28. Arkadiy
28
ARKADIY
A creak discloses Mara’s tiptoe into the kitchen half a second before her scent. I take a moment to gather my thoughts before placing a dollop of milk into a freshly brewed coffee and then spinning to face her.
My breath catches when our eyes lock. She should be looking at me in horror, disgusted by the ugliness of the skeletons in my closet.
Her expression isn’t anything close to appalled.
She looks radiant and relaxed. I’d even go as far as saying free. She doesn’t look close to a woman who fell asleep on my lap for two hours with her hands knotted in her dressing gown so her fight to touch me would never be defeated.
A shiver racks through me when I recall how desperately I wanted her to lose her battle. Our stumble from the entryway of her apartment to the sofa in the living room presented the perfect excuse, but she was as scared to touch me as I am to admit I want her hands on me.
I’m not scared because I believe she is capable of physically hurting me. It is wondering how she will react to a quirk I obtained from years of abuse, and if it will change the headrush that bombards me every time she looks at me.
The crinkle between my brows smooths a smidge when Mara asks, “Have you eaten this evening?”
It is a struggle for her not to stutter. It is only achieved with conscious effort, but I appreciate how far she will go to hide her fear from me. She is determined to prove I am trustworthy, and I honestly don’t know what I did to deserve her faith.
Her smile when I shake my head shoots a rush of desire through me, soothing some of the agitation our nap on the couch didn’t take care of. “Are you hungry?”
Her smile doubles when I murmur, “More like starving.”
“Shall we eat in or out?” Her nose screws up when she floats into the kitchen to check her cupboards and refrigerator for supplies. Her act of having guests over is so natural that it feels like we’ve been living together for years. “I have enough s-supplies to whip up a quick stir-fry, but that’s about it.”
“Stir-fry sounds great.” I join her by the refrigerator before peering at the limited supplies inside. “Though I wouldn’t recommend using that chicken breast. It is looking a little funky.”
The expression I was expecting earlier jumps onto Mara’s face when she sniffs the chicken breast I purchased to make Tillie soup. “That’s bad.”
I fetch my wallet from the hallway table and stuff it into the back pocket of my trousers, happy to use a three-block walk to get my head screwed on straight and to check in with my team on Paarth’s choice of punishment. “I’ll run down to the grocer. Is there anything else you need bar chicken?”
A dark lock not secured by Mara’s loose braid falls into her face when she shakes her head. It barely flaps in the briskness of her shake before she says, “Can I come with you?” When suspicion highlights my features, she adds, “I often don’t realize I need something until I s-see it on the shelf.”
I know what she is doing, but I don’t hate her inability to give a man space when he needs it as much as I do Rafael’s clinginess.
“Okay. If you think your ankle is up to it, I’m fine with you joining me.” I lower my eyes down her body in a long, dedicated sweep. “Though you should probably get dressed first. You still have another fifty-plus years before you’re close to the age where you’ll get away with wearing a dressing gown in public. I’m considering a change-up next week.”
I’m hinting at the obvious difference in our ages, but she acts oblivious.
“I’m allergic to cats, so if dressing gowns are your thing, go for it.” She smiles at me in a way that gets my heart racing before she exits the kitchen. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
For several long minutes, I watch the direction she went before I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and send a quick text.
Me:
We’re heading to the grocer in ten.
As expected, Darius answers without delay, proving he is as on alert to answer my every whim during ungodly hours as he is during the day.
Darius:
Understood. I am out front when you’re ready.
I read his reply three times before I go off script.
Me:
It seems like a nice night for a walk, so why don’t you check in with Rafael before calling it a night.
It takes him a lot longer to reply, so I anticipate more than a one-word text.
Darius:
Understood.
You shouldn’t be able to hear someone’s worry in a text, but I can.
Me:
I will reach out when I need you.
Darius:
Copy that.
After I store my phone, I move to one of the windows I opened when I learned my culinary skills aren’t as proficient as I believed. I keep my gawk of the taillights of a blacked-out SUV hidden by raggedy but meticulously clean curtains.
It takes Darius almost ten minutes to obey my order, and I’m highly skeptical it wouldn’t have occurred if he hadn’t received Rafael’s approval first.
Their defiant personalities are infuriating, but I guess it could be worse.
They could not care at all.
“Is everything okay?” Mara asks upon returning to the kitchen and spotting me by the window.
She looks up at me with captivating eyes, her watch weakening my hesitation for every second she stares. She’s wearing a long-sleeved blouse and a skirt that teasingly flaps against the glossy skin just above her knee. Her heels are strappy, and the kinks my bad hairstyling skills added to her locks make them extra voluptuous. Her makeup is demure in a way a woman as beautiful as her could never pull off, and her lips are glossy.
She is stunning, and my inability not to stare doubles the electricity firing between us. It seems so natural to stand across from her that I forgot she forced the resurrection of my ghosts only hours ago.
I should hate her for making me so vulnerable, but deep down, I know the purge will inevitably strengthen me. I just need the shame to fully disperse first.
“I thought we were eating in?” I murmur when I realize Mara will turn the head of every man in the five-star restaurant she should be dining at, not to mention a handful of women.
Mara’s eyes flare like she heard my private thoughts before she says, “We are. This old thing is nothing.” She spins, fanning out the hem of her skirt. Her happiness is infectious. If I could bottle it up, I would be an extremely wealthy man. Her eyes glisten with joy when she stops spinning. “It was once a tablecloth.”
“A tablecloth?” A low hum escapes her before she nods. “Then perhaps we should lay it back on the table?”
The innuendo in my question can’t be hidden, and I don’t regret it. Our mini therapy session did little to ease the intensity of the sparks firing between us.
