Chapter 9 - Darya
I shut the bedroom door harder than I should have. But I make no apologies for it when I hear someone open it behind me, enter, and then shut it a second time, pointedly gentle. Not when I know who that someone is.
Without a single glance at my new husband, I unpin the veil from my hair. I drop it onto what will be my bed for the near future as I walk through the room, turning in a slow circle to appraise its trappings.
It’s distracting that I can feel his eyes burrowing holes in the back of my head. I’m determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing it gets to me. Let him be the one who’s bothered.
I have plenty else to focus on.
My heels are muffled by the cream, Persian-style rug that takes up a large part of the center of the room—the first story of it, at least. The bedroom—for lack of a more appropriate word—is a grand, double-story space that’s both darker and lighter than I expected it to be.
The wide planks of the hardwood floor are stained so dark that they’re almost black; a far cry from the marble or the honey-colored wood I anticipated.
Even more astounding is that, in place of the staid, stereotypical accents I envisioned, I’m met with a wine-red drapery and upholstery—from the bedspread to the tufted armchairs by the fireplace—to counter the black walls and paneling.
The fireplace itself is a shock of white marble, veined with mercurial greys.
It’s as grandiose as the chandelier hanging in the middle of the ceiling.
What shocks me the most is the verdant indoor plants tucked into multiple corners of the room.
I can smell that they are real, permeating the room with a dull, humid earthiness.
By now, I know the scent isn’t coming from Anton.
His cologne is an unfortunately mouthwatering blend of amber, sandalwood, and what I’m certain is a hint of cardamom—a fact that I’ve grown sufficiently acquainted with today.
“So, it’s safe to say you like the room?” His voice is closer than anticipated. Definitely close enough for him to note when I startle at the sound of it.
He has no right.
My chest tightens in frustration.
“It’ll do,” I simper, and begin to unravel the intricate updo that’s making my skull throb.
I can already tell it’s going to be an endlessly long task.
There are probably fifty-something pins secreted in my curls.
Impatiently, in no mood for an audience anymore, I wave him off towards the door. “You can go now.”
The warm rumble of his chuckle invades my senses. Excuse me? Who the hell is he to laugh at me? I wonder what the current record is for the shortest pipeline from wife to widow.
I whip around, glowering ruthlessly at him.
Anton stares back gamely. Slowly, he shakes his head. His laughter tapers off, and he says, “No dice. This will be our bedroom, wife.”
Falling from his curled lips, the moniker is no better than a curse word.
He throws it in my face like an ace up his sleeve.
This man has another thing coming. I am not one to lose my cool, truly—but it has been a trying day, to say the least. I’ve got no doubts I can best him at whatever game he’s trying to play.
I’m just too tired to want to spar with him.
I roll my eyes at him. “In your dreams.”
“No. I can’t say I’ve dreamt about that,” Anton replies, and he sounds so casual about it, almost droll—in such a wild departure from his flinty attitude all day—that my hands fall slack to my sides. A couple of pins plummet to the ground.
I blink up at him.
It’s all I can do as he begins to shed his jacket. He walks across the room and drapes the jacket over the back of an armchair. One wrist after the other, he plucks off his cufflinks and drops them atop the fireplace mantle. The muted clink of the action rings through me.
Anton rolls up his sleeves, forearms etched with ink. I glimpse at barbed wire ensnaring a wrist, with playing cards hanging from it like blooms from a vine. I spot a block of intricate script I’d need to peer close to read. Even a few paces away, I can tell the words are in Russian.
“What”—I have to force myself to breathe—“the fuck do you think you’re doing right now?”
All he spares me is a glance.
“I’m getting ready to go to bed,” he says matter-of-factly.
Frustration crackles like static on my very skin. “Not here, you aren’t. And if this is your bedroom, fine. Tell me where to go. I’ll leave.”
He has the audacity to laugh at me a second time, and he’s lucky he didn’t hedge his bets on Yuri Daughter Number One—because Nadya would’ve lobbed a high-heeled shoe at his stupid head right about now. I myself narrowly resist the urge.
He takes off his shoes and neatly lines them up by the stairs leading up to the mezzanine area, which I can only imagine houses a closet or something.
Anton says, “Don’t be ridiculous. Since the whole point of this marriage is to show a strengthening of this alliance, your taking up residence in a separate bedroom would render the point moot.
We are husband and wife now. We’ll share this room.
My staff has already unpacked your things.
Anything else you’d like, you can let anyone know. It’ll be arranged for you.”
Palpably, I feel it. I feel the moment my patience runs out.
A rising tide of ire warms my face, and I shake my head at him with a grim, furious smile.
Are you fucking joking? “Let me make something exceedingly clear to you, husband.” The way I say it, the moniker is definitely a curse word.
“I’ve dealt gracefully with you all day.
I have been an incredible sport, mostly because I can see the big picture, and I’ve got a series of plans to make your life absolute hell that cheer me up to think about.
But you—oh, you have no claim to me beyond what paperwork stipulates.
And since the subtlety of my grace is clearly wasted on you, I’ll speak plainly: we are not true husband and wife.
What would you know of being a husband, a sexless robot that you are?
Maybe your first wife was some doe-eyed virgin who couldn’t clock that.
But, sorry to break it to you, I’m not. And I do not share a bed with any man who cannot please me in it. ”
Even on the carpet, you can hear a pin drop now.
There. That should send my point home.
Satisfied that he’s gotten the damn point, I whirl away from him. I’ll even let him leave with his tail tucked between his legs without another word. All I really want is to go to bed and let tomorrow be tomorrow’s problem.
Hopefully, “the staff” put the stuff to remove all this makeup somewhere around here, too. A palatial room like this is obviously fitted with an ensuite bathroom.
A passing perusal also unveils a dresser and an attached mirror on the opposite side of the fireplace. It’ll have to do. Refusing to listen to his footsteps recede, I return to picking out the pins from my hair and unwinding the braids. My scalp aches with relief, making my eyes slip shut.
They open with a shriek when the solid wall of his chest is behind me. I yell, “What the—”
His hand curls around my jaw and forces me around to face him. My heart hammers inside my chest, slamming itself against my ribs. The sudden fury radiating from him gives me the strong urge to back away. There’s no place to go. The edge of the dresser digs into my back.
“You didn’t kiss me like I was a sexless robot, Darya.”
“I—”
His grip tightens. “That wasn’t a question, wife.”
Not even this compromising position can keep me from bristling. “Fuck off.”
“Interesting, saying that to a sexless robot,” Anton drawls.
My heart just about stops in my chest when his head dips, the tip of his nose dragging down the column of my throat.
I feel him inhale more than I hear him. My heart rate soars.
“It’s also the second time you’ve mentioned your previous suitors to me.
You really want me to know about them. I wonder why that is. ”
The implication alone makes my stomach drop.
“Hold your breath, please,” I hiss.
No sooner does the idea strike me that I move, my knee raising—
And doesn’t meet its target. It can’t when, in a flinch of an instant, the side of his shoe meets the opposite ankle, and I lose my balance just enough for him to whip me back around.
It knocks the breath out of my lungs. Only when my eyes meet themselves in the mirror do I realize it’s because he has me bent over the wood, my wrists in his hand, held behind my back, and used to shove me down.
His heavy palm lands on my ass so hard that it smarts.
My exhale bursts from my lips in a whine.
“Would a sexless robot understand that wasn’t a cry of protest, wife?” Anton asks conversationally, as if enquiring about the time. I glare at him through the mirror. But I also witness myself unleashing an incensed yowl and yanking ferally at my wrists.
I get to watch his head bent, and his mouth twisted in a jarringly boyish smile, pressing to the nape of my neck. The contact burns. His hands seize a wrist each and gently draw them to the edge of the dresser. He curls my hands there, like he’s the strings to my puppet.
A tremor seizes my knees.
He neatly steps away. “Would you like me to help you with the pins?” His mouth shapes the words like this didn’t just happen.
I force myself back upright and stare at him through the mirror. “Did that make you feel like a man?” I spit, disgust contorting my features.
