Chapter Fifteen
In which Vadim’s penthouse manages to be both magical and menacing at the same time.
Oksana…
Unsurprisingly, the ride to Vadim's home is silent. And I'm fine with it. My social battery is drained after an entire day of wrangling faux French wedding planners, and the gossipy tribe that is the Moscow Six families. Not to mention...
The thought skitters away before Yefim's horrific visage can fully form.
"You were very brave tonight."
"Wh- what?" Did he really say that?
"You were very brave tonight," he repeats slowly, deliberately. To my utter stupefaction, he gently picks up my left hand and kisses my knuckles. My husband may have a chilly soul, but his lips are warm on my skin.
Maybe it's his compliment, or the intimacy of sitting in the dark together, but I pull together some courage to speak. "May I ask you something?"
"Yes."
"How did you know to come in? I'd said fifteen minutes. You were there in less than one."
A frown creases his brow. "I had to."
I tilt my head, watching as his face is revealed and hidden again with the flash of the street lights and then the darker pools between them.
"I could feel it," he says.
My hand knot in my lap. "Do you have those feelings often?" I venture.
"Yes," he nods. "They've kept me alive."
"So that explains it," I say.
To my amusement, he turns to look at me. Ah, the rise of the eyebrow. I know he wants to ask. It's not fair to torture him and make him wait for it. I suspect he's used up all of the words he can endure for the day as well.
"The Morozova cousins have a theory that you're a creature of the night," I venture.
He's staring at me blankly.
"You know, supernatural? So that whole extra sensory perception thing just makes sense.
" I add a little chuckle there at the end, in case he wants to write it off as a joke.
His expression doesn't change. Vadim's eyes are such a pale blue that they almost glow in the darkened car.
This feels a bit like another nod toward the whole paranormal theory.
"Are you certain Dr. Komilova checked all of your wounds?" he asks. "Perhaps a CT scan…"
"I promise you, she did. My throat's going to be sore for a few days. I'll probably have to wear a scarf or people are going to think you gave me love bites, but...
I did not just say that.
"Oh. I just meant that as a joke."
He's not saying anything. Does this mean he thinks I was serious? He's going to think I'm hinting about the whole wedding night. I'm writhing with embarrassment as the silence stretches out.
My upper half is stridently against the whole concept of a wedding night. I'm bruised up and slightly wonky-headed after getting my head slammed against the wall. When the time comes, I'd like to be pretty. Focused. Wearing something that would make me feel sexy.
However, my treacherous lower half is insistently reminding me that endorphins are a wonderful painkiller, and what a perfect way to forget all the bad parts of tonight by replacing them with a spectacular orgasm or two.
Now, my upper half sternly points out that just because dream Vadim is insanely sexy, doesn't mean real life Vadim is.
My lower half is now telling my upper half to shut the hell up.
It really doesn't matter what any part of me thinks. Vadim hasn't said a word. He's probably regretting that compliment earlier.
I'm not surprised that my new husband lives in one of those formidable steel and glass monstrosities downtown.
One of the tallest, in fact, with sharp, vicious lines and an unforgiving edifice.
The guards escort us into a private elevator, and I watch the numbers climb with some amusement.
Of course, it's going to be the penthouse.
The elevator doors finally open to a cool, dark hallway. The only light comes from three fixtures, shining down on three doors.
"Which one is yours?" I ask.
"All of them," he says, putting a hand on the small of my back and escorting me down the hall.
I watch with some amusement as he picks the furthest door down.
"There are five ways to access my apartment," he says, putting his hand against a biometric panel, then punching in a long code.
"The codes are changed daily. Should someone attempt to enter by any of the other four, they're electrocuted. "
"What, are you serious?" I ask. "This sounds like a horror film. What if you forget which door it is that day?"
He glances at me. "Then I would deserve to be fried."
The door is extraordinarily wide, ebony colored, and it opens silently as recessed fixtures blink on, creating a warm pool of light as we walk into the entryway.
Actually, is this the entryway? There are long, sleek lines of walnut wainscotting and a detailed wood floor, covered by old Oriental rugs, vivid shades gently faded by a hundred years or more of use. It's oddly warm, and welcoming.
"I think this is going to be my favorite entryway," I announce.
"You haven't seen the others." Vadim reminds me. Here, in his own home, he seems a fraction more relaxed. His hands are in his tuxedo pockets, his tie is loose, collar open, and I can see that tattoo on his neck.
There is an excruciatingly detailed vision flashing across my mind. I'm straddling him playfully. He's shirtless with his hands under his head, looking up at me with a sly smile as I trace the tattoo with my fingers, and then my tongue…
I blink, and my lower half starts clamoring again. "Are the other entrances as pleasant as this one?" I ask.
Vadim looks around thoughtfully. "You'll have to decide for yourself," he says. He gives some quiet directions to two of his bodyguards who are carrying my bags. My mother must have had them sent over.
