23. Laila
23
LAILA
“Evelyn, can we give her more pain medication?” I dab Mom’s forehead with the wet towel, but she just moans. No matter how many pillows I wedge around her or how many times I wet this stupid towel, she just writhes. “She needs something.”
Evelyn looks as helpless as I feel. “I can’t give her any more today. She’s already had the max dosage.”
“Has she been like this all day?”
She nods, that detached professionalism taking over as she dims the lights. “The doctors said this would happen, Laila. She’ll have good days and bad. Hopefully, tomorrow will be better.”
I take her hand. Her palm is clammy. “Mom? Can you hear me?”
Her eyes flutter behind closed lids, but they’ve been doing that for hours. There’s no sign she even knows I’m here.
“She needs rest right now,” Evelyn advises gently. “It’s not a bad idea for you, either, honey. Go eat something. You’ve been here all day.”
The sad part is that I’m not sure I’ve been here all day just for Mom.
Really, I’ve been hiding.
Had to, ever since I woke up from the best night of sleep I’ve had in years—only to find myself curled against Arsen’s side.
I told him I didn’t want him in my room or in my bed, and yet, I woke up stuck to him like a horny barnacle. I couldn’t face him, couldn’t face that, so I slipped out of bed and skulked around the far corners of the house until he left.
“I’m not hungry.”
“When are you ever?” Evelyn gives me a sad smile. “I’m paid to take care of your mother, but I’ll give you some advice free of charge: that baby wants you to eat, even if you don’t.”
“But—”
“Go, darling,” she insists, waving me with both hands towards the door. “I’ll take care of your momma. You take care of yourself.”
I sigh and slump to the kitchen because there’s nothing else to do. I pick lifelessly at a plate of cheese, crackers, and fruit until the door opens and Gedeon strolls in.
“Hey, you. Whatcha up to?”
“Trying to find a way to feel less useless.”
He glances down the hallway towards Mom’s room. “How’s she doing?”
“Not good. It’s been a bad day.”
“Maybe we can get Dr. Gray or Dr. Daniel?—”
“I called them both already. They told me to make her as comfortable as possible.”
He falls silent, and I know he’s trying to come up with a solution. Arsen, Dominik, Gedeon—they’re all the same. Men of action. They’ve never met a problem they can’t solve. Until now.
Good luck beating up cancer, gentlemen. I wish you well in your efforts to intimidate her pancreas into proper working order.
“Have you told Arsen?” asks Gedeon.
“What is he gonna be able to do that the best doctors in the country haven’t?”
“He could be there for you,” he says softly. “You need someone to talk to.”
Out of all the things I thought he’d say, that never crossed my mind. Mostly because it’s patently absurd.
“Arsen doesn’t want to talk to me about my dying mom. He barely wanted me to move her here. She’s my consolation prize for agreeing to be imprisoned in this house.”
Hurt flashes across Gedeon’s face, and I feel bad. I don’t really feel like the house is a prison. Not all the time, anyway.
But before I can apologize, he clears his throat. “Arsen wants to see you. He asked me to send you to his room.”
“He’s home?” I whip around the kitchen like Arsen might be lurking behind me. “Why didn’t he just come see me himself?”
“He’s been busy.”
Gedeon won’t meet my eyes, and I’m positive there’s more to that statement than he’s letting on. Isn’t there always?
“I think he wants to give you something, if that helps,” he adds.
I narrow my eyes. “Yeah, Gedeon. I was blackmailed into a loveless marriage, but at least he calls for me like a dog and gives me little treats.”
Gedeon blows out a weary breath, like he’s as sick of my shit as I am. “It’s not like that. He’s just not used to this, Laila.”
“Not used to what? Having an adult conversation? Treating people with basic respect?”
“Marriage.”
“You’d think he’d have picked up some skills from his first rodeo.”
“He never wanted to be married to Natascha.”
“He never wanted to be married to me, either! At least he’s consistent.”
Gedeon works his jaw from side-to-side, debating something. Finally, he sighs. “I know he comes across as a brute, but I’ve known Arsen for over a decade now. Since before he went to—” He cuts himself off and clears his throat. “The point is, there’s more to him than most people can see.”
Unless Arsen is hiding like a circus clown under his many shades and layers of “douchebag,” I’m not interested.
“Where is his room?”
“You don’t know where—?” He shakes his head. “It’s right next door to yours.”
I can only sigh. Of course it is.
I head upstairs, debating all the while whether to go to his room or not. I want to ignore his request just to prove a point, but I also want to see how he lives. I’ve been snooping all around the house, but his room is the jackpot. The holy grail of “Who Is Arsen Adamov, Really?”
Deciding to be rebellious on another day, I slip through the door.
Arsen’s room is huge—twice as big as mine, at least. It has to be, to house the many dressers and shelves and cabinets lining the walls. It looks like a flea market in here.
I walk around, snooping through drawers of neatly arranged deodorant, shelves lined with toothbrushes and toothpaste, and enough fresh linens to stock a hotel.
I’m counting how many rolls of floss he has—nearing fifty—when I hear clipped footsteps out in the hall. I close the cabinet and turn to the door as he enters, his deep green eyes finding me immediately.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him all day. I realize all at once how soft he looked in sleep this morning. How relaxed.
Now, his jaw is sharp as he shoves an envelope at me. “Here.”
“What is this?”
The answer becomes obvious when I tear it open and half a dozen credit cards go clattering to the ground at my feet.
“Okay. It’s a collection of credit cards. Next question: why are you giving them to me?”
He tugs his shirt over his head. “Because you’re my wife, and you’ll need access to our accounts.”
“‘ Our accounts?’” I balk. “Since when?”
“Since I added your name to them this morning. Appearances are important, Laila. People have to think I’m taking care of you.”
I don’t point out that very few people will ever see the details of our bank accounts—mostly because he unbuttons his pants, and I lose my train of thought.
I turn to face the window, my gaze well and truly averted. “People will think this is a sham, anyway.”
“Why would they?”
“Gee, I dunno—because you found another wife the day after you lost your first one. It doesn’t exactly speak volumes about our romantic connection.”
“There was no love lost between Natascha and me. That was common knowledge.”
“So you want to convince people that this is—” I bite my lip, trying to choose my words carefully. “—a love match?”
I expect him to laugh, but he answers seriously. “That’s the idea.”
Against my better instincts, I turn towards him again, doing my best to keep my eyes north of his neck. “Why?”
“Because if they think I love you, they’ll assume I’d burn the city down to avenge you. It’ll make them think twice before they attack you.”
Ah. I get it. It’s a shield. Emotions will forever and always be a tool Arsen wields, not something he actually feels.
God, that must be nice.
“Okay, well, thanks for this gift, I guess.” I shrug. “Or whatever it is. I’m gonna go to my room.”
“I thought I made myself clear last night,” he growls. “You’re my wife. You will sleep with me.”
“Funny thing about that is, it turns out we’ve been sleeping almost on top of each other since I got here. Did you know my room is right next door? I sure didn’t.”
He was keeping me close. Toying with me before I even knew it.
I can’t let my guard down. Next thing I know, there will be locks on the outside of the doors and he’ll have the only key.
“From now on, this is your room.” He’s standing in front of me in his boxer briefs and nothing else, but he might as well be in a board meeting wearing a three-piece suit. He’s in total control.
It’s the tattoos, I tell myself. The tattoos and the scars. There’s an aura to that kind of thing.
“I know what you’re playing at, Arsen.” I step closer, eyes narrowed. “This isn’t about keeping up appearances or protecting me. You just need to feel like you can control me. The big, strong boss, telling his wife what to do, where to go.”
The vein in his jaw twitches, but he doesn’t say anything in his defense.
“Well, I’ve got news for you: I will not be controlled.”
I was going for a Hollywood-esque dramatic act of defiance, but my acting must need some work, because the words sound weak even to my ears.
The truth is, Arsen has been in control every moment since the one we met—and we both know it.
