Chapter 18
I wait until Liliya is asleep before sneaking out of bed and walking downstairs for a glass of water.
I down it in seconds, refill the glass, and leave the kitchen. Taking the glass with me, I walk around my home—something I haven’t done in years.
My father infected this home when he moved in forty years ago.
Even after his death, the evil lingered like a ghost, the dark memories kept hostage between these walls.
I stop when I reach the library and flip on the light. It flickers a few times before the chandelier brightens the room. I walk across the room, and the old leather office chair squeaks under my weight as I sit behind the desk. Leaning back, I close my eyes, cursing this room and my father.
A sound breaks the silence, and I snap upright, just in time to find Liliya trying to sneak past the doorway.
“What did I tell you about spying?” I call out.
I hear footsteps, and then she peeks into the room.
“Technically,” she says, drawing out the word, “you only warned me against eavesdropping.”
She enters the library, inviting herself in. Her hair is tangled and knotty, like she was fighting with the pillow all night.
“Am I allowed in here if you are?” she asks, running her hand along a bookshelf before whipping around to face me. “Hey, is there some secret bookshelf that leads to a hidden room?” Stopping again, she pouts her lower lip before pointing toward me. “Though I doubt you’d tell me if there was.”
My new wife is a rambler.
She can’t ever seem to keep up with her thoughts.
I massage my temples, ignoring her.
“This library is beautiful.” She glances around, taking the room in. “Did you read in here when you were growing up?”
I shake my head. “My sister did before my father took it over as his work office.”
She raises a brow. “Are you not a reader?”
“I can read. I didn’t have time to read as a hobby.”
“What did you do instead?”
“I’m sure my father raised me similarly to how yours did Aleksy.”
She snaps her mouth shut for a moment before saying, “Oh,” in understanding. Her face softens as she peers down at the floor, as if searching for her next words but struggling to come up with them.
While Liliya and I grew up somewhat differently, we share many similarities in the sense of how children are raised according to their sex and the ranks of their fathers. We’re put through hell to find our weaknesses, and then they use those against us.
I’m thankful for her moment of silence.
Unsurprisingly, it’s only temporary.
“You grew up in this home?” She sits on the same sofa I kicked her off days ago, staring at me with deep, prying yet tired eyes.
I nod, providing the simplest answer I can.
“Was the home passed down through generations?”
“My mother’s family. She grew up here.” I motion toward the room. “Her father built the library for my grandmother, who loved to read. She and my mother would spend hours in here. My mom did the same with my sister until it became his office.”
My father took this special place away from them.
The fucker ruined our family in so many ways that I’ll never forgive him for.
She drums her fingers along the armrest. “Will this become your office now?”
“Fuck no,” I huff out.
“Do you have an office somewhere else?”
“Lucky Kings.”
“The casino?”
I nod, forgetting that my wife really doesn’t know much about me. The people I normally surround myself with already know these things. I don’t want anyone else to know where I come from or what I’m up to.
“Is that office your only one?” she questions.
I nod. “I’m not much of a sit-behind-the-desk kind of man.” My response is ironic, given that’s exactly what I’m doing at the moment.
“What kind of man are you, Emilio?”
“One who likes variety.”
She glowers, as if that were a personal insult.
“Monotony and I aren’t friends,” I go on, surprised at myself. “I usually bring my laptop and work in different places.”
She’s still staring, untrusting. “By variety, you mean for work. Correct? Otherwise, those words aren’t something a new bride wants to hear from her husband.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?” she fires back before standing.
She walks to the bar cart in the corner, where a lone bottle of whiskey sits. Grabbing it, she blows off the dust and holds it up. “How old is this thing?”
I shrug. “Not sure.”
“Want a drink?”
“Nah. I’m good.” I motion toward the bottle. “Have at it yourself.”
“Eh, I’m okay.” She returns the bottle to its place. “I only drink when I’m nervous.”
“Yes, I learned that at the reception dinner.”
“Otherwise, I’m not much of a drinker.” She sighs before slumping down on the couch. “My father liked the bottle a little too much. I saw the destruction alcohol caused from a young age.”
“Same.” I chug the rest of my water, wishing it’d give me a buzz that liquor does.
Maybe I should’ve accepted that drink.
She pulls her legs up on the couch. “What did your father do when he got drunk?”
I’m quiet for a moment.
Her question is personal.
Too fucking personal.
My wife is trying to get to know me. The opposite of what I want.
I sullenly stare straight ahead at her. “He used to beat my mother.”
She winces at my honesty before releasing a deep breath.
“My father didn’t put his hands on my mother.
I’m sure that’s only because he knew Yaroslav would kill him for it.
To get his anger out, he’d break things.
Our belongings, never his.” She shuts her eyes, as if reliving the memories.
“He didn’t beat us with his fist, but he was violent with his words. ”
I nod in too much understanding.
My father always threw out harsh words with every violent punishment.
Liliya picks at her nails, glancing down at her lap.
“Every month, we’d have to replace TVs and remotes from his anger fits.
It was so weird that after his death, we didn’t have to buy a new TV for three years.
” Her eyes grow heavy. “I’ve forgotten so many things about my father—his voice, his favorite things—but I’ll remember that about him until the day I die. ”
A combo of anger and sadness—an emotion I rarely feel—whips through me. I clench my fist, pissed that my wife had to endure that. I plant my feet on the ground to stop myself from standing and wrapping her in my arms.
We can’t have that.
This needs to be a loveless marriage.
“Was your father a rat?” I ask, needing to change the subject.
“I have no idea. Yaroslav told us that and expected us to believe him, so that’s what we did.” She pushes tangles of hair away from her face. “How’d your father die?” The question leaves her mouth slowly.
I pause, deciding how truthful I want to be with her.
“He was murdered at a strip club.” I lean back in my chair, a there you have it expression crossing my features.
Her eyes widen in shock. “Who murdered him?”
I scratch the side of my head. “I don’t know.”
She knows I’m lying.
Her shoulders tense, and her gaze slips to the doorway.
“I didn’t do it,” I quickly say to put her at ease before muttering, “Sometimes, I wish I had though.”
There’s an urge to tell her more, but I stop myself.
She may be a Lastro now, but she has Morozova blood. Her father was possibly a rat. She’s also tried to run from me numerous times. She can know some of my past, but never all of it.
She smiles at me. “Thank you for opening up to me.”
I grab my father’s Montblanc pen and point at her with it. “Now, please stop googling me. Half of what you read is lies, and the other half will give you nightmares. It’s in your best interest not to know all my demons.”
She crosses her arms. “Speaking of that, how’d you get into my computer?”
I drop the pen and stand. “Never question my ability to find out information. Now, let’s get you back to bed—again.”
She thankfully listens, and I take a once-over of the library before shutting the light off. My cock hardens as I follow her upstairs.
I’m not sure if she’s doing it to fuck with me, but with each step, she sways her hips. I bite into my lip, watching her ass jiggle in my face. I inhale deep breaths, telling myself not to bend her over the stair railing and fuck her from behind.
I thought I didn’t want to desire my wife.
But the more I’m around Liliya, the more I want to touch her.
Fuck her.
Own her.