Chapter Twenty-Five
In which scars are shared and cherished.
Vadim…
Present day…
Oksana stumbles forward, her usual grace is gone.
Her hands land on my shirt in a death grip.
"You were the boy," she says, staring up at me.
"The boy who loved horses and talked to me all night.
You-" Her eyes are moving rapidly, left to right like she's reading her history.
"You killed the man who was drowning me.
You saved me but I ran because -" She frowns, swaying. "Why did I run?"
Swinging her up in my arms, I call for Ivan.
"Miss Oksana, is she all right?" He frowns, looking at her pale face.
"Hold the Rossi brothers. Kill the rest. Dispose of them," I say, never taking my gaze from hers. Oksana's pupils have flared wildly, making her eyes almost midnight black. Her breathing is shallow, but her grip on me is like iron.
"What happened? Is she -?" Yvette hurries up behind us.
"Hush." I cut her off. "Take the family. My people will bring you to the next drop-off point."
"Wait- tell me! Oksana, is she hurt?" I admire Yvette's loyalty but she needs to get the fuck out of here.
"She's fine," I turn, carrying my wife to my truck. "Go."
I try to put Oksana in the back seat and she twists, wrapping her arms and legs around me fiercely. "No!"
"It's all right. I won't let go," I say, nodding at one of my personal guards. "Budimir, you will drive."
"Yes, Sir," he says, waiting until I'm inside, Oksana still wrapped around me when he shuts the back door and hurries around to the driver's seat.
After a few minutes of quiet coaxing, I get her to loosen her legs and sit sideways on my lap. She draws her knees up and keeps her arms around my neck.
It's silent in the truck, Budimir carefully keeping his eyes on the road as I rock her side to side, gently, my arms tight around her. I worry that she's uncomfortable, but when I loosen them, she grabs my arm, pulling me close again.
"I forgot you," she whispers. "How could I forget you?"
"You didn't forget," I say, kissing her temple, holding her close. "You waited until it was safe to remember."
When the truck pulls around the circular drive of the house, I lift her out the moment the wheels stop turning and carry her past the guards stepping up to assist me.
Budimir races ahead of me to open the front door.
Oksana's face stays buried in the spot between my neck and my shoulder as I take the stairs two at a time, bringing her into the master bathroom.
"Will you let me put you down?" I ask. "You're shaking, moy svet, my light. I'm putting you in the shower to warm you." She reluctantly unwinds her arms and legs from me and stands still, letting me undress her as her huge silver eyes never leave my face, as if I'll disappear if she blinks.
"Step into the shower," I say. "It's already warm." Her white knuckled grip tightens on my shirt. So, I step into the shower with her, still fully clothed.
My wife stands under the spray, the steam wreathing her face like a caress, and she has never been more beautiful.
All the caution and secrecy she used to wear like a weighted blanket is gone, her expression is open, peaceful as she watches me run soap over her skin.
When her hands go to the buttons of my shirt, I help her, shrugging it off and pulling open my jeans.
I watch the path of her hands as they move down my chest, her fingertips slowing to trace the sickle moon on my left pectoral.
"You never forgot." It's not a question.
"No."
She looks up at me, her sorrow clear. "Did you ever think about coming to see me? To talk about what happened?"
I shake my head, smoothing back her wet hair. "You were only ten. I was fourteen. I knew I could never forget. Any of it." With a sigh, she rests her cheek against my arm. "If you didn't have to live with the memory, I thought…" Kissing the top of her head, I say, "I thought it was merciful."
Her finger catches on one of the jagged scars along my ribs. She pauses, I can hear the silent question. "Grishchenkov liked his knives," I say.
Nodding, she leans down to kiss the scar.
"And these?" she asks. Her thumb strokes over a constellation of puckered bits of scar tissue along my right bicep.
"He also liked his cigars," I say dryly. She kisses them.
"You're a map of pain," she says sadly. "How many of these came from him?"
I look down at myself. "My body is a product of the life I've led, my wife. Wherever they came from, each one taught me something. Each one is a reminder that I survived it."
Her lips move to a bullet wound from three years ago.
A shootout with a Colombian cartel that got greedy with our territory.
She kisses it before moving around to my back.
My head jerks to the left, body tensing.
I don't allow anyone to stand behind me.
Still, I put a hand on the tile and force myself to allow it.
Her long fingers spread out again, tracing along my skin, stroking the tattoo of the raven, its head cocked, beak open, on my left shoulder blade.
It hides a burn scar from an explosion at one of our warehouses.
I carried two men out before the structure collapsed.
I feel her cool lips against it and my eyes close, my forehead pressed against the tile.
The warm water streams over us like a waterfall as her hands slide to my ass, squeezing gently. My cock is instantly alive, throbbing, painfully hard.
I stifle a groan. "Oksana…" I warn.
Sliding between my chest and the tile wall, she seats herself on the bench, looking up at me as one hand carefully grasps my cock. "Can I touch you?" she asks.
"Yes." I grind the word out as her head lowers.
I hear her soft gasp of surprise as she sees them, three piercings, three rungs of a Jacob's ladder on the top of my cock.
"Oh…" She barely breathes it and her grip slackens on my cock for a moment before tightening again. I watch as her tongue comