27. Pasha
27
“For the last time, Daphne: she’ll be fine,” I say. “You, on the other hand, have been climbing the walls. Go get dressed.”
“I have not!”
“Have, too,” Mak and Sofi retort in unison.
She may not be noticing it, but the rest of us sure have. All the meticulous dusting of nooks and crannies that were just wiped down ten minutes ago. One daily pot of coffee that’s turned into two, then three. Her leg never stops bouncing.
“You should take this opportunity to breathe fresh air.” Mak gives her a stern look and nods toward our bedroom. “Listen to your husband. Or he’s going to carry you out the front door just like I’m carrying the little one.”
He switches Taty from one arm to the other, then turns and follows Sofi into the kitchen.
When they’re gone, Daphne gives me a pleading look. I don’t even give her the dignity of pretending it’ll sway me. “Go back into the bedroom and put on what I left out for you,” I order. “Or I’ll do exactly what he said and carry you out regardless of what you are or are not wearing.”
The temptation to hoist her over my shoulder in nothing but a bra and panties is tempting. But I leave her with the threat and step into the bathroom to change my own outfit.
The door remains open, but I will myself not to peek as Daphne strips. If I look, we’re never going to get out of this damn bedroom.
“Are you sure about this?” she calls.
“We need to be normal, Daph. It’s important. We have a life outside of being parents, outside of work.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
She doesn’t sound happy about it. But when I step back into the bedroom, we’re both presented with a very interesting problem.
“You look incredible,” she purrs.
“Likewise.”
Buttery soft denim hugs every inch of her legs, from her ankles to the dip in her waist. It accentuates her perfect ass, and my gaze slides effortlessly down to the sexy heels she slipped on.
Goddamn, I’d forgotten how good she looks in heels.
It’s the sweater that’s gonna do me in, though. Off-the-shoulder, with just a tiny, tantalizing glimpse at her lacy bralette.
And since she’s still riding on the hormones of motherhood, that bralette has got to be just barely covering her breasts.
It’d shred so easily, I think to myself. If I could just get my hands on her for one second…
When she passes by me to grab something from one of the bathroom cabinets, I can smell that she sprayed her hair with perfume.
I make a quick mental calculation as to how much bail might be needed for our public indecency charges. Because I’m going to fuck this woman somewhere, at some point, before we make it back home.
“Pasha?”
“Hm?” I pretend to not notice the way she’s gazing at me in the mirror. With fire in her eyes and plump lips slightly parted.
“Please feel free to wear that shirt more often.”
I chuckle. “Corporate dress code policy would frown on that.”
“I don’t care. You want more babies? I wanna see you wearing that more often.”
That has me grabbing her wrist to pull her to me. This woman, my woman, is playing with fire. “Ask and you shall receive.” I dip my head to nibble on her ear right where I know she’s the most sensitive. “Now, we need to go. Unless you want my siblings to hear the way you scream when you come.”
She presses her hand to my stomach. “I think you’re right. We need to behave.” Her lashes flutter low. “For now.”
Fuck.
These jeans suddenly feel too tight.
I’m suddenly having second thoughts about grabbing these ice cream cones on the boardwalk after dinner.
Not because they’re bad. It’s just a certain kind of torture watching my wife lick the cream.
Slowly. Sensually. And in such an innocent way, because she isn’t looking at me at all while I watch her savor it.
“You’re right,” she says between licks. “We needed this. Normal. Casual.” She gazes out over the water and sighs. “It’s really beautiful here.”
I take her left hand in my right, toying with my rings on her finger. “Still not as beautiful as you.”
That lovely shade of pink crawls up her neck to her cheekbones. “You’re just saying that because I’m wearing exactly what you wanted.”
“Not at all. You’re beautiful without anything on.” I grin as I watch her grow even pinker. “It’s just particularly arousing to see you walking around in something I chose for you. It’s like you’re wearing me. You know I love it when you’re covered in me.”
Her tongue flicks over her top lip to catch a droplet of cream. I’m so tempted to lick the next stray drip myself. “Sir. Sir. We are in public.”
“And? Is that not the point? People need to see us in public. They need to see us enjoying life as a married couple.”
They need to see how much you mean to me—just in case anyone gets any ideas about fucking with our family.
Daphne finishes her ice cream, looking me in the eyes as she does. She knows exactly what she’s doing to me, the wicked woman.
“Who is this ‘they’?” Daphne asks. “I feel like I should get to know all the players in this crazy world we live in.”
“Oh, you never know,” I reply. “Paparazzi. Police. Crazy exes.”
She snorts and rolls her eyes. “Like Paris?”
“Paris is not an ex.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
When did this suddenly become an interrogation? “Sleep was not involved.”
“Did your body parts end up inside her body parts?”
“Yes.”
“Then she’s your ex.”
“There was no relationship.”
“For you.”
I want to argue, but she has a fair point. Paris has been emailing me relentlessly, begging me for a second chance at her job and whatever else she thought she had with me.
The last response I sent her was a screenshot of our formal wedding announcement, attached to a cease and desist notice drafted by my lawyers. All subsequent emails from her—including the ones begging me to call her and explain—are now automatically forwarded to the legal team.
