Chapter 28
ALINA
M rs. Pavel Ivanova.
I was Mrs. Ivanova.
Married.
I was married.
Married!
The words repeated over and over in my head, and they still didn't sound real.
Two weeks in, and I still couldn't believe it.
Probably because, in many ways, nothing had changed.
I was still being held as a prisoner in the penthouse, only able to have access to the computer and talk to Grandma when Pavel was here and he allowed it.
He had never told me no unless he was heading out the door, but still.
The desire to see her, to hug her and let her gush over the pearls that Pavel had someone collect and restring, gnawed at me constantly.
I was still under guard and not allowed to leave, or go into the office, or do anything that required contact with the outside world.
He saw I was going stir-crazy, and he would whisper in my ear that as soon as he knew he could trust me, I would have more freedom.
What did that even look like?
A kid's e-reader that didn't have a web browser but which he could download approved books on?
Would he take me out and walk me twice a day like a dog?
It was frustrating, and I was losing hope that it would ever be different.
Then a week ago he started letting me have visitors.
Fortunately, the second they were given the green light, Yelena, Nadia, Samara, Viktoria, and Marina visited often.
And they brought something even better.
Work. A purpose I could focus on.
They enjoyed keeping me busy with the financial documents and legal paperwork for their gallery. I considered it a win.
It was almost enough to feel like a job. It gave me something to pour my energy into. My days were consumed with optimizing their businesses, setting up better accounting software, formalizing payroll, and negotiating better vendor agreements.
Marina was working on adding a small coffee shop and café to the gallery, something simple where artists could hang to get inspired, or people could chat over coffee while they decided which pieces would look best in their home or office .
That gave me plenty to work on—permits, food vendor licenses, and even a local roaster, tea house and bakery to supply the signature food and drink.
We were even looking at setting up a few appointments to try the coffee before Marina would decide who to go with.
Not that I'd be allowed to go with them.
No one brought up how I wasn't allowed to leave.
No one said a thing about my having to use Viktoria's computer and not having one of my own to work on. Not even a single eye was batted when I said I couldn't work on this when they weren't there.
It was like they understood and respected the boundaries that Pavel had set.
Which was both a relief and grated on my nerves.
How was this normal for them?
There was so much I had to look up, so much I had to research, and it would have been far easier to do if I were alone. But the girls were understanding and excited about the work I was doing for them.
I started small by tackling SEO enhancements, growing their online presence, and the results were already paying off.
The girls reported increased traffic and booming sales at the gallery. Their social media pages had a lot more traffic, too, and they had become a bit of an Instagrammable destination.
Not that I could see for myself.
I burned with jealousy every time Samara gushed over the light that came in through the massive windows, and Marina talked about people watching with the most fascinating, eclectic clientele.
Everything from seasoned collectors looking for the next big thing, to young, hungry entrepreneurs and frat bros turned finance bros looking to seem cultured to the ladies. Her favorites, though, were the young couples who were starting together and didn't know shit about art.
They didn't know who was up-and-coming and what would keep its value. But they knew what they liked. They knew what made them feel.
Honestly, the frat bros sounded more entertaining as they overpaid for art just because Nadia batted her eyes.
But the longing to experience it myself grew stronger each day. To see it for myself. To people-watch and sip cappuccinos with the girls and to enjoy the sunlight on my face.
Actual sunlight that hadn't been filtered through UV glass.
Pavel still refused to let me go in person.
He had offered to take me several times, but I had always refused.
The thought of going on my own, of hanging with just the girls, consumed my thoughts.
If I had any hope of carving out a sliver of normalcy in this forced marriage, he had to trust me.
That night, over dinner, I chatted about the gallery.
Pavel listened.
More than that, he asked questions.
Not about the art, but about what I was doing for them.
How the new accounting software worked, what SEO meant and why it was important. I guessed having his business easily searchable was the last thing he wanted.
He even asked about the start of the café idea. It was still in the information-gathering phase, but he seemed invested.
Still, his curiosity appeared to be genuine.
So did the pride he had in my work.
Instead of brushing it off as unimportant—optimizing a website for the pet project of his cousins' and brothers' wives—he treated it like I was contributing in some significant way. When my throat got tight at the realization, I knew then how desperately I wanted his approval. I craved it.
The most I thought I could hope for was that he was pleased with me and would give me more freedom. I didn't know how to deal with him being proud of me.
A lump formed in my throat, and I tried to push it down with a deep breath.
