10. Daphne
10
I think I’m reaching max capacity for dealing with overwhelming things. I’ve just given birth. Became a mother. Had my child kidnapped from me. And, yes, returned safe and sound, but there’s no getting rid of the nightmares for a while.
And now…
Married?
Married.
Pasha wants us to get married.
One thing at a time. I really need to just focus on and digest one massive lifetime milestone at a time. Breathe.
Pasha opens the door to the penthouse and ushers me inside. I try to ignore the way my heart squeezes as I pass him, or the way he holds Taty’s carrier with such ease.
Like he’s handling all this so much better than I am.
“I’ll go set her down,” he says as he closes the door behind us. “You get comfortable. Your smoothie is in the kitchen.”
“My smoothie?” I don’t know if I want to leave Taty alone, but I shake off that thought. That fear.
She’s not alone. She’s with her father. You know, the man who brought her back?
Just as he said, there’s a fresh smoothie on the kitchen island. My favorite “very berry” flavor, too. He must have called ahead and had one of the guards deliver this while we were filling out discharge paperwork at the hospital.
I have to admit, being back in a familiar setting is starting to calm me.
No, not just “familiar.” At some point along the way, this place really did become my home. This became my kitchen, and that’s my living room around the corner. That’s my blender. My toaster. My stool at the counter.
Home.
I take my smoothie with me as I wander through the penthouse, trying to follow the sounds of Pasha cooing and babbling with Taty. I find them in the master bedroom; he’s changing her diaper on a beautiful changing table tucked in the corner.
“Hey.” I try to softly announce my presence in the doorway so I don’t startle either of them. “Where’re the pain meds? I think I’m due to take some.”
Please, God, let it be time to take some.
I think I’m recovering—physically—pretty well. But walking while stitches hold my vagina together isn’t the most pleasant experience.
Pasha nods at the drink in my hand. “Already covered.”
“Huh?” I glance down.
“In your smoothie. Dom picked up your prescription and I had him add them to your smoothie. They’re crushed and blended so you don’t have to taste them.”
There goes my heart again. Doing stupid things like squeezing and yearning for him.
“Oh. Thank you.”
He shrugs. “I know you don’t like popping pills, so…” He finishes zipping Taty up in a fresh onesie and scoops her up.
She looks so tiny in his hands. So small and fragile, and watching her only makes me more furious with the people I once knew as my parents. How could they? To her?
“I should go unpack.” I focus my gaze at the smoothie. “Which guest room do you want me to use?”
“None of them.”
Nausea coils low in my gut. “Oh.” I force myself to glance up at him. Just to ask where it is I’m supposed to go.
But then I notice my pajamas.
On the bed.
His bed.
No… our bed.
“If you’ll give me a second to put her down, I’ll help you get that on.” Pasha presses a kiss to Taty’s brow before easing her into the bassinet. Once she seems like she’s not going to worm her way out of her blankets, he saunters around the bed over to me.
“I can manage?—”
“I’m sure you can. But you’re still recovering.” He takes the hem of my shirt and slowly, carefully eases it up my waist. “Nothing wrong with getting a little help.”
I don’t know how to respond. Except for crying, and I feel like I’ve been doing that a lot these past few days. So I simply lift my arms and allow him to peel my shirt off.
“Turn around.”
I do as he says. Within seconds, he unlatches my nursing bra and slides it down my arms.
This… this is hotter than it should be. His fingers lightly dance along my skin with every move, helping me step out of my sweatpants, gesturing for me to put my arms back up.
I want him.
I’m not allowed to have him.
I want to believe he’s resisting as much as I am. That his breath is hitching in his throat as he fights off temptation to caress my breasts whenever his fingers skim the sides.
But soon enough, the long sleep shirt is on and Pasha walks away to go check on something in the bathroom. I ease myself over to the bassinet to check on Taty. She’s sound asleep, her breath soft and steady.
One of these days, I’m going to get over the wonder of how she came from me.
Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just watch her sleep all the way through her teen years and continue to marvel at how someone so beautiful, so wonderful, so perfect could be a part of my world.
I sip on my smoothie as I eventually wander out into the living room. It’s blessedly quiet here. No dings or pings or alarm bells to wake me up in the middle of the night. The couch is soft, so much softer and better than the hospital bed made of sheet rock.
I need a nap.
Right here will suffice. Because I’m not moving an inch. I’m too tired. Too worn. The pain meds haven’t quite kicked in and I just… Fuck. I’m just gonna lay down.
Of course, that is when the front door bursts wide open.
“Don’t mind us!” Mak announces as he shoulders his way inside, carrying what looks like a truckload of suitcases and bags. “Just getting Mama settled in.”
“Wha…?”
“Me first! I’m first!” Sofi shoves past him and adds her coat to his pile. “I get baby snuggles first!”
“I’m literally holding everything but the kitchen sink! That’s not fair and you know it!”
“Don’t be such a baby! Your niece doesn’t whine half as much!”
Mak glowers after his sister. Then sees me on the couch and flashes me his signature lopsided grin. “Heya, sista. How’s it hangin’?”
I snort a tired laugh. “Not as bad as I thought. These stitches are keeping everything together, thank God.”
It takes a minute for him to realize what I’m referring to, and when he does, the look on his face is absolutely worth it. He decides dragging everything to the guest room is better than visualizing my lady bits “hangin’” and leaves me to chuckle to myself on the couch.
The door swings open again. Asya is far less boisterous than her children when she enters, but I don’t know if that’s on purpose or because she’s too busy blowing kisses to whoever’s on the phone with her. I don’t speak her language, but I’m pretty sure she just told them she loves them and will see them later.
“Daphne, malyshka.” She sets her purse down by the growing pile of shoes at the door. “I am so sorry to wake you! I’ll have a talk with my shumnyye deti,” she adds with a pointed stare in the direction of the master bedroom where Sof and Mak went.
“You didn’t wake me. I was just about to lie down, is all.” I smile at her as she sits next to me and takes my hand in hers.
“As you should. Rest is so important right now so you can recover.” Asya leans forward to half-whisper, “If Tatyanna’s anything like her father, I’m betting that big head did a number down there.”
Oh my God. I try so hard not to snort in Pasha’s mother’s face. “Really? Pasha?”
“Bozhe moy, I thought I gave birth to a literal genius, what with how big his head was! Seventeen stitches and only vodka for painkillers. That, and lots of sleep.” She squeezes my hand. “Which is why I’m here. You get your rest while I get settled in.”
It’s my turn to feel a bit warm in the face. “I know you mentioned it back at the hospital, but I still… I guess I don’t understand. Why…?”
How do I ask her why she’s doing all this without sounding rude?
“Why am I here to be your temporary live-in housekeeper, nanny, and chef?” Asya tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “It is how we do things, malyshka. We support our family. You don’t have family to support you, so here we are.”
“I get that part. I just…” I sigh. “I guess I wasn’t expecting so much help. Definitely not from my parents.”
Fuck. My voice just cracked with emotions I don’t have the energy to feel.
“I know. And…” She hesitates. We both glance up to see Pasha making his way over to us, followed by his sister, who is gushing with pride at her baby niece asleep in her arms. Asya’s smile tightens in the corners as she watches them. “I know what it’s like to not get any help. It’s painful. It’s lonely.”
“Your parents weren’t around?”
She sighs. “Kostya—my husband—took me far, far away from everyone and everything I ever knew and loved. My parents were back in Russia, and his were too busy traveling to make time for me. Kostya… he did not want anything to do with babies. ‘Women’s work,’ he called it.”
“That’s so strange. I mean, considering how amazingly helpful Pasha’s been.”
His own smile is tight, more for show for his mother than what he’s actually feeling. He walked in right when Asya mentioned his father, and that made him tense up. I don’t know much—or really, anything, about the man—but I’ll hazard a guess that he wasn’t a great guy.
Asya bitterly scoffs. “Like I said, Kostya didn’t want anything to do with me or my babies when each of them were born. He swore up and down that Pasha wasn’t even his. It was several years before he let that tirade go.”
There’s a sadness in Asya’s eyes as she talks about her past. I don’t know all the details, and something tells me I really don’t want to know and shouldn’t pry.
“I’m so grateful you’re here, really,” I say instead. “I just don’t want to be a burden. You have your own life, and I don’t want to take away from that.”
“You’re never a burden, malyshka. You need to take care of yourself, and we’re here to give you the time to do so.”
I don’t know if it’s because I’m so sleep-deprived, or hormonal, or just plain emotional, but all this is becoming overwhelming for me. Their kindness is more than I’ve ever received from family, save for maybe Melanie. But even she couldn’t drop everything to care for my every need—and why would she?
