CHAPTER 18
Zinovy
There is something the matter with my Petal.
She is meek and small this morning. I find I dislike this overly submissive version of the sweet spitfire she has turned out to be.
The change is too sudden, too much like a switch has been flipped.
Even now, as she perches on the bed and scoots to the top where she can brace her back against the headboard, it’s obvious her attitude has shifted.
“I can’t eat all this, Zinovy! I’m just one person. This tray has enough food to feed a whole crowd.” The way she says my name is a lightning bolt of lust through me. It drives through my apprehensions about her dampened mood and focuses my attention on taking care of her.
“Eat what you like. I brought a variety, so I can begin to learn your preferences. Try the vatrushki. They are sweet but not too sweet.” The breakfast pastry is a favorite from my youth, and though it may be foolish, something primitive in me wants to see her enjoy the food prepared by my hands.
Vatrushki are simple sweet biscuits made into palm-sized bowls filled with sugared cottage cheese and jam.
My preference is sour cherry, and that’s what these are.
Petal nibbles on a vatrushki, the perfect white of her teeny tiny teeth piercing the thick layer of jam and cheese and into the pillowy biscuit beneath.
My breath hitches at the simple eroticism of watching her eat, my body responding as though her perfect lips are wrapping around me and not the food. A groan sneaks from me without my intention, and her eyes snap to mine in surprise.
“Is good, yes?” My question has her extending the uneaten part of the pastry toward me.
“Very. You made this?”
I nod to answer her question, my mouth full of the bite she shared.
My eyes track her hand as she brings the last bit of vatrushki back to her mouth.
My body cants forward eagerly as she places the morsel between her lips with a smile that has my balls clenched tight and ready to explode.
I’m half afraid cum will rocket from my nose when I nut because I’m so pent up.
“I did, my sweet Petal. Everything I have brought to you was prepared by my hand.” Pride swells in me when she reaches for the fork and scoops up some eggs scrambled with spinach and sheep’s milk cheese.
I do not mention what the cheese is, wanting her to experience the rich tanginess it gives the eggs without being tempted to turn up her nose at the unfamiliar experience of traditional Russian ingredients.
“Sheesh, now that I know you can cook like this, it’s no wonder all you got at Pete’s that day was coffee.
Zinovy, this is so delicious. If you ever quit the mob, you could open a restaurant.
” She realizes the boldness of her words while her cheeks are still puffed out with food.
Dread makes her flinch as though she expects her reference to my position in the Vor to enrage me.
“What have you been through, little bird, that you shrink from the truth as though it will strike you?” I want to kick myself for not reading the file Rurik prepared on her more thoroughly.
Perhaps, then, I could banish the terror of her memories with the assurance the person who caused such fear in her no longer exists.
“I shouldn’t have said that, is all. It was thoughtless of me. I’m sorry.”
I don’t want her apology. Especially not when she is right.
“No apology is needed, Petal. Look at me.” I wait for her eyes to meet mine.
“I am Bratva. Not mob. Not mafia. Vory v Zakone. It means Thieves in Law. I was born with the knowledge that I would one day prove my value to the Vor. I worked hard to earn my right to be initiated into it, and I will die Vor. But you are not wrong. If I was ever not the avtoritet of a very powerful, dangerous Pakhan, I would be a chef.”
“Did you tell me, and so now, you have to kill me?” she jokes, halfheartedly. Even the mere jest that I might harm her ignites fury in me hot enough to make my hands tremble.
“Do not even joke of such things. I will never harm you. Never permit anyone else to do so, either. Until there is no heart beating in my chest, this vow is sacrosanct.” My fist rises to press into my sternum, the weight of such a promise heavy between Petal and me.
Tears pool in her eyes, the wetness shimmering in the morning light through the window. Her body softens against the pile of pillows behind her, tension visibly leaving her body. Her searching look pries at the facade I’ve worn like bulletproof armor since childhood.
“I think you really mean that.” Her broken whisper is like a sigh of acceptance.
It’s uncomfortable to allow another person to see so deeply into my soul.
It is tempting to slip on a mask in an attempt to convince her she is not in the presence of a dangerous criminal whose obsession mounts with every inhalation of her fragrant womanly scent.
It is clear she has many fears, and the civilized man in me wants to allay them.
The Beast of Anatoly Balakin’s Bratva, that claws and rattles the cages of my psyche, insists she’s already peeked into the abyss of darkness within me.
She’s spied the part of me that would snuff out human life at the first sign of risk to her.
The feral animal that will gleefully dance on the entrails of any creature approaching her with ill intent.
I stifle the instinct to hide my inner monster from her.
It's best she becomes acquainted with the ruthless avtoritet now, so she understands exactly who lays claim to her.
Who will protect her. Coddle her. Pamper her and spoil her.
My little bird has escaped the bleak prison of her past, but she will never be free of the gilded cage my obsession forges around her.
So instead of hiding my depraved fixation on her, I lean into it. I remove the tray from her lap and set it on the bedside table. Then I straddle her thighs, with my weight on my knees where they balance on either side of her hips.
“I think it is time for a demonstration. To show you exactly how truly I mean every word I say, my Petal.”