Igor
Last night I feasted. The lion finally got his meal. And when I came, I roared louder than any beast as she clamped down on me, her body milking me, sucking a bit of my soul with every pull. How long before she takes the whole damn thing?
I’ve watched and wanted her for months. Thirsting but never quenched.
She is here. In my bed. Marked by me.
Mine.
Her breathing shifts. Her body tenses, the subtle coiling of a woman preparing to bolt.
I tighten my arm around her waist.
"Stay," I say, my voice rough with sleep.
"I can't." She pulls away, sitting up. The sheet falls, exposing the marks I left on the soft curve of her shoulder. She ignores them, raking a hand through hair that is still damp.
When she first tried to slip into the shower twenty minutes ago to wash me off her skin, I followed.
I didn’t let her scrub. I pressed her soft, curvy body against the wet tile and took her until she was screaming my name, not muttering about her duties.
Climaxing until I carried her back to bed to fuck her properly, again.
Now, she’s dressed in jeans and a sweater that can’t hide the swell of her hips, but her focus is a thousand miles away, her expression distant.
"My shift starts at eight," she says, her voice tight, breathless.
"Galina needs her meds with food. And the physical therapist is coming at ten. I’m already late. "
"You are not late," I say, turning over on the bed to watch her. "Because you are not working."
She freezes, one foot in a sneaker. A flicker of something I can’t name crosses her eyes. One moment, she sees the predator who claimed her. The next, the employer who pays her salary.
"I can't just leave her, Igor. She needs—"
"Elena is with her."
Aria blinks. "Elena? The nurse from my agency?"
"I called them yesterday. Elena is taking the day shift until we hire a permanent replacement."
Aria’s hands flutter at her sides, reaching for a stethoscope that isn't there. "You... you replaced me?"
"I promoted you," I correct, standing. The movement is a display of coiled muscle packed onto a large frame.
I move toward her. She takes a half-step back.
Skittish. Like a wild thing that forgot it was cornered.
I ignore the retreat and close the distance, sliding my hand down the lush curve of her spine, claiming the space.
"You are the lady of this house, Aria. My wife does not change bedpans. You do not fetch water."
"I just... I need to do something," she whispers, looking at the floor. "I can't just exist."
"We will find you plenty to do," I promise, lifting a brow and cupping her bottom. Roses bloom on her satiny cheek, a reaction I intend to provoke as often as possible. "But today belongs to us."
Walking down the hall to the west wing feels different.
I keep a hand on the small of her back, a constant reminder of where she belongs.
She walks stiffly, her body tense under my touch.
Galina is by the window. She turns as we enter, her eyes sharp, scanning us with the precision of a hawk.
She lands on my hand against Aria’s back, and a satisfied smirk curls her lips.
"So," she crows. "The deed is done. Properly this time."
Aria’s shoulders tighten. "Good morning, Galina. Elena said that you ate?"
"Elena is boring," Galina dismisses. "She doesn't know how I like my tea. But she will do." She reaches out, grabbing Aria’s left hand. She stares at the ring—her ring, the one she wore for fifty years—circling Aria’s finger.
"It fits," Galina decides, nodding. "It looks better on young skin. Strong. Aslanov." She looks at me. "You told her she is done with the nursing?"
"I did," I say. "She is stubborn."
"Good. You need stubborn. A compliant woman would bore you to death in a week." She gestures to the snowy grounds outside. "Now, make yourself useful. Look at this place. December, and it looks like a funeral home. For God’s sake, I’m not dead yet."
"The staff puts the decorations up next week," I say.
"Staff," she scoffs. "Cold. I want a real Christmas. I want a tree that smells like pine. I want lights. Aria, take him." She points a gnarled finger. "Go. Get a tree. A big one."
"I'll make sure that he goes," Aria says quickly, stepping back toward a chair. "I can stay and read to you while—"
"No." I cut her off. Aria freezes, looking at me. "If I am dragging a dead tree through the snow, you are coming with me," I say.
"But—"
"Get your coat, Aria."
She hesitates, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. Her gaze darts to the door, a trapped look in her eyes.
"Go," Galina commands. "And don't come back until you have the spirit of Christmas in the trunk."
The tree lot is a frozen purgatory. A muscle in my jaw ticks.
This is ridiculous. My wool coat is meant for boardrooms, not for dodging families dragging timber through the slush.
