Chapter 35
The Stone House was quiet, finally. There'd been a debriefing after the reception.
Stories cemented. Plans made. But now, Theory lay curled against my side beneath the covers, one leg thrown over mine.
My arm was around her waist, my fingers resting against her back.
The lamp on her nightstand cast a soft glow over the bed.
She hadn’t gone to sleep. She was too busy thinking. Every few minutes, she'd sigh, toss a little bit. Then she’d settle down for a second before starting all over again. She was worried.
I hated it.
“You still mad at me?” I asked.
“A little.”
I smiled. At least she was honest.
“Just a little?”
Her nose wrinkled. “Maybe a medium amount.”
My hand slid up and down her back. “I can work with medium.”
She snorted softly but didn’t say anything else. The silence stretched over us. I stared at the ceiling. Then I sighed.
“Talk to me, malyshka.”
“I’m talking.”
“You call this talking?"
She shifted closer against me. For a second, I thought she was about to dodge the question. Instead, her voice came out quiet.
“I saw Virginia tonight.”
My jaw tightened. Of course.
“Okay.”
“I haven’t seen her since…”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to. I knew exactly what she meant.
Since the police reports, since the hospital, since the hearings. Since all the places Virginia Armstrong had stood beside her son and defended the indefensible.
Theory was quiet for a long moment.
“I hated how scared I felt.”
My arm tightened around her.
“You were not scared of them.”
She laughed once. “No?”
“No.” I rolled onto my side so I could look at her. “You mugged Marguerite Armstrong's ass in a room full of people while she threatened you. You told that bitch she’d disappear into dirt.”
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“I did say that, huh?"
“You did, mamas.”
After a minute, that pretty smile disappeared again.
“Targen?”
“Hmm?
“I wasn’t scared of her.”
I frowned. “Then what?”
She looked away. For a second, I didn’t understand. Then I did. And I hated the answer immediately.
“Chauncey.”
Her silence was all the answer I needed.
Something ugly and cold twisted in my chest. It wasn’t anger at her.
Never at her. I could admit it was just wounded pride.
I was working hard to get my wife to feel, hell, to know that she was safe and protected, and still…
one name, one dead man walking had her lying awake beside me. I looked toward the ceiling.
“I should’ve killed him already.”
“Targen.”
“No.”
I meant that. Every word. “I should have.”
She was quiet for a second. Then she surprised me.
“I’m not just worried about me, Targen.”
I looked down at her. “What?”
“I’m worried about you.”
I blinked. Theory rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling beside me.
“That family is crazy.”
“You’ve met mine, right?”
She huffed an impatient breath. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Targen… they don’t care if they win or survive, especially not right now. They just want revenge.” Theory turned her head toward me. “What if they decide hurting you is the best way to get that?”
She looked so serious, her expression all concerned and earnest. The feeling in my chest eased, softened. There weren’t a lot of people in this world who worried about me. Apparently, my wife did. I brushed a curl away from her face.
“Milaya,” I coaxed.
She crossed her arms over her chest as she kissed her teeth. “I’m serious.”
“Moya lyubimaya,” I murmured, uncrossing those arms and pulling her into me.
She resisted. “No. No sweet talk. What if—”
“It won’t happen.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t know that.”
“Actually, I can.”
She made a skeptical sound. I kissed her forehead, then I settled back against the pillows, holding her next to me.
“I delayed the shit because I was gone. Siberia complicated things.”
She scoffed. “You think? Maybe a little.”
“A lot,” I admitted.
That earned me the tiniest smile, but it faded quickly.
“There was another reason, too.”
Her eyes found mine. “What?”
I shrugged. “Honestly?”
“I know this is going to shock you, but that’s usually how answers work.”
I ignored that. “I wanted to end that nigga in a way that people would use as an example when they described torture or gruesome deaths.”
Theory stared at me. I stared right back.
Then she groaned. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You have the nerve to claim that I’m so dramatic?”
I shrugged. “I’m Russian.”
“That is not an excuse.”
“It absolutely is.”
She shook her head. I gave her a half smile before my expression sobered.
“For a long time, I imagined how it would happen. Lying on that bunk, I pictured taking his bitch ass apart piece by piece.” My hand went to the hem of her nightshirt, brushed against the evidence of his brutality toward her.
“I wanted him to understand exactly why he was dying. I wanted him to know that hurting you was the worst mistake he ever made.”
Theory swallowed. “Baby—”
I rubbed my thumb across her plump lips, silencing her as I kissed her temple.
“But I’m done waiting.”
That got her full attention. “Targen.”
“Nah. I told you that you don’t carry worry or fear anymore. So, it will be handled. I’ve been working on it anyway.”
A long silence passed between us. Then she asked the question she really wanted answered.
“When?”
“Soon enough that you can stop worrying. I’m going to take care of it.”
She studied me another second. Then she nodded like she saw the truth, the promise in my eyes. Her head returned to my chest. I wrapped both arms around her and pulled her closer. A few minutes later, her breathing finally began to slow.
“Targen?”
“Hmm?”
“Moya lyubimaya… Sergei calls Ms. Joia that. What does it mean?” she asked drowsily.
“It means ‘my beloved,’” I whispered.
A sleepy smile tilted her lips.
“Better take yo’ ass to sleep. My granny making me a plum tart tomorrow,” she murmured.
My brow wrinkled. “Why I gotta go to sleep for that?”
She rose a little bit. “Who you think gon’ help me pick ‘em?”
Mimicking her, I kissed my teeth. “Lies you tell,” I said, voice pitched high.
“Please,” she said, not worried at all. “We just need a few ripe ones. But ooh, the green ones. You ever had a green one with a little salt? That shit so good!”
“You up here eating unripe fruit? I done married a country bumpkin, for real!”
“Country bumpkin? You ain’t worried about that when you be bumping them hips against this country ass,” she popped off.
“Speaking of, let me bump that luscious thang right now,” I growled, grabbing one generous cheek and squeezing.
“Lies you tell,” she threw back at me, then giggled.
Until I proceeded to make those giggles turn into passionate moans and fevered pleas. Afterward, the tension left her body piece by piece. Sleep was winning because she believed me. My wife trusted me, worried about me…
Loved me. I took that seriously, would betray it for nothing.
I stared into the darkness above us for a long time before I closed my eyes, too, one word on repeat inside my head.
Soon.