me backward as I straighten, and the books slam into my spine like they’re punishing me for my life choices.
If the suitcase doesn’t kill me, the books will.
I’m still trying to adjust the straps, hair falling into my face, when the bedroom door swings open in front of me.
“Morning wife,” Aleksandr smirks, stepping up beside me, his shadow falling over me.
“Hey hubby,” I beam, my voice too high to be natural, as I blow a strand of my hair from dangling in front of my eyes.
“I like the sound of that,” He practically growls and my skin prickles with goosebumps.
One large hand plucks the backpack right off my shoulders like it weighs nothing—never mind that it nearly flattened me—and with the other he rolls the suitcase away from me, the wheels gliding like suddenly they remember how to work when he’s the one pulling them.
“What happened to you this morning?” I say, zipping up my baby blue crop top sweater over my white sports bra which matches with my oversized sweatpants and brand new white NewBalance sneakers.
Aleksandr is dressed in a way that shouldn’t be legal for daylight: black jeans that fit like they were made for him, because, needless to say, he doesn’t believe in sweatpants; an oversized black hoodie that drapes over his shoulders and tapers perfectly at his hips; and black Nike Air Forces that somehow make him look even taller.
He looks dangerously delicious, and I am thankful to be behind him so he can’t see me drooling.
“I went for a run this morning,” he says, his voice low, a rough purr that grazes over the curve of my throat, “and handled a few Bratva matters. So now…” His eyes slide down to me, slow, deliberate. “…I can give this entire week to you.”
I swear I feel the words in my knees.
Without breaking stride, he reaches past me and opens the front door like it’s nothing, and I step through without thinking—because it’s Aleksandr. And everything about him pulls me forward, inevitable as gravity.
The quiet inside the house this morning already feels like a memory.
Nadia and Nik hugged me goodbye at dawn—tight, fierce hugs that said be careful, even on a honeymoon before they vanished into the chaos of the office.
Gwen had been wrangling the kids into their coats, already planning to take them out for pancakes with two cars’ worth of security because apparently sugar was the only way to survive them being stir-crazy after yesterday’s events.
And now it’s just me and him.
He doesn’t say a word until we reach the car. Then, with a sidelong glance and as he opens the backdoor, “What is in the backpack, Lily?”
I blink up at him. “You saw me pack the suitcase.”
“I did,” he says, amused. “But I did not see you pack this.”
“Books,” I admit, brushing hair out of my face.
He pauses, hand still on the car door handle, and turns to look at me fully. “Books? How many?”
“Twenty,” I shrug, sliding into the car as he hands both of our suitcases to the driver, before sliding in himself.
“Lily, we will only be gone a week,” he says, in a monotone that makes my eyes widen.
“A week?” I question, “Do you think I should have packed more?”
His mouth curves into something slow, dangerous, and entirely unfair. A soft laugh rumbles in his chest. “No, Moya. You will be… very occupied.”
The meaning in his tone hits me square in the stomach. Heat shoots up my neck, and my mouth opens, but no words come out.
He just keeps watching me, that infuriatingly calm, teasing patience burning in his eyes.
It’s too much. I shift in my seat, crossing my legs as if that could steady me, my tongue darting over my lips while I look anywhere but at him—the window, the partition, the stitching on the leather—anything that isn’t Aleksandr.
A low chuckle rumbles out of him, quiet and sure, and he sinks deeper into his seat, as if my pussy-leaking induced discomfort amuses him more than it should.
I don’t think Aleksandr knows this about me, but I hate flying. Absolutely fucking hate it.
Not in the casual, ugh, turbulence is annoying kind of way. No. I mean the full-bodied, sweaty-palmed, my-soul-tries-to-leave-my-body-every-time-the-plane-shifts kind of hate.
And here’s the thing—we’ve already been in the air for two hours. Two. Which means there are still three hours to go before we touch down in Panama.
Panama. My dream location. The beaches, the rainforests, the old city with cobblestone streets—everything I have pinned on a mood board for the last seven years.
And I’m probably not going to see any of it because I’ll be too busy clinging to the nearest solid object like a barnacle, convinced the earth is rejecting me and the sky is trying to murder me.
The only saving grace right now?
The Petrovs are richer than Midas, which means we are not crammed into a commercial flight with a screaming toddler kicking the back of my seat. No. I am currently terrified for my life on a private jet.
A jet with leather seats soft enough to sink into, no line for the bathroom, actual glassware instead of plastic cups, and, best of all, enough space that I could theoretically run laps to burn off this anxiety. (I will not be running laps. I am glued to this chair until we land or I die.)
Unfortunately, luxury does not change the fact that I am still fifty thousand feet in the air inside a very expensive tin can.
Aleksandr sits right next to me, naturally. Close enough that his thigh presses against mine every time the plane tilts. And I’m holding my newest book Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia in my lap, pretending that I am reading when I have not absorbed a single word since we took off.
Meanwhile, Aleksandr—my terrifying Bratva husband, the man who negotiates with killers without blinking—is reading Twilight.
Because I made him.
I convinced him to read Twilight by saying, very casually, that Edward Cullen was “grade-A sexy” and my childhood crush. Aleksandr didn’t even blink. He just picked up the book like it was a gauntlet I’d thrown at his feet, and this was the only way he could prevent a war.
I am ninety-nine percent sure he’s only reading it now to prove a point that he, Aleksandr Petrov, is better than the immortal Edward Cullen and maybe one percent to make me smile.
He sits with the book propped open in one massive hand, head bent, loose strands of hair falling forward as he reads.
Every so often his brows draw together, his mouth flattening in silent judgment, like he cannot believe the things these people in Forks consider reasonable life choices.
But he keeps going, page after page, patient, thorough.
And I haven’t managed to read a single word of Mexican Gothic—even though it’s the perfect book for me, all psychological unease and slow-burn romance wrapped in a gothic backdrop that might as well have been written with my name on the cover—for the past half hour.