Chapter 10 Danica
DANICA
Iwake to darkness and reach across the bed expecting to find Vadim's warmth beside me. My hand finds nothing but cold sheets and empty space. I lie still for several minutes listening to the house around me, but there are no sounds, not so much as a footstep or a creak.
Maybe I should be relieved to be alone, but I'm not.
I'm not in my home and it feels frightening to be alone here.
I sit up and twist the wedding ring around my finger without thinking about it.
The metal's already starting to feel familiar against my skin even though I've only been wearing it for a few hours.
My throat feels dry and scratchy, so I make my way to the kitchen, and in passing I realize Vadim has left the house without telling me where he was going.
I'm completely alone here. The fridge light spills out across the kitchen as I open the door, but there's nothing inside except beer bottles and takeout containers that look days old.
I check the cabinets and find only one bottle of rakija sitting on the top shelf.
It's not my favorite, but at this point it's all I have, so I pour myself a glass of the fruity brandy and sit down at the kitchen table.
The liquid burns going down, but it warms my stomach and takes the edge off my nerves.
The second glass of brandy tastes better, so I sip it slower while I stare at the ring on my finger.
I still can't believe he forced me to marry him.
He may as well have had a gun in my side.
Is that what they call a shotgun wedding?
I don't even know anymore. None of this feels real.
I keep hoping this is a bad dream I'll wake up from.
I don't even think Petr Horvat could’ve dreamed up something so dreadful for me if he tried.
I drain the second glass and pour a third.
My head is starting to feel fuzzy around the edges and my limbs are loose and heavy.
The alcohol makes everything feel less sharp and overwhelming.
It's soothing to my spirit, which has felt under attack for more than twenty-four hours now.
I'm not playing the victim, but this fucking sucks.
I deserve better out of life than this, and it makes me hate Karma or fate or whatever god is out there mocking me right now.
I continue to sip and stew, slowly losing track of how long I've been sitting here. The bottle is half empty when I hear the front door open and close. Then heavy footsteps move through the house and Vadim appears in the kitchen doorway.
Blood covers his face and shirt. His knuckles are split open and bleeding. He's moving stiffly and holding his ribs with one hand. When he sees me sitting at the table he stops and stares at me in silence, though he looks more in pain than angry with me.
"Where were you?" I slur, then I stand up too fast and the room tilts sideways. I grab the edge of the table to steady myself and then cross to where he's standing. Up close, I can see the damage more clearly. His left eye is swelling shut and there's a cut above his eyebrow that's still bleeding.
"Work," he grunts, trying to move past me, but I'm quicker than him, even in my half-drunken state.
"Sit down." I pull out a chair and wait for him to move at his turtle's pace. Clearly, whatever "work" he was doing tonight must've beaten the shit out of him. It looks like he can barely breathe.
He lowers himself into the chair slowly and winces when his back touches the wood.
I wet a clean rag from the kitchen counter under the tap and bring it over to him, starting with his face and wiping away the dried blood around his mouth and nose.
His skin is hot and I can feel him watching me while I work.
I don't even know why the fuck I'm doing this except I'm born to be a nurturer.
"You left me here alone on our first night." I rinse the rag and wring it out. "Didn't have the decency to leave a note for me."
He doesn't respond as I move to his hands and clean the blood from his knuckles.
His skin is covered in scars that I didn't notice before.
White lines crisscross his fingers and disappear under his sleeves.
These aren't new injuries. He's been doing this for years.
It's a bit frightening to know that, and sobering.
He uses violence to back up what he says.
It means he's not joking when he tells me it's his way or the highway.
"I thought maybe you'd tell me when you were leaving." I glance up at his eyes, hoping to see some reaction from him, but there's not even a hint of acknowledgement. “Or at least leave me a way to contact you if something happened."
Still nothing. He sits there and lets me clean him up without saying a word. I rinse the rag again and the water in the sink turns pink with his blood. I wring it out and come back to work on the cut above his eyebrow.