If anything, it’s made them more potent.
My cock hardens when Mara whispers, “If you play your c-cards right, that could be a possibility.” Her stutter isn’t in fear or because it would be foreign for her to speak without stammering. It is from the unbelievable heat in her kitchen.
How do I know this? My throat feels just as scratchy when she hits me with a playful wink before she helms our exit from her apartment.
The direction of her eyes when she deadbolts her front door announces the neighbor watching Tillie for the night. If I remember correctly, Mrs. Lichard is a sixty-four-year-old widow with two grown sons. Her eldest is an investment banker, and her youngest is serving in the military. Barring a broken wrist from a motorbike accident, her children’s medical records hint at a normal upbringing.
Their medical files are too thin to measure. Mara’s are several inches thick.
Yes. Files. She has more than one.
Mara stuffs her keys into her purse as she says, “The elevator is back in order, but…”
I save her from finding a reason not to enter another small box by saying, “It is a nice night for a walk.”
Even with the hour late, as suspected, Mara turns heads as we undertake the three-block walk to a local grocer. We dodge alley cats and a group of young men with too much time on their hands before we reach a twenty-four-hour grocer that doubles as a liquor store.
Mara seemed more at ease with the boys who wrongly believe they run the streets than the store attendant who peers at her over a folded-up newspaper. The shake of her knees as she collects a basket at the front of the store sees me floating toward the back, faking an interest in an article a journalist requested to interview me about yesterday.
Since Dr. Babkin is dead, I have a bone to pick and no one to take it out on. A highly fabricated article that makes it seem like I am only days from popping the question to Veronika would make you believe an ill-informed journalist would be the first on my hit list, but that isn’t true.
Words can’t hurt Mara. Store attendants who lower their newspapers for an uninterrupted view of her ass, though. They sure could.
I snap the attendant’s picture before forwarding it to Rafael.
While approaching the counter, the thud of my shoes stealing the cashier’s focus from Mara’s ass, Rafael replies.
Rafael:
Babkin?
My back molars smash together.
If he heard Mara’s pleas for help, why did it take him so long to assist?
I press on the brakes when I recall how Mara’s fight bellowed through the bathroom of my office. She gave it everything she had: nails, voice, and grit.
Half the Chrysler building probably heard her.
As the cashier’s throat works hard to swallow from catching my imprudent stare, I punch out a reply to Rafael.
Me:
No. But I want everything you have on them both by the a.m.
Rafael:
On it.
I pull a black Amex out of my wallet and toss it onto the counter. “Put the number on file. Anything she wants”—I nudge my head to Mara, who’s digging through prepackaged chicken breasts on the bottom shelf of a refrigerator at the back of the store—“is to be placed on this card. Do you understand?”
His throat bob mollifies my frustration enough to end Rafael’s wild goose chase before it truly begins.
Me:
This probably isn’t news to you, but if it will keep you out of my hair long enough for me to see Mara through the second wave, I’ll share it. Babkin is dead.
The cashier processes my card and hands it back to me as Rafael’s reply pops up.
Rafael:
Not soon enough, as far as I’m concerned.
Since I agree with him, I steer our conversation toward a threat much closer to home.
Me:
Paarth?
I’m not surprised by Rafael’s reply, more disappointed. I have an excess amount of rage to let go of and still no one to take it out on.
Rafael:
He chose to hand himself in to the authorities. He’s been remanded until Monday.
After a quick grind of my jaw, I end our conversation the same way I did with Darius.
Me:
I’ll reach out when I need you.
I’ve only just stored my wallet when I recall not all the heat in my veins is from Paarth’s injudicious mistake.
Me:
Keep my whereabouts off my mother’s and Fyodor’s radar until I’m back on deck.
A smirk tugs my lips at one side when I read his response.
Rafael:
Already done.
It fades when another message pops up.
Rafael:
They think you’re deliberating on *their* top picks for the future First Lady.
I picture his disgruntled moan when I send a thumbs-up emoji before storing away my phone.
Although I could leave the store attendant’s fate in my team’s hands as I did both the building supervisor of Mara’s building and Paarth, I’m too bristling with annoyance to let his demoralizing gawk slide.
“You like her.” I’m not asking a question, so it doesn’t sound like one.
He tries to play it safe. “Who?”
I stare him dead set in the eyes while lying through my teeth. “My wife.”
“Wife?” He chokes on the word I struggled to express without cringing only last month. Now it rolls off my tongue as natural as I breathe air. “I didn’t know she was married.”
“She is,” I lie again, stepping closer. “And I don’t appreciate people looking at what is mine . Especially men undeserving of her time.” There’s no missing the possessiveness in my tone. It is full of warning and silent threats. “So anytime you see her, I suggest you look the other way.” He stiffens abruptly when I add in Russian, “Or lose the ability to see entirely. The choice is yours.”
The color in his cheeks drains as his smile vanishes. “Of course. I meant no harm.”
He loses the chance to add more assurance to his reply when Mara’s scent tickles my senses. She places her minimal purchases on the counter before digging through her purse for some bills.
“I’ve got it.”
She tries to stop me from grabbing my wallet. When she is unsuccessful, she uses words. “It’s fine, Ark. I can’t invite you to eat and expect you to pay. That isn’t how hosting works.”
She can speak without a stutter because the cashier isn’t game to lift his eyes from the register. He punches her purchases into a dated cash register before bagging them and handing them to her.
I accept them on Mara’s behalf before placing my hand on the small of her back and guiding her outside. She doesn’t stiffen from my hands being on her. It is from the cashier’s clamber for a morsel of power.
“Congratulations on your recent nuptials.”