This isn’t about Melanie. This is you not knowing what it’s like to have a real mother.
You don’t know what it’s like to be loved by a real mother.
“Would you mind? If I…” I gesture to the bedroom, unable and unwilling to force any more words through the lump lodging itself in my throat.
“Want a bath?” Pasha asks me, his hand on the small of my back as he helps me up and into the bedroom. “I’ll draw one for you.”
“I can manage.”
“Come.” He nudges me into the bathroom, then shuts the door. “You deserve a hot bath before a long nap.”
“No, I totally agree.” I yawn. “I’m just saying, I can do it myself.”
“I know.” He completely ignores me and turns the bath faucet on. It’s a jetted tub, too. God, I need that.
But then I suddenly remember—I’m a mother, now. I have a baby to care for. I have a baby I need to protect. “I can’t! I can’t, I gotta—I need to—Taty needs me!” I spin on my heels and rush for the door.
Pasha blocks me at the last second. “Taty’s fine. She’s with her aunt and uncle and grandmother. There are also three men at the front door and half a dozen more downstairs. She is safe, Daphne. She is okay.”
I guess he has a point. I just… “I don’t want her to feel abandoned. Or neglected.”
“You can’t care for her if you don’t care for yourself, Daphne. Now, enough arguing. Let’s get this off you.”
He starts to tease up the hem of my shirt, but I grab his wrist to stop him.
“I can do it. You can go.”
“Daphne.” His voice is much closer to my ear now. His breath is warm as it fans over my neck. He pries my fingers off my sleep shirt and holds my hands in his, half-holding me from behind. “You don’t need to hide from me.”
“But I’m…” Ugly. Fat. Flabby. Covered in stretch marks.
“You’re crazy if you think I’m not attracted to you anymore. That one look at you is going to scare me off.” He eases my shirt back up and presses his hand over my stomach. “You gave birth to my child. Our child. That’s incredible.”
Why does this man make me cry so much? I blink back the tears as best as I can and pray he doesn’t see them.
The way he touches me, so gently and carefully with my sleep shirt and then my panties… I can’t equate this tenderness with the same man who storms off in fury. Who literally kills people for a living. They’re two completely separate entities, and I wish so much that the Pasha helping me into the tub would stay forever.
I know he won’t, though.
I know that this is all for show. For his child’s sake, not for mine.
So I sink into the warm water the same way I wish I could sink and hide away from him. From the way he’s looking at me, all heat and desire mixed with pity.
It’s not like he loves me.
Not anymore.
I curl up in the tub, hugging my knees to my chest. “I’m not… I’m not comfortable being away from Taty this long.”
It’s true. Paired with the fact that my flabby, naked body is being stared at, my anxiety is through the roof.
Pasha pulls out his phone, taps a few buttons, and hands it to me.
It’s a camera feed. Directly into the master bedroom and focused squarely on her bassinet.
“Swipe left.”
I do, and suddenly see that there’s another camera in a different room. Her nursery, I realize, with the crib and rocker and toys she’s too young to play with.
Another swipe, another room. In this one, Makari is bouncing Taty in his arms and feathering kisses to her cheeks.
“There’s audio, too,” Pasha explains. He takes back his phone and tucks it into his pocket. “Would you feel better if I set a monitor up in here?”
“Would you?” I don’t know how I’m gonna take showers with my eyes glued to a screen, but I’ll figure something out. “Do they make them waterproof?”
“They make them however I want them. It’s my tech, my company.” He leans in closer and strokes my cheek with a finger. “And you are my family, plamya. Say the word, and I’ll give you whatever you need to feel safe.”
You. That’s what I need.
But I don’t tell him that. I don’t feel entitled to it.
“Got anything to make me feel pretty again?” I joke bitterly, rolling my eyes. Whatever I need to do to deflect. Ignore the ache in my heart.
But Pasha doesn’t help with that at all. Instead of leaning into my self-deprecating humor, he reaches for the sea sponge, dips it into the water, wrings it out, and starts rubbing it over my back.
“You’re beautiful as you are.” His voice is warm, but firm. Like this is an order I need to listen to without arguing. “Your body is beautiful. Nothing changes that. Nothing ever will.”
I don’t respond. I just sit there and let him wash me.