Chapter 8 #2
I flip him off without turning around, catching Rodion muttering something I don’t quite hear. So what if I like routine? Structure. So what if I feel like everything is slipping through my fingers, and I’m holding on to whatever scraps of control I have left?
I stop just outside the door, taking a moment to steady myself.
The late afternoon sun filters through the hallway windows, casting long shadows.
Outside, the landscapers finish the lawn, and from downstairs, the quiet clink of dishes tells me Zoya’s busy in the kitchen.
She begged to cook, and it keeps her busy.
I’d hire someone in a heartbeat, but knowing Zoya’s occupied calms me.
Inside, my bride waits.
My bride.
The woman who betrayed me. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t recall what she did—her choices put my family and my family’s legacy at risk, and for that, she’ll pay.
Semyon can say whatever the hell he wants about how I handle this.
But I know exactly what I’m going to do.
She’ll know who I am and who she’s married to. That’s all that matters.
I glance at the two guards stationed outside her door. They straighten immediately as I approach.
"How is she?" I ask, my voice colder than I intended. I don’t want them to see the instinct of panic when I saw she was out of bed.
"She's awake, sir," one of them answers.
I square my shoulders, pushing the door open, my mind filled with the warnings of my brothers.
I won’t fall into the trap they think I will.
This woman may be my wife, but she must understand what happens if she crosses me.
When she remembers what she did—when she recalls running from me—will she realize the damage she caused?
Will it matter if she does?
Before I step inside, I catch sight of Zoya at the end of the hallway. Hesitating at the top of the stairs, when she meets my gaze, she flinches and backs away.
She knew how I handled the others—harsh when necessary. I had to, there was too much at stake, too much at risk. I’ve never laid a hand on her, yet she still shrinks from me like a frightened kitten—and I fucking hate it.
I’ve always held this family together, with no choice but to control the chaos, especially with my brothers.
The girls were easier, but all of them needed me.
I had my grandfather as my guiding light and, to a lesser extent, my uncle.
Vadka was my sounding board and my backup.
There were hard lessons. I had to be the bad guy.
I wouldn’t say I ever liked it, but if I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t change a thing.
We’re here. Safe. Together. And I’ll do damn near anything to keep it that way.
“What is it?” I bite out, watching her wring her hands, patience hanging by a thread. I try to keep my temper back, but I want to see my wife.
"Why are you angry, Rafail?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. Even the way she says my name feels like a gentle reproach.
"I’m not angry." But it’s a lie, and I never lie to Zoya. So I blow out a breath and shake my head. "Maybe I am. I just don’t like these circumstances."
She swallows and absentmindedly tugs on the hem of her top, a habit she’s had since she was a child. It makes her look younger. Vulnerable. "I don’t either. How long do you think this will last?"
What does she mean by “this”?
I look over my shoulder to see that Anissa is still in the bathroom. Still, I don’t want her to hear any of our conversation.
“I don’t know,” I tell her, trying to answer all the questions at once and answering none. I exhale in frustration.
I don’t like the way she flinches when I scowl. My anger isn’t directed at her. I would do anything for my brothers and sisters. Anything.
Including playing the role of husband to an absolute stranger.
"You came here to talk to me. Was that your question?"
Zoya shakes her head and stutters, "No, no, I-I made some food. I cooked a bunch of different things because I don’t know what she likes.” Her brow furrows adorably. “Do you?"
Of course I don’t. I know hardly anything about the woman on the other side of that door who shares my future.
"No." I don’t even know if she knows what she likes.
This is frustrating. "Thank you," I grind out. Forcing my voice soft feels like pulling teeth—unnatural, like a rottweiler rolling over to show his belly. I draw in a breath. "Thank you for that. I’m not going to make her come downstairs. She’s in too much pain. "
"No, no, of course not," Zoya says. "I’ll bring up a tray."
I shake my head. "No, Zoya," I reply firmly. "Prepare it, and I’ll bring it up."
"All right," she says softly. "Thank you."
She does a clumsy little head nod before she flees, and it makes me feel like a dick. She’s my sister, not my servant. Jesus. I turn back and face the room. And she’s my prisoner, not my wife.