Aria stays close to me, but not out of affection.
She’s using my large frame as a shield against the crowd, her eyes darting around, flinching when a child screams in delight nearby.
I point to a Fraser fir. Thick. Symmetrical. Expensive. "This one," I say. "We buy it. We leave."
Aria shakes her head. "No. It’s too... perfect."
"It is perfect."
"It has no soul." She walks deeper into the lot, wrapping her coat tighter around her full figure.
She stops in the back row. She points to a pathetic thing. It’s tall, but there’s a bald patch near the top, and the branches swoop low like a depressed willow.
"That," I say flatly, "is not a tree. That is kindling."
"It just needs a chance," she murmurs. She reaches out to touch a needle. She leans in, inhaling the scent. And she stops. Her shoulders hunch. Her breath hitches. Fear. She goes utterly still.
I step up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist, pulling her back against my chest. I expect her to lean into me. Instead, she’s rigid as a board. "Aria?" I murmur in her ear. "What is it?"
She pulls away gently, creating space. "Nothing. Just... cold."
"Liar." I turn her around. Her eyes are wide, staring at the tree like it’s a threat. "Tell me."
"My house didn't do Christmas," she admits, her voice tight. "My mother was a waitress. Bitter. Tired. And my father..." She swallows. "He was an alcoholic. A mean one."
The desire to kill a dead man flares hot in my gut.
"Christmas is the worst time to be the child of an alcoholic," she whispers, looking at the sawdust-covered snow.
"The pressure is so high. It could go from good to horrific in seconds.
One wrong word. One spilled drink. And the tree ends up on the floor, and you spend the night hiding in the closet.
" A tremor runs through her. “I learned not to get excited. Excitement was dangerous."
I reach out, brushing a snowflake from her cheek.
She flinches before she can stop herself.
"My father was not an alcoholic," I say.
. "He never lost control. Control was his religion.
" I look past her. "He ruled us with an iron fist. He didn't raise children, Aria.
He raised soldiers. If we cried, we ran laps in the snow.
If we complained, we went without dinner.
Holidays were just days to demonstrate discipline.
We sat at the table in suits, silent, while he lectured us on duty. "
I look back at her. "He made us what we are today. Lethal. Efficient. Unbreakable. But I do not remember a single moment of joy."
I frame her face with my hands, forcing her to look at me. To see me, not the ghosts. "We are not them. I am not my father. And you are not a victim anymore. We build our own house."
"Can we?" she asks, her voice trembling. "Or are we just faking something neither of us believe in?"
The question grates. "I do not fake things, Aria."
"We're strangers, Igor. Strangers playing house."
"We are husband and wife," I correct, my thumb stroking her cheekbone. Heat rises under her skin. "And this..." I gesture to the pathetic tree. "This comes home with us."
The drive back is quiet.
My hand rests on her thigh. She doesn't push it away, but she doesn't relax into it either. She stares out the window, lost in her head.
"You know," I say, breaking the silence. "There is another way to ensure we are not 'faking' it."
She glances at me.
"Children."
Her hand goes to her stomach. "We didn’t talk about this. Didn’t…"
"We’re married. In every way…" I steal a look at her profile but she’s turned away from me. Watching the scenery, giving me nothing. “So…”
"So, it's soon," she says. "Igor, we’ve been married less than twenty-four hours. We barely know how to be a couple. And with your... business..."
“My business is not a factor.” I grind out through my clenched jaw.
"Fine,” she says in a huff. “But I still want to know that this works first. I want to know that I’m safe. That we are safe."
I squeeze her thigh hard enough to leave a mark. "You still think I would let you go?”
"I think you are not a warden and I’m not a prisoner."
My silence answers her, and I let her make of that what she will.
There is no situation where I’d give her up.
That plants a small rock in my belly. It doesn’t twist or rumble; it just sits there.
Waiting for me to figure out what it means because the fuck if I know.
She’s right. I just married her yesterday, and today…
"I make no promises other than this; I take care of my own.
That includes you and any children we have. "
She turns away again, looking out the window, but I see the heat rise at the tips of her ears.
We’re laughing when we walk through the front door. I’m carrying the top half of the damn tree, shaking snow off my coat, while Aria struggles with a bag of ornaments Galina insisted we buy. She’s teasing me about getting sap on my cashmere. For the first time, the foyer doesn't feel like a museum.