It was… almost normal.
That night when he sat next to me on the sofa and went to turn something on the TV, I took the remote from him and tossed it on the floor.
For the first time I kissed him first. I crawled on top of him and stripped his shirt off, running my fingers over his bare chest.
Something came over me, and I needed to show him how much I liked the way he made me feel.
The need to prove I could be good, that I could give myself to this marriage, to him, overwhelmed me.
And I just wanted him. The craving for his rough, tattooed hands on me, his mouth licking and sucking my body, and the satisfaction I knew only he could provide took over.
I kissed my way down his chest, the nerves leaving my body as he laced his fingers in my hair. This time, he didn't push me down.
He let me take my time exploring his body with my fingers and my tongue.
Every time his abs flexed under my touch and his breath hitched, or a low growling moan left his lips, I got bolder.
His approval, his arousal, fueled my own.
I took him in my mouth, and he let out another moan that made my heart pound and gave me the confidence to do whatever I wanted to him.
He was at my mercy...at least for about five minutes, when his control snapped and he threw me back on the sofa cushions, burying his face between my thighs until he made me scream his name. Twice.
The way he touched me, the way he kissed me as he pushed inside me, felt like more than it had. It felt intimate, like we were building something more than him just pulling pleasure from my body as he chased his own end.
He was chasing something else, trying to tell me something, and I found myself desperate to understand it.
After we caught our breath, he picked me up and carried me into the bathroom and started our own little post-sex ritual.
He went to the tub and filled it with steaming water and while he was getting the temperature right, I would study the maze of patterns and images in his tattoos. He was covered, and there was always something new to explore.
That night, my eyes went to the tattoo on his right side, covering his ribs. The ones I had to stitch over the night before our wedding. I had tried to line up the ink as best as possible, and I think I did a pretty good job. The skin was still raised and a little red, but the image was clear.
Chains. They were broken, links shattered.
I didn't ask about his tattoos. Ever.
They seemed like something deeply personal.
And as Samara had explained earlier when she was talking about a painting, art had different meanings to different people, evoked different responses in them. An image may make one person feel one way, and someone else feel another.
The broken chains on his ribs made me think of where we could be. If only he would trust me enough to break his iron-like grip on my life. Trust me enough to know I wouldn’t betray him.
Why couldn’t he trust that I wouldn’t run?
"Which scent did you want?" he asked, pulling me from my thoughts.
A smile graced my lips.
He always asked which of the expensive bubbling bath oils I preferred for the night.
For such a large, terrifying, tattooed mafia enforcer, Pavel loved his bubble baths, and I loved the way it felt to relax against his skin in the warm water.
"Amber and vanilla," I answered. That scent was the perfect mix of feminine and masculine .
More often than not, it would lure me into a waking sleep where I could pretend that this was real.
That he loved me and I loved him.
It was the only time I let myself succumb to the fantasy.
This time I couldn't give in to it. I laid my head on his shoulder; my heart pounded too hard as I chewed on my bottom lip. Could I ask him? Would he let me?
"I can practically hear your mind working overtime. What's wrong?" Pavel asked, placing a kiss on my shoulder.
"Nothing," I said, mostly meaning it.
"Tell me." This time, the kiss was followed by a nip.
With a deep breath, I shored up my courage and asked him again.
"Let me go to the gallery. Alone. Please. I want to go work at the gallery, see the paintings and people watch. If you went with me, I would feel like I had to rush because you have so much that keeps you busy."
"Alina," he said with a warning tone.
"Look, I won't go to the police. I would never go to the police. I'm not fighting this, I'm not fighting you, I'm accepting this marriage, but part of that is being part of your family and bonding with the other wives. Please, I want?—"
He cut me off with a sweet kiss.
"Okay," he said, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me against his chest.
"Okay?" I wasn't sure I heard him right.
I had meant what I said.
Nothing could make me run to the police .
It felt like this was changing, like we were changing.
And maybe… just maybe…
This wasn't love.
Not yet.
But it was something. The realization should have terrified me. Instead, a warm flutter of hope settled in my chest.
Despite everything—despite the lack of choice, the captivity, the way this all began—something real was growing between us. I just needed him to trust me, to give me some freedom.
Pavel was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again.
"Next week," he said. "You can go."
My breath caught.
"But with a guard."
I hesitated for only a second before nodding.
It was a compromise.
He was showing me some trust.
It was a baby step, and I'd take it.