What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
Right now, all of Zalivka is talking about my bride. Everyone knows that I’m married. And everyone knows there was an accident, but nobody knows what happened. I aim to keep it that way.
Certain the guards are in place, I decide to go downstairs now and get the food myself. If Zoya decides to disobey me and carry the damn thing, I’ll have to scold her, and I fucking hate doing that. So I go downstairs and try the food as she plates it.
"Delicious." I don’t even taste it, but I’m trying. Goddamn, I’m trying.
"Just a few simple things," she says quietly.
"I really hope she likes them. And you, too, of course," she stammers, shaking her head.
"But you like everything I make, Rafail.
" She gives me a shy smile. On impulse, I reach for her and give her a quick hug.
No matter how much I scold her to eat, she only pecks at her food like a little bird, small and fragile.
"I do love everything you make. Thank you for this. She’s going to be very glad to have you as a sister, Zoya."
I take the platter, turn, and head upstairs. The smell of roasted potatoes and savory meat pie makes my mouth water and my stomach growl. I like a good meal, but I don’t remember the last time I ate one. It’s been a bullshit couple of days with one thing after another.
But now I need to slow down, something I don’t do very well. I need to get to know my new wife. How the fuck do I do that?
I’ve never had to make small talk or be personable. God.
The idea makes me sick.
I don’t know what the fuck those guys were talking about with the “beast,” but I feel for the guy if this is what he had to go through.
I take the stairs two at a time, and when I step into the room, she startles awake. I didn’t realize she’d fallen back asleep.
Her wide eyes dart to me, and she shrinks into the couch like prey sensing the predator’s approach.
When I see the bruise on her cheek and the cast on her leg, the rage surfaces again.
She ran from me. She ran from all of us.
The car, her pain—it’s all part of a game she tried to play.
In the life I lead, you either run toward danger, or it finds you.
I haven’t forgotten that I was the one she was running away from. I was the one she was trying to escape. It’s my fault she was hit by a car.
And for the first time, I wonder, why did she run from me to begin with? We hadn’t even met. What drove her to do that?
"I brought you some food." She jumps at the sound of my voice. I guess it’s louder than I expected. It booms in the interior of the room. Terrifying everyone around me seems like the order of the fucking day. Why does that not bring the satisfaction it once did?
"Thanks," she says in a quiet voice. "Do you know if I’m due for pain meds? I’m in a lot of pain."
I lay the tray down. “Let me check." It’s taking every ounce of self-control I have to keep my voice quiet and gentle. Between her and Zoya, I practically have to reinvent myself every time I turn around.
I glance at the little timetable to see when she’s due for meds next. It’s just about time, but she isn’t due yet. She still needs a heavy dose, then.
"Yeah," I say, looking at the orange bottles in front of us.
"You could definitely use some more." I shake some into my palm and hand her a glass of water. She picks it up without a word, and it hits me hard. She has no choice but to take what I hand her—the meds, the food… the truth. What I hand to her is all she knows, all she can swallow. Having someone’s life in your hands is heavy enough. But this? This is something else.
I drag a hand through my hair, surprised to find it damp. It isn’t even warm in here—what the hell is this? Nerves? I don’t get nervous. I sit down beside her.
“That was a pretty deep sigh,” she murmurs, shifting as she tries to push herself up. I hadn’t even realized I sighed. Leaning forward, I take her by the elbows, lifting her so I can adjust the pillows behind her back.
“Better?"
"Much. That smells so good. I didn’t realize how starving I was.”
"Me neither. My sister is quite a cook."
She frowns, looking down at the food. “Zoya?”
I nod. "You don’t like it?"
Zoya has given us such a variety that I’d be surprised if there wasn’t something here she liked.
There’s a generous bowl of borscht with sour cream drizzled on top, golden pelmeni stuffed with savory meat, and a platter of pirozhki, the smell of freshly baked dough making my mouth water.
Even blini, thin and delicate, with bowls of honey, sit beside the plates.
In the corner sits a small crock filled with cookies Zoya’s recently baked.
A carafe of wine completes the ensemble.
"No, sorry," she says softly. "This looks amazing. I was just trying to remember if I know how to cook. Do you know? Can I?"
I try to answer as many things honestly as I can. "I don’t. Remember, we haven’t gotten along before."
"Yes, that's right,” she says.