“Fair enough.” I’m also giving her the win in this debate because I’d count any man who touched her before me as an ex. Just the thought of any man touching her makes me bristle. I shudder and pull Daphne closer to me. “It’s also for the feds.”
Her brow arches. “Oh? Worried that they’re snooping around?”
“Not at all. That’s the point. They get worried when I’m not worried. It makes them think I’m up to something they should be looking into.”
She glances up at me. “Are you? Up to something, I mean?”
I smirk. “I’m always up to something.”
It’s good for us to have this little talk, somewhat vague as it is, because it’s part of the life she’s now living with me. I always have something in play. I’m always moving in the shadows.
“Can I ask you something?” She looks up at me inquisitively. “Why do you do it? Your, ah… your work?”
“I was born into it.”
“Well, yeah. But no one says you have to stay in it.”
“Does it bother you that I do?” I meet her gaze. This is important. This is the perfect time for her to be honest with me.
Daphne thinks about it, head tilted to one side. “Honestly? No.” Her eyes find mine again. “Did you expect me to say yes? To be bothered by a life I married into?”
“I expected you to have more questions, if nothing else.”
“Well, I do. But I’m trusting you to tell me more when you’re ready.”
I stop our strolling and turn her to fully face me, cupping her face in my hand. I want to say something. But everything that comes to mind feels like it would break the beauty of this moment. So I simply smile and kiss her instead.
When I pull away, I feel a thrill at hearing her need to catch her breath.
“I used to ask myself those same questions, you know. About staying where I was born. And I tried—briefly. But I got dragged back. Responsibility to my family and all. It was my mother, mostly. And then my siblings.”
“I remember her mentioning they had a hard time.”
“Shit hit the fan. Mama was collateral damage. Mak and Sofi… If she couldn’t care for them, who would?”
“I’m guessing you didn’t have any grandparents to step in.”
“No. Her parents were still in Russia and in no shape to help us. Kostya’s parents were dead.”
This time, I don’t have to pull her close. She hugs my arm and leans into me. “I can tell you didn’t have a close relationship with your grandparents. I’m sorry.”
I wave it off. “What about you? Any grandparents in your life growing up?”
She shrugs. “For a short while. My maternal grandparents were already gone by the time I was born, but Stewart’s parents were still around for a few years.”
“You don’t mention them much.”
“That’s the fun part. You know that saying, ‘Shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations’? My grandfather would say that to me all the time. He grew up poor and made his life into something better, for himself and his family. But his son wasn’t as careful.”
Stewart Hamish was never someone I’d apply the word “careful” to. Not even when he still worked for Chekhov International. “I can believe that.”
Daphne nods. “Right. So my grandfather lived simply. He and my grandmother, who died when I was really little. Going to their house, going out to eat with them… you’d never know they were multimillionaires. He tried to convince my parents to slow down, preserve their wealth and all that, but… well, you know.”
I do know. We’re both here because of it.
Which is not something I’ve ever taken into consideration before. The litany of fuck-ups from the Hamishes, the Clearys, and all my other enemies… It all led to right here, right now.
A peaceful stroll under the stars with the most beautiful woman I could ever dream of having as my wife. While our equally beautiful daughter is pampered in our warm home.
It’s the opposite of how we met, turning art to ashes.
This is turning ashes to art.
“Hey. Come here.”
Daphne glances around, looking for whatever made me stop where we are and turn her to me again.
In reality, it’s nothing. I just want this moment with her.
“Lev.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and hold it out for our trailing shadow to take. “Take some pictures for us.”
Lev steps up from his respectful distance, quirks the tiniest smile, and nods. “Of course, sir.”
“Oh, no.” Daphne shakes her head and tries to hide in my chest. “No. I am not—no. Take some pictures of this handsome guy, but leave me out!”
“Why on earth would I leave you out?” I turn her back around but keep her wrapped up in my arms. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
“I’m not in shape. My stomach?—”
“Is the best part about you.” I grab her hand when she tries to cover up her stomach, lacing my fingers with hers. “Among so many, many, many other perfect parts.”
She sighs, but I feel her lean into me. “You’re just saying that to get me in bed later.”
“I’d ask if it’s working, but you and I both know I don’t have to say a damn word to get you in bed,” I growl. “I’m saying it because it’s true. You are so fucking beautiful, Daphne. And the reminders of how we made our daughter only make you that much more so.”
Daphne turns her head to look at me. She’s so vulnerable and unsure. That’s fine—I’ll kiss and fondle and fuck the truth into her until she accepts it.
And then I’ll keep kissing and fondling and fucking reminders into her until the day I die.
For now, out in the open, I settle for kissing her. Slowly. Lovingly. Tenderly.
“Mr. Chekhov,” she breathes when we reluctantly break the kiss, “you do make a sound argument.”
Lev is grinning—an unusual sight to see on his face—as he hands me back my phone. I flip through the photos. My favorite of the batch?
I’m whispering something to her, a grin on my face, as she laughs.
We’re happy.
We’re real.