“You tell me,” he volleys. “You’re the one with extremely particular definitions for the word. And who’s so certain I can’t satisfy you?”
My eyes narrow in the reflection. Even that can’t conceal the heat that spreads over me like a rash. I can dissect subtexts too. “Are you looking to satisfy me?” I bluntly question. The words come out so clearly. You’d never know my heart’s dropped between my thighs.
Anton stares back at me. His gaze is unwavering as his hands find my waist, burning through the fabric of my wedding dress. “Is that a challenge?” He raises a single thick brow behind me.
I am not an impulsive woman. In fact, I may be the least impulsive person I know. But I suppose that’s the primary attribute of whatever spirit possesses me that makes me nod.
It’s the one I’ll damn for shivering when Anton says, “No. Say the words.”
The one that turns me back around to face him, returning my hands to the dresser’s edge, like I’m propping my body up for his perusal; an invitation he takes, raking over every inch of me from the top of my head to the hem of my dress.
Who has control of my proud, imperious mouth, reducing it to rasping, “Yes. That’s a challenge.”
The one that grants him another gasp when his lips take a sweet pull on mine, making heat pulse and spread through me like a fire unlike any I’ve known. A fire I’d never think to await from a man like Anton Zakharov.
Though this is no Anton Zakharov I’ve known.
This man kisses me like a man possessed.
Instead of my jaw, he grabs the back of my neck and splits my lips apart.
The other goes right for my ass, giving away his preferences.
Meanwhile, he tastes my mouth like he wants a second taste of the ganache on our wedding cake.
His tongue plunders my mouth until he’s stolen a raw, heady moan from its recesses—until I’m pressing against him, running my nails down his front, gripping at his belt like I need the purchase to keep my knees from buckling.
It’s the kind of deep, endless kiss I have to pull back from to take a breath, lest I faint from the lack of oxygen.
“Tell me to stop,” he suggests.
His hands have other ideas. They reconvene at the ribbon holding this dress together, toying with it. When I look up at him, I’m thankful for the heels I haven’t kicked off yet, certain my neck would be aching otherwise.
I don’t stop him when I feel him tug it undone.
“Was that you starting it?” I throw back at him, like my pulse isn’t thrumming between my legs. “Do I look satisfied yet?”
I don’t grant him a gold star for it. I refuse to.
If it’s a challenge he wants, then I’ll give him the challenge of his fucking lifetime.
I won’t be swayed by the fact that it matters to me if a man can kiss well or not.
In my opinion, if he can’t kiss, how’s he going to do anything else?
Fair or not, the bar is higher than the man in question is this one.
“You look stunning,” he says.
This time, it’s my turn to laugh in his face. “Obviously. But do I really strike you as a person who’s moved by pretty words?” I mock.
Cool air assaults the skin of my back, unveiled by the corset parting. The garment might be too intricate for him to undo without eyes on it, though, because he coaxes me back around to face the mirror.
Or so I think... Right up till the moment my eyes meet his filthy smirk in the mirror, he pulls the ribbon out with a sharp yank that jerks me back against him, and asks me, “Why, don’t you think stunning is the right word? Just fucking look at yourself.”
The command is irresistible. My eyes snap back to the woman in the mirror, the one he holds in place.
Her face is flushed, pink burning past the makeup, and her eyes are absolutely wild with lust. The blue of her eyes has darkened to navy—and it does go stunningly with the lingerie unveiled with a drop of the dress.
What appears to be a lacy, strapless bodysuit is really a two-piece.
I look like the cat that got the cream when his hands discover the hooks that secure the thong-style bottoms to the top.
And I’m not confused by my body’s reaction to him.
It doesn’t surprise me that I itch for him to undo the hooks and touch me.
No matter how much I can’t stand the man, I’m still extremely aware that something about him has always done it for me.
Oftentimes, much to my chagrin.
Yet it’s different now—now that I can feel against the curve of my ass that I do plenty for him, too. The vindication is dizzying. It isn’t helped by my brain glitching, watching as he wraps the blush-colored ribbon around his hand.