Chapter Eighteen – Maria
I tucked the soft blanket around Polly’s tiny form, her eyelids drooping as I sang a gentle lullaby, deliberately staying off lyrics that would trigger any memory of Old McDonald’s farm and starry skies.
Her small hands grasped my finger, her gaze locked onto mine, and I smiled, my heart overflowing with affection. I had grown so attached to this little girl; her innocence and trust pierced my tough exterior.
“I like you a lot, Maria. I like your brownies and everything else that you make for me,” she mumbled sleepily. “I’m so glad that bad man didn’t hurt you and that you’re here with me and with Daddy, too. You don’t know it, but since you got here, he’s been a lot happier.”
Her words ran deep, damning Old McDonald’s triggering memories and going straight to tug on the strings of my heart. I didn’t want to believe it—that I could be a reason for Roman’s happiness. It didn’t sound like a thing to happen in real life. Being a reason for pleasure was undisputed, but anything else lay in murky waters.
As I watched her drift off to sleep, memories flooded my mind.
I brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, my touch tender.
I’d never had a mother’s love, never knew the warmth of a gentle embrace or the comfort of a soothing voice. She’d seen the tough times with my father and ran away to protect herself. Sometimes, I couldn’t blame her. Most times, I did. There was no one there to protect me from the tough times.
No one to shield me from his curses.
No one to stop the blows from coming.
No one to hold me at night and caress my hair or call me “baby” when there was no dinner—because the monster chained the fridge shut and wouldn’t let me eat until I touched him.
There was no one.
My childhood was a stark contrast to Polly’s, who had a loving father in Roman. At least she had one parent who adored her, unlike me, who had been alone and unloved.
I’d seen how he was with her. How he cherished her, adored her, and spoiled her silly. If anything were to happen to her, he’d die.
But with my father, it was quite the opposite. He was almost the death of me.
Now, that was true, untainted happiness.
For her, Roman was willing to show sides of him no one else could ever see. He didn’t mind being a six-year-old version that complimented tutus or cared about strawberries for her sake. The man could buy her the whole world and wouldn’t even blink, for Christ’s sake. He could kill for her and commit the worst atrocities for her. She had direct access to his heart, and that was access that could never be denied.
My eyes stung with unshed tears, and I sniffed them back in.
I looked at her. She slept peacefully now, releasing small snores as her chest rose and fell.
I couldn’t help it; I loved her, too.
She was so vulnerable and dependent on us, the big ones, yet she brought such strength and purpose to my life. I had to face it: If it wasn’t for Polly, he would’ve had no use for me. I was here because of her.
Just looking at her lit in me a longing for the maternal love I had never experienced. A longing to give what I’d never had.
As gently as I could, I got up from her bed, resolute to follow my heart. It didn’t matter that I could be gone soon; I would always be there for her.
I closed her bedroom door behind me, and I couldn’t help but think of Roman. My face grew hot, and I felt a blush creeping up my cheeks. I was mortified, remembering the way I had thrown myself at him when I was drunk. The way I had begged him to kiss me, to touch me.
God!
All those things I’d said about his lips, eyes, body, and mouth.
Oh, Maria.
And that stupid, stupid nursery song.
I cringed at the memory, my mind racing with embarrassment.
I took a deep breath and stepped out into the hallway, trying to shake off the thoughts. I didn’t need to dwell on that night, on the way I had made a fool of myself.
I headed toward the living room, my feet sinking into the plush carpet.
And that’s when I saw him.
Roman was sitting on the couch, his eyes fixed on his phone and his lips pulled into a tight line. My heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, dressed in matching black sweatpants and a t-shirt that clung to muscles like a second skin, and I felt that familiar flutter in my chest. The same flutter I’d felt when I kissed his forehead and rested his head between my breasts.
I tried to ignore it, to tell myself I was just reacting to the embarrassment of the situation. But as I approached him, I couldn’t deny that spark that seemed to ignite between us.
My entrance didn’t go unnoticed by him. I didn’t know what it was; maybe my feet on the carpet or the sharp smell of the baby powder I’d used on Polly. Either way, he was always alert and sensitive.
Thinking about it made me want to watch him sleep. To know if the slightest motion would rouse him awake. I was betting that it would.
“Hi.” I rubbed my arms but didn’t sit down for two reasons.
One: I didn’t expect to bump into him here. The most natural thing to do would have been a brief exchange of greetings right before I pivoted on my heel and walked the fuck away back to my room.
Two: He wasn’t smiling. It was one of those intense, no-nonsense businessman postures he assumed on the couch.
I started to listen to the voice of reason and began backing away from the living room when his sudden announcement caused me to do a double take.
“I’m going to kill Finn.”
I walked back to him, standing inches away from his spread-out legs. He’d already said this that day at the school. He’d held me and made a vow to slit Finn’s throat. So, there could only be one reason why he’d talk about it again, in my presence.
When the realization came, I could’ve passed out from shock.
He wanted my input.
Roman Varkov wanted my two cents.
He didn’t have to ask; his silence did all the talking.
I wet my lips before asking, “You found out more about him, didn’t you?”
“Every fucking thing.” He dropped his phone beside him and folded his arms across his chest. “Well, except for the identity of his client. And that includes the most recent attack at the school.”
They still didn’t know who had contacted Finn.
My eyes followed the inked-black lines on his skin before I stared back at him. “Then, let’s wait.”
“Wait for what exactly?”
I shifted my weight from one foot to the next. “Let’s wait until we know who asked him to do it before you, uh…before you eliminate him. You never know; keeping a close eye on him could help us reveal a lot. We’d be two steps ahead—”
“You’re talking in the plural,” he interrupted, a questioning brow raised.
I matched his glare. “Because I’m as involved in this as you are.”
He didn’t argue. Didn’t move or say anything else. So, I opened my mouth to finish my proposal. “I have a plan,” I started saying. “Maybe we could—”
He didn’t let me finish. His hands grabbed my hips, bringing me closer between his legs, and he planted me firmly on his thighs.
The air in the room shifted and grew thick with tension.
His eyes locked onto mine, his gaze burning with intensity. “You’re so smart,” he said, his voice low and husky, sending shivers down to my toes. “It’s even more sexy and alluring when you’re like that.”
My heart raced with excitement.
I looked at his face, admiring the strong lines and chiseled features. His eyes seemed to see right through me, and I felt like I was drowning in their depths.
Honesty was key, or wasn’t that what they said?
I had to be real, to accept that I couldn’t resist him anymore, couldn't deny the attraction that had been building between us. He was teasing me, reminding me of how I had been earlier, how I had thrown myself at him.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “Teasing me, making me squirm.”
His smile grew wider, and I wanted to take a photo and frame it like the portrait in the hallway. How could a man be so enchanting?
“Maybe a little,” he admitted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “But you have to admit, it’s fun.”
“It is,” I whispered, trembling with need.
I put my arms around his neck, traced the collar of the cloth, and slipped a hand through to feel his skin.
He tucked my hair behind my ears and cradled my cheek in his hands; his eyes burned with longing and a desire that was not as destructive as the storm I always saw.
This one was clearer and more foreign. He knew I could see it, so he let me see it.
“And I like it when you talk in the plural,” he whispered right before he kissed me.
Unlike most of the kisses we’d shared, this one was slow.
Roman Varkov had set a new record.
He’d exuded patience.