Chapter 17
The ride back to the compound was silent.
Even Juvie was uncharacteristically quiet.
Security lights illuminated the long private road in a soft gold, revealing the wrought-iron gates, manicured hedges, and the beautiful landscaping that made you forget there were men with rifles posted behind those pretty ass trees.
My family liked their beauty with a side of violence.
So did I, now that I had the most precious thing in the world to protect.
The quiet was a little fake, though. I was riding with a storm in this backseat.
Theory didn’t speak, but it wasn’t a peaceful quiet.
Nah, moya milaya was holding herself together with nothing but pride and spite.
She sat with her hands folded in her lap like she was trying to look unbothered, even when she was seething inside.
The veiled hat was gone. Her hair fell in soft spirals around her shoulders, and her makeup had held up through a whole wedding, a whole reception, a whole day she didn’t ask for.
She smiled, laughed, danced. She even sang with her Sorors.
And she still looked like she might fall apart if somebody breathed too hard near her.
The car slowed in front of the house. My house for her.
This was ours, even if she wasn’t ready to call it that.
Nobody would ever call it a “starter home.” It was a mini-mansion, period.
It wasn’t the big Sidorov mansion, but it was just as impressive.
White stone facade, tall, black-framed windows, a covered entry with columns, greenery almost too perfect to be real.
There was a four-car garage so that there was room for that blue G-Wagon and anything else she wanted.
The moment we stepped through the door, cool air wrapped around us.
Everything in here was about warm light and quiet luxury.
After a year spent in a cramped cell, I appreciated the cream walls, dark hardwood, high ceilings with modern chandeliers, and custom art.
Nothing was loud, but it all said money.
The color scheme was soft neutrals and deep blues because my mama had insisted that I needed “calm and feminine touches,” and Theory loved blue.
I’d already seen the blue accents in the bigger items—navy velvet chairs in the sitting room, pale blue runner in the hall, framed print of Emancipation’s pretty, blue river on the wall to show her that I hadn’t forgotten where she came from.
I’d told my mama what she’d described on the farm, every damn detail.
I made no apologies for it being elegant and exorbitant—I planned to treat her to a life of the best. Once these walls and hard edges she’d erected came down, they’d stay down.
I wanted the soft life for her that she dreamed about for herself.
A part of me wanted to point at each detail like, See? I listen. I remember. I’m not just some nigga who takes what he wants. But my shorty wasn’t in a place to receive that.
The entry opened into a wide space, then a hallway that led deeper into the house. There was a sitting room to the left, formal enough for company and a smaller lounge to the right where she could sit and read.
Theory slowed in the foyer.
“You don’t like it?” I asked.
Her eyes darted around. “It’s… a lot,” she said.
Damn. She hadn't even seen her office yet. I shrugged. “It’s yours.”
The corners of her lips turned downward. “Nothing feels like it’s mine right now.”
That little statement fucked with me, but I kept my face straight.
“The world is yours right now, malyshka,” I countered.
“If my world is a pretty little gilded cage,” she shot back.
She wanted to fight. I wasn’t giving her that, just kept looking at her pretty face. She didn’t let go that easily.
“Targen, you don’t think this is a lot?”
“You deserve a lot.”
Her mouth twitched like she wanted to laugh. “You don’t even know me like that.”
“I know enough, and I’m trying to learn the rest.”
She shot me a look that said, “Yeah, right,” and walked ahead of me.
I trailed her into the living room. She stopped by the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the courtyard with its gently gurgling fountain.
Theory had said she wanted to be our family’s peace. I was giving her the perfect backdrop.
She folded her arms. “I gotta give you credit. You got a nice set up for where to keep your hostage bride.”
Yeah, that was enough. “We not doing that tonight.”
“Oh, we not?” Her tone was sweet. Her eyes weren’t.
I sighed. “Theory. I’m not trying to fight with you. Come on. Let me show you our room,” I said.
Our.
She didn’t comment on the word, but the way she tensed, I knew she heard it, anyway.
Upstairs, the hallway was quiet, sound muted by the soft carpet under our feet.
I opened the bedroom door and let her walk in first. The room was big as hell, the huge bed made up in white linen with a pale-blue throw folded neatly at the foot.