"You know what?" I press the rag harder than necessary and he flinches. "You can at least pretend to give a damn that I was worried. Or scared. Or any of the things a normal person would feel when their husband disappears in the middle of the night."
His hand shoots out and catches my wrist tightly, and he holds me still and looks up at me with his one good eye.
"One of my men died tonight." His eyes narrow and his voice sounds strained. "Show a little respect."
I pull my hand free and step back. My chest feels tight again and I don't know what to say. I grab my glass from the table and drain what's left of the brandy. It burns and makes my eyes water, but I want more.
One of them died? My mind scans the faces of the men I've seen, the ones in the alley last night who intimidated me. Was it one of them? Have I met the man who died? What if it were Vadim…? That thought stops me.
I set the glass down and look at him properly.
He's not just beaten up. He's devastated.
His shoulders are hunched forward and his hands are shaking slightly where they rest on his thighs.
Someone died and he came home covered in blood, and what the hell am I doing to help him?
Am I supposed to help him? He is my husband.
"I'm sorry," I whisper because I don't know what else to say. "I didn't know."
He doesn't acknowledge the apology. He sits staring at the floor with his jaw clenched tightly. I don't know what else to do so I rinse the rag again and come back to finish cleaning his face. He lets me work without pulling away or telling me to stop.
"Do you want a drink?" I gesture toward the bottle on the table. "It might help."
"Yes," he grunts, then he watches me walk over and pour brandy into my empty glass.
I carry it back to him and hold it out. Before I can pull my hand away, he grabs my wrist again and tugs me closer. His other hand comes up to cup the back of my head and then he's kissing me hard enough to bruise my lips.
I make a surprised sound against his mouth, but I don't pull away.
The brandy glass slips from my fingers and hits the floor.
Liquid splashes across my feet and the tile, but I barely notice.
His tongue pushes past my lips, and I taste copper and salt from his lips.
He's a good kisser, and with this brandy buzzing around my head, it's not unpleasant.
When he breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against mine, his breathing is ragged and uneven. "You're intoxicating enough without the rakija."
My brain feels slow and fuzzy from the alcohol. I blink at him and try to process what just happened. He kissed me, actually kissed me like he wants me, and I don't really know why I didn't pull away or slap him. But I liked it. And I want to do it again.
I tip my lips up, slowly lowering myself until I straddle one knee and rest my weight on it.
His breath is hot on my mouth, and then my neck, ghosting over my skin softly, but he doesn't touch me again.
And here I am waiting. Isn't this what he wants from me?
Or maybe it's the alcohol making me think this. But he kissed me first. Right?
"Vadim." His name comes out breathless as I splay a hand on his chest carefully, but even when I press my mouth to his, he doesn't kiss me again.
He pulls back slightly and his hands drop away from me. "You're drunk… You can't consent to this, Danica."
I don't know what comes over me, but anger surges up in my chest and I feel like slapping him. The goddamn yo-yo this man put me on is infuriating. I can't get a single one of his signals correct.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I stand and step back, crossing my arms. "You forced me to sleep in your bed last night but now you're worried about consent?"
He watches me with that infuriatingly calm expression. "This is different."
"How?" I can hear my voice rising but I can't stop it. "How is this different from anything else you've forced me to do?"
"Because it is." He shifts in the chair and winces. "If we do this, I need to know you actually want me… not because you're drunk."
I grab the brandy bottle from the table and refill my glass, then drain it in one gulp and slam it down hard enough that it's a miracle it doesn't shatter.
"Either you want me or you don't. Make up your damn mind." My words are slurring now and I know it probably sounds ridiculous, but he fucking married me. The least he can do is satisfy me when I have an urge. Especially when he's the one who gave me that urge.
"You don't know what you're doing right now." His voice is quiet but there's tension underneath it. "You're drunk."
"If I was too drunk to know what I'm doing, I'd be passed out on the floor." I straighten up and try to look more sober than I feel. "I know exactly what I'm doing."
He stands slowly and his eyes narrow on me as he takes a single step closer. The solid plane of muscle under his shirt shakes with his heartbeat, and I can't tell what he's going to do next.