Chapter 11 - Artyom
Two days had passed since Ninel helped stitch me up, and the memory of her fingers brushing my skin, massaging the nape of my neck, felt like she was marking me. And fuck…that burned hotter than any bullet wound I had ever gotten.
It didn't go unnoticed how my body now yearned for more touches from her. How that touch…as small as it was…set my fucking soul on fire.
I’d gotten home an hour ago, showered in the office, and now I sat in the armchair, watching her sleep.
She had been tense at first, every muscle tight under the cover.
But, the longer I watched her…her body softened into the mattress and a part of me wanted to believe it was because her subconscious recognized I was there and I wouldn't let anything happen to her. She knew she was safe with me.
Thirty minutes later, her lashes fluttered and she jolted into a sitting position when her gaze crashed into mine.
“Good morning, Ninel.”
“W-what are you doing here?” Her voice shook, her eyes wide.
“Watching my wife sleep.”
“Why?”
“Because I can.” My hardened tone left no room for more questions.
She just stared, her silence filling the space between us.
“You’ll be coming into the city with me today,” I continued, rising from the chair. “I’ve already chosen your outfit, including your underwear. The body wash and cream I want on your skin are on the counter in the bathroom. You can decide what accessories to wear.”
I paused in the doorway, turning to look at her again. “And, Ninel, wear your hair up for me today.”
And with that I left.
Twenty-five minutes later, Ninel stepped into the dining room, her soft scent of coconut drifting toward me. My face remained unreadable as I rose from my seat and stalked toward her. She instinctively took a few steps back, then glared at me and planted her feet.
The push-up bra I’d chosen for her lifted the natural swell of her breasts, the fitted top hugging her frame, its sweetheart neckline drawing the eye.
Light blue jeans clung to her like a second skin.
I slid one hand to the small of her back, dipping a finger beneath the waistband.
Her breath hitched when I found the thin line of the thong I’d laid out for her.
A sharp snap against her skin painted her cheeks pink.
“You make your husband happy when you obey him.”
Her glare sharpened. “Do I look like your puppy?”
“No,” I said smoothly, leaning close enough for my voice to brush her ear, “you’re much harder to tame than that. But, I'm always up for a challenge. Sit.”
She hesitated. Defiance flickered in her eyes, wheels turning as she weighed her choices. But I knew she’d obey. Not out of wanting to submit, but because she wanted something from me, just as I wanted something from her.
She wanted to go into the city…and I wanted her obedience.
No exchange between two people is ever without motive. This marriage would be no different. She would give me her obedience, and in return I would give her protection…and anything else her little heart desired.
She walked to the table and lowered herself into the chair beside mine, where a second plate of breakfast waited. Instead of sitting next to her, I picked up the small triangular box set on the table and moved behind her, unclasping the necklace at her throat.
“I thought you said I could choose my own accessories,” she snapped.
“I did.”
I tossed the necklace onto the table and opened the box. Inside was a velvet choker with a single diamond dangling from it. I fastened it around Ninel’s throat, watching as her hand instinctively rose to touch it.
Leaning in, I brushed my lips against her ear. “Today, you’ll wear this for me. A reminder that you are my wife. And a reminder to me…of what’s to come…namely, my hand around your throat when I finally take you to our bed.”
Immediately, her hand dropped from the choker and a breathless moan escaped her lips…just like the one that slipped past her lips in my office two fucking days ago. It took everything within me not to throw her over my shoulder and take her to bed.
Any other Bratva man would do it, Artie. Where the fuck did I go wrong with you, son? Being nice to your wife will never gain her respect. Consummate your damn marriage already!
Without another word, I returned to my seat.
She cleared her throat. “So, where are you taking me today?”
“Would you be terribly disappointed if we didn’t step into an art gallery?”
“Yes.” She popped a blueberry into her mouth.
“You know…my territory holds more than art galleries.”
“That might be true,” she said, eyes sparking, “but are they better than an art gallery? That’s the real question.”
I smirked. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
After breakfast, we headed for the city. I had already informed Kolya about my plans and he had placed plain clothed security details among the pedestrians. Having Ninel see men dressed in tactical gear hovering over us would've dampened the mood. I wanted her to enjoy her day.
The first place we visited was a flea market where street vendors sold handmade jewelry: beaded necklaces, silver rings, charms.
Ninel ohhhed and ahhed at some of the pieces and then she came to a charmed bracelet. It was silver and the charms were skulls, some had black eyes and some red. It wasn't like any piece of jewelry she had. Yet, she picked it up in her hand and her fingers trailed along the skulls.
I shifted behind her, her heat radiating through against me. Gently, I removed the bracelet from her hand, unclasped it and put it on. I handed the vendor a twenty.
“Don't you think it's too goth for a Bratva princess like me?” Her words were a mere whisper but I heard them.
“I think you're allowed to like whatever you want.”
“Thank you.”
As we moved through the vendors, Ninel bought a mixture of brightly coloured earrings and necklaces and a few more pieces with skulls and crossbones.
From the vendors, we walked through the streets, my hand resting on her waist, hers on mine, our steps in a quiet rhythm.
“In our faction, like others, we share territory with other criminal elements. Some are allies…others are enemies,” I explained.
She looked up at me, eyes curious. “How do I tell them apart?”
I nodded. “Tattoos and colours. Low-level thugs usually wear color-coded bandanas, either on their arms or wrapped around their heads. They may not be bright, but they’re still dangerous.”
“And what about tattoos?” she asked, her tone cautious, her eyes scanning the people around us. She lowered her voice. “What should I look for?”
“Some tattoos are easy to spot on necks, faces, or hands,” I said, letting my gaze sweep over the passersby as if demonstrating.
“Avoid those with serpents on their necks, they’re drug runners.
Brown crowns on the cheeks? Those men killed their own mothers to be initiated into the Italian mob.
If you see them, head in the opposite direction. ”
She swallowed and looked down, nodding slightly. “And if something happens? Who can I run to? Who are your allies?”
“There are women at the flea market with wolves tattooed on their hands,” I said.
“They are mothers, aunts, and sisters of some of my men. They are under Rykov protection. And the men in the tattoo parlor?” I paused, letting her eyes follow mine, to the hole in the wall tattoo parlor across the street. “They are also under my protection.”
“Same wolf tattoo?” she asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“Is that why you have a wolf tattoo on your neck so people know that you are the leader and those people are under your protection.”
“Yes.”
I continued walking, showing her alleys and streets she should never venture into, pointing out vendors and shops under my protection, noting which paths to avoid and which people would immediately respond if she ever called for help.
Then we grabbed some hotdogs and walked to our next destination.
A building with animals painted on it, she lifted a brow, curiosity carved in her expression.
“Are they under your protection too?” she asked.
“No.” A small smirk tugged on my lips. “This is our next stop.”
Once inside we were greeted in the lobby by a young girl who worked there.
“Good day, Mr. Rykov. Good day, Mrs. Rykov. Please follow me,” she said with a polite smile.
We walked through the wide auditorium, down quiet hallways, and through a side door that opened to the fields. Ninel glanced up at me, her eyes widened.
Before I knew it, she had broken away from my side, walking briskly toward the pasture where two ponies waited: one black, one brown.
The young lady who had led us turned to me. “Kern is there waiting for you. I hope you have a lovely visit.”
I gave a curt nod, dismissing her, and she disappeared back inside.
When I joined Ninel, she was already petting the brown pony, her small hand running down its muzzle. The grin she turned on me nearly knocked the air from my lungs.
“Isn’t she cute?” she asked.
“He.”
The correction came from behind us. We turned, and a man approached wearing khaki pants and a khaki shirt, his name tag reading Kern.
“Good day, Mr. Rykov…Mrs. Rykov.” He handed Ninel a carrot.
“His name is Bugsy,” he said, nodding to the brown one, then to the black. “And that’s Lola, his girlfriend.”
Ninel laughed, holding the carrot out to Bugsy. He ate it from her hand, and she giggled again when she fed one to Lola. That sound, her giggle, struck me like lightning. I wanted to cage it, bottle it, keep it where no one else could ever hear it but me.
“I’ve always wanted a pony,” she sighed as we followed Kern further into the pasture.
“Why didn’t you get one?” I asked.
“Because Lev said it would've been too much responsibility. I begged him for years, between twelve and fourteen, I practically lived on my knees begging.”
A thought shot through my mind. Of Ninel on her knees, begging to put my cock in her mouth.
Fuck.
I bit back a groan and smirked. “Two years, huh?”
She rolled her eyes but she smiled. “Two years wasted.”