There was a sitting area by the window, and beyond that, a balcony that overlooked a garden with lights strung through the trees like stars.
Theory stood there, staring. I wanted to touch her so fucking bad. I wanted to pull her against me and tell her everything was going to work out. I wanted to kiss her until she stopped looking so defensive. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to make love to my wife. The way she’d looked all day…
She’d walked down that aisle in that cream, titties sitting up, hips and thighs moving sinuously beneath that material, and I’d had to clench my jaw so tight my teeth hurt.
And the little set she wore now—something her mama and sister had helped her change into when the reception was in full swing—didn’t help.
It hugged her thick, curvy body in a way that had my brain stuck on stupid.
Her honey-brown skin glowed under the lighting like she had her own sunshine under there.
Theory’s body was all full breasts and hips, soft thighs made to cradle me, and a waist dip that made my hands itch to grab it and the beads I knew she wore there.
And that face—big, brown eyes and a plush mouth made for trouble. So, yeah, I wanted to touch her.
But I didn’t. Wanting wasn’t the same thing as taking, and she already felt I had taken too much. Tonight wasn’t about what I wanted, anyway. If nothing else, I had patience. You tended to learn that in Siberia.
“It’s beautiful,” she said finally, sparing me a quick glance.
“I’m glad you like it. Are you hungry?” I asked.
“No.”
It was too fast. Automatic. I just looked at her for a minute. “What did you eat at the reception?”
She kissed her teeth. “Food.”
“What food?” I pressed, ignoring the sarcasm.
Silence.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Theory.”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t hungry.”
“Nah, for real. People kept bringing you plates. Why didn’t you eat?”
She gave me a look like she wanted to throw something at my head. “Why you interrogating me? Why you care?”
I had a lot of ways to answer that, ways that would let her know I saw through the performance she put on for her family.
You looked like you might pass out when you stood too long.
Your hands were shaking when you thought nobody saw.
You’re carrying all that anger and hurt, and your body is paying for it.
She would shut down. So, instead, I said, “Because I’m your husband. And you need to eat.”
That word—husband—made her flinch like I’d hit her. I wasn't feeling that shit.
“I can take care of myself,” she argued.
“I know you can. That’s not the point. I’m going to take care of you anyway.”
Theory’s mouth opened, ready to challenge me, then closed again. She looked away, like she was trying to think of a way to continue her protests.
“I’m fine.”
“You not,” I said. “Come on.”
I didn’t wait for all her reasons why she shouldn’t. I walked back downstairs, then toward the kitchen. I heard her footsteps, slow and reluctant, but she followed. The way I was out here fighting for my life, that was a win.
The kitchen was bright and immaculate, marble counters and stainless-steel appliances she was going to admit she loved when she wasn’t so pissed off. Personally, I liked the fact that the pantry was big enough to hide a body.
I washed my hands and rolled my sleeves up. I could feel her standing behind the massive island watching me like she expected me to pull out a gun. Instead, I just pulled out ingredients. Thanks to Andrei, I quickly found rice, salmon, asparagus, and all the seasonings my heart might desire.
My wife looked at me suspiciously. “What you doing?” she asked.
“Feeding you.”
“I told you I’m not hungry.”
“I heard you. Sit down anyway,” I replied.
She didn’t move. I looked up. “Theory.”
Her eyes met mine, challenging. “You don’t get to command me.”
“I’m not commanding you. I’m insisting. There’s a difference.”
“Boy—” she exhaled and tried to hide a smile.
Another win. My own smile was visible. She slid onto a stool and glared at me just to prove she wasn’t afraid of me.
Good. I started cooking. This was definitely about to be another victory.
I was a man of many talents and cooking was one of them.
I seasoned a pot of water for rice and rinsed the grains in a strainer until the water ran clear.
Then I grabbed a salmon fillet, patted it dry, and seasoned it with lemon zest, black pepper, smoked paprika, and a little dill.
I heated the pan until it was just right, oil shimmering.
Theory watched like she didn’t expect me to know what I was doing.
“You cook?” she asked.
“I do a lot of things,” I said.
“Like kidnap folks?”
I glanced at her. “Like keep folks alive.”
Her gaze held mine a second too long. Then she looked away first, lips pressed together.