***
When I'd finished packing up my belongings yesterday, I was surprised at how little emotion I attached to my childhood bedroom suite in my father's house.
It never felt like mine, so I rarely kept anything personal there.
I was stacking some books on my dresser when I accidentally knocked over the table lamp.
When I picked it up, the base had shifted.
I could see a little red light glowing there in the crack.
With a frown, I flipped it over and picked off a tiny black square, no bigger than my thumb.
The red light was still glowing as I turned it over.
I dropped it on the desk, backing away. That was a camera. Picking it up again, I did a Google Image search. It was a high-tech camera, one with a battery life of over six weeks. According to my search results, it could stream continuously to an offsite server. Whose server? My throat had clenched.
Was it my father? Was he spying on me? It must be. Defiantly, I dropped the camera and stomped on it angrily with my booted foot, grinding it down until it was nothing more than pieces of plastic and metal on the floor.
***
Now, a new thought hits me. Could Yefim have put the camera there? Disgust coils in my gut. As Sovietnik, he would have the right to approach any areas of the house, even the private ones. The thought of that monster in my room, touching my things, makes the bruises on my neck throb.
Vadim's hand settles on my back again, sending a tingle through me, a surge of alertness at the feel of those long, capable fingers, and what dream Vadim had done with them. So many strange and terrible things have happened today. Yet when he touches me, it feels like it's gone. All of it.
The hall is dark, but he walks with confidence, as if he sees as well in the pitch black as he does in the light.
Given the small amount I know about Vadim now, that is entirely possible.
He pushes open another ebony door and there is an enormous bank of windows in front of us.
The Moscova River looks like a glittering black ribbon, alive, even in the middle of the night, with boats, barges, and tugs.
An enormous sickle moon hovers over the city.
All I can do is press my hands to my chest and stare, looking from one direction to the other in a sweeping panoramic view.
"How do you sleep with a sight like this in front of you?" I ask.
Vadim shrugs, taking off his jacket and removing his black diamond cufflinks, setting them gently aside before rolling up his sleeves His fingers move precisely, each turn of the shirt sleeve making a perfectly even cuff with the same attention to detail I am finding that he gives to everything.
Turning around, I see an enormous bed, with charcoal-colored sheets and a comforter.
The big, square bedposts are from a wood so dark that it's almost black.
More pieces of heavy black furniture are set around the room.
I step closer to examine one of the bedposts, and I see a thousand tiny faces carved into the wood with licks of flame, and gouts of water streaming between them.
I delicately touch one little face. With sly eyes and a smile, it looks like it could come alive and snap at my finger with its teeth.
"How did you find such incredibly detailed work?" I ask in amazement, standing on tiptoe to follow the flow of fire, water, and souls sweep upward on the bedpost.
"I had it commissioned," he says, leaning against the wall, watching me.
A huge fireplace stretches across one wall, and facing it, a heavy black armoire with the same carving as the bed.
No artwork, or personal things like pictures.
A perfectly aligned stack of books sits on a table next to his chair.
I can picture his long fingers straightening them after putting a book down.
He walks over slowly, standing behind me. "The bathroom is there." He points to a door, and then to a set of double doors, "The closet. Do not unpack much. We'll be leaving for the States tomorrow."
"Thank you. I'll just get ready for bed, then," I say with another internal wince. Words that would have sounded innocent at any other time, sound extremely awkward standing next to his massive bed on our wedding night.
I've known when men were attracted to me in the past. Most were not subtle. With Vadim, though, I can't sense anything from him other than the feeling of comfort that surrounds me when he's near, of security.
Ours is an arranged marriage, after all. Maybe he isn't attracted to me at all. Shutting the bathroom door behind me, I stare into the mirror.
Maybe he has a girlfriend in Chicago.
My heart plummets to my toes, and I hate this unattractive surge of jealousy.
It's late. You're tired. I counsel myself.
Frankly, I'm too beat up and sore to spiral right now.
Opening my overnight case, I find blatantly uncomfortable, screamingly obvious white lace lingerie packed right on top.
Please let this not have been Mother's idea!
The thought of Mr. Maurice packing it for me is less horrifying.
I pull in a second suitcase, and scrabble through it until I find a simple white silk slip to sleep in.
It's not flannel pajamas. But it's also not screaming, "Come! Deflower your wife!" either.
When I come out, Vadim is sitting in one of the big armchairs over by the fireplace, holding a drink, and looking out the window at the city lights.
What is the protocol here?
Of all of the endless manners and behaviors, rituals and expectations they drilled into me as one of the Moscow Six, wedding night behavior by the bride was never included. "Um, do you have a certain side of the bed?" I venture.
He looks up. "I sleep closest to the door."
"Fair enough," I say, climbing in on the left side. "Goodnight, Vadim. Thank you again for saving my life today."
He doesn't say anything else, he just keeps sipping his drink and staring out the window, and as I watch him, I eventually fall asleep.