I told him I’d never accept his deal—yet here I am, eight months pregnant with his baby.
I told him I’d never move into his house—and yet my stuff is unpacked in the room next door and my mom is dying downstairs.
I told him that I would never share a bed with him—and yet I woke up with my head on his chest and my hand pressed to his abs. Abs that looked good enough to eat off of in the moment. (And in this moment, too.)
I’m fighting a losing battle.
He sighs and runs fingers through his thick hair. “It’s time to get ready for bed, roza .”
I narrow my eyes. “Oh, I will—the moment I get back to my own room.”
“Here,” he offers, moving closer, “let me help.”
I put one arm out to stop him coming too close. “Stop. Stop, drop, and roll away from me, please and thank you. Just… just back up so I can think.”
“Is it overwhelming when I’m this close to you?” His green eyes are vibrant, almost hypnotic. I swear his pupils swirl, coaxing me in closer even as I try to back away.
Yes, I answer silently. Devastatingly so.
I don’t say it out loud because I don’t have the energy for a lie.
Arsen can tell. He sees everything. “You’re obviously exhausted. If you insist on being stubborn, you’re leaving me no choice.”
“What does that?—?”
He doesn’t give me time to answer before he’s plucking one of his pristine white t-shirts from a nearby shelf with one hand—and plucking me off the ground with the other.
He’s warm and solid, and my body melts against him even as I shriek, “Let me go!”
I struggle pathetically as he rips the zipper of my dress down. I try to kick at him, but I’m too clumsy and slow and, like he said, exhausted. And he’s much too strong. Cold air engulfs my body as my dress shimmies to the floor. Only then does he let me go.
I leap out of reach, shivering in my underwear, and grab the closest pillow I can find to hold up over myself like battle armor. “If my hands weren’t occupied right now, I’d flip you off.”
He thrusts out the t-shirt. “You want to put something on? Here you go.”
“No,” I snarl sarcastically. “I wanna walk around with a pillow in front of my chest for the rest of my life.”
His hand stays extended. “You don’t have to fight everything, Laila. Some things don’t come with strings attached. Most don’t, in fact.”
“What is this?” I demand, not buying his bullshit for a second. “Some weird power move? Is this all a part of some diabolical plan? First, you knock me up. Then, you lure me into your house and coerce me into marriage. And now, you want to dress me in your clothes? Am I, like, a Barbie doll to you?”
He has the audacity to look bored. “Do you want the shirt or not?”
I ignore his question and meet his eyes. “Tell me the truth: did signing on that dotted line mean I sold my soul to the devil?”
Sighing, he drops the shirt on the floor and drifts to the window. I take the opportunity to admire the musculature of his back. He really is a work of art. “I assume I’m the devil in this scenario?”
“I’m willing to bet you’re the devil in most scenarios.”
“Now, you’re just trying to flatter me.”
A little shiver runs down my back. It’s not entirely unpleasant. “Arsen?—”
“It’s been a long day, Laila. Sleep in your clothes, my clothes—in the nude, for all I care.” He turns halfway and his eyes trail down my body, leaving heat everywhere they graze. I get the idea he can see straight through the pillow I’m still clutching as cover. “It doesn’t matter to me. But you will sleep in this room.”
I look around the room for some kind of escape. The sofa in the corner will do. “I’ll take the couch.”
I expect him to argue, but Arsen just shrugs. “So be it. More room for me.”
Then he tugs the blinds closed, slips into bed, and shuts his eyes.
I stand there, uncertain, unthinking, weary to the bone in ways I didn’t know I could even be weary. The pillow in my hands is lukewarm with my body heat, and I’ve never felt more vulnerable.
A flash of amused green. Arsen’s eyes, shining in the dark. “Would you like me to move over or are you still throwing a fit?”
I stomp away from him, snatching his shirt off the floor as I go. The moment I sink into the couch cushions, the lamp on Arsen’s bedside table goes off.
I lie in the dark for a long time before I finally give into the exhaustion.
This sleep isn’t as good as last night’s, though.
It’s too lonely for that.