Chapter 18 - Katya
It was only a matter of time before I went stir-crazy. Honestly, I’m surprised I didn’t reach this point sooner.
Another day goes by, and I feel like I could explode at any moment.
The house is too quiet for comfort, and far too pristine to feel like a genuine home. Even with the staff coming and going, the place still feels empty.
The luxury never really impressed me to a significant degree, but especially now, the novelty has completely worn off.
While nice, the master bedroom is almost too soft and just a place to lie awake at night.
The walk-in closet is full of clothes I didn’t pick.
The house is full of entertainment, yet I’m bored.
None of it is mine, and none of it is truly for me.
Instead, I’m restless and agitated, and I don’t know how much more I can take of being Sergey’s stowed-away wife. A position I never signed up for.
I miss my old life and my work. My real work.
I miss the routine I built and the focus it demands. The way it was, the best distraction from my brother and his pestering.
In the garage, I could do as I pleased, and Roland and I had a mutual understanding about everything. But here, in Sergey’s house, I’m a hostage dressed in designer clothes with nothing to do but stew in the silence of his absence.
Glancing out the window, I watch as the sun dips below the skyline while I pace. I’ve done enough reading and skimming through whatever entertainment he bothers to keep in the house, and I can’t stand being still any longer.
By the time my feet grow tired, I hear the distant sound of his car pulling up to the garage.
Perfect. He’s home.
I’m more than ready to yell and throw something at him if I need to. I’m prepared to do something about all of this pent-up frustration, and to let him know I’m not okay with any of this.
I brace myself for the fury that builds beneath my skin, but as the door swings open and Sergey steps inside, something seems different.
He isn’t smirking or looking smug about something. He isn’t readying himself for a fight either.
Instead, Sergey just looks tired and worn. But beneath it all, I can see something else. Something dangerous, almost.
“Get dressed,” he says, setting his keys on a nearby countertop while hardly sparing a glance in my direction. “We’re going out tonight.”
My brows furrow, and I don’t move. “Out?”
He glances at me, not looking amused by any means. “Unless you feel like staying here and pacing a hole in the floor, I suggest you get ready. No dress this time.”
The command surprises me, and admittedly, it makes me curious. “Where are we going?”
“To blow off some steam. You look like you need it too.”
He isn’t wrong.
Not long after, I’m on the back of Sergey’s Panigale, feeling a bit more like myself in some darkish jeans and a jacket while we move down the Vegas strip. Lights flash by us in streams of color, and the wind pulls at my hair from beneath my helmet, and despite myself, I smile.
I should be angry. Furious, really.
I should be planning my grand escape, but instead, I let the rush of riding again clear my head. Holding onto Sergey with my chest pressed against his back, I can feel the way his muscles tense slightly, like even that much contact can make him short-circuit.
Good…let him squirm.
As much as I try to focus on the night unfolding around us, I can’t help but take notice of how strong his frame feels beneath me, and how intimate the position feels.
Before I can dwell on it for too long, we pull up to a steel-clad building on the outskirts of downtown. It looks unassuming, almost like it’s just a storage site.
But I know better than that. I’ve seen more than my fair share of these covert buildings back in New York, thanks to Dad.
When Sergey pulls up, pops the kickstand into place, and kills the engine, I pull my helmet off. “What’s this place?”
“You’ll see,” he says simply, rather than just answering me as per usual.
Sighing, I get off, and we both head inside.
Sergey unlocks the front door and lets me in while he flicks the lights on. The heavy fluorescent overhead lights turn on, running down the long line of them until the warehouse is lit up.
From what I can see, one part of the building is some kind of storage that seems harmless enough, but as he guides me further in, I see the various crates full of magazines and bullets, and hidden deeper inside the place is a section full of gun racks.
I lift a brow at him. “You brought me to your armory?”
Sergey hums with a shrug, opening another door for me and letting me go through first. “You needed something to do, and I figure this is a good way to release some of that frustration.”
While he isn’t wrong, I still resist the urge to roll my eyes.
At least, he doesn’t seem quite as glum as he had before. Truthfully, I shouldn’t care what his mood is or how he’s feeling, but in a way, this side of him is more familiar.
The next room is full of shooting lanes, where it smells vaguely like a garage mixed with gunpowder.
I take in the clean space while Sergey glides off to the side, grabbing a pistol from one of the racks before he pulls out a fresh magazine and slides it into place. Of course, he brings me the usual gear too, handing it over.
“Have you ever fired before?” He asks, watching as I pop on the earphones, keeping one side pushed back just enough to hear him.
I cock a brow at him. “Seriously?”
He grins, annoyingly. “I’m sure you’ve held a gun before, but have you fired one? Properly?”
Prepared to deadpan at him, surprised that it isn’t already obvious to him, I decide not to answer. Instead, I take a small step back, offering him the floor while he begins a crash course for me.
Needlessly, Sergey assumes position, walking me through how to stand, how to hold the weapon, and how to aim.
In all honesty, it’s actually kind of cute.
He does it earnestly, unaware that I’ve known the basics for years.
Fighting back my amusement, I play along, feigning an unsure grip when he hands the pistol to me. I ask the occasional dumb question, feeling as his pride and slight feelings of superiority take over.
Sergey seems satisfied with himself as he stands behind me, coming in close to correct my posture and adjust my stance. He’s enjoying this more than he should.
“Alright,” he murmurs right behind me, staying close without being stupidly so. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Taking a slow breath, I raise the gun and aim, recalling all the time I once spent in various ranges, both inside and out.
Then I fire.
The first shot hangs within the center ring. The second lands nearby, and so does the third.
The familiar crack of gunfire doesn’t make me jump or feel squeamish. Instead, it’s almost comforting in a way I’ve been ignoring for a long time. At least, familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.
Sergey straightens behind me, and I can practically feel the realization setting in. “Hold on…”
I glance back at him again, giving him a pointed look. “What, you assumed I’ve never done this before?”
His eyes hold mine for a moment while they glimmer with amusement and surprise. Then he laughs. “Damn, you’ve been hustling me this whole time?”
“Maybe I have been. You just weren’t paying attention.”
“I guess I should’ve known better.”
Humored by his concession, I return to my position and fire two more shots without much effort, managing to land them exactly where I want them.
Something about the smell of gunpowder filling the space brings me back to a more carefree time, and despite myself, I feel more alive than I have in a while.
The thrill shivers down my spine, and something in me just wants it to continue.
“You know, if you didn’t have such a narrow view of what it means to be a pakhan’s daughter, maybe you’d have guessed I had basic training of my own,” I tell him, studying the gun for a moment, recognizing the make and model.
Sergey chuckles to himself and nods while he looks me over. “It seems I’ve severely underestimated you, Mrs. Lukov.”
Glaring at him, I huff out a small breath. “Don’t push your luck. I’m the one with the weapon here.”
This amuses him further, and he puts up placating hands. “I’ll have to figure out what else you’re hiding, then.”
I’m sure he will with time, knowing how persistent he is.
Regardless of the irritation I’ve had for him over the last little while, I let some of it go while we spend the next hour or so taking turns firing.
Knowing better now, Sergey stops giving me tips and rather falls into a natural stride of bringing out some of the other guns and asking me my opinions of them.
We compete with each other, and I manage to win best two out of three groupings, which seems to both excite and infuriate him in equal measure. Still, he manages to keep his mood up, and it seems he’s enjoying himself.
To my surprise and what should be my dismay, I don’t entirely mind how things have unfolded.
At one point, our fingers brush when Sergey passes me a loaded magazine, and while I try to ignore the subtle spark that shoots through my hand, I know he doesn’t. I see the look in his eyes. He notices.
I know I should hate him and everything he has taken away from me, but try as I might, there’s something different about tonight. There’s no pressure and no expectations. Instead, it feels like he has given me this time to let go and not think about anything else.
Tonight, it’s just us while our adrenaline pulses in our chests, and for once, I can forget about every reason I shouldn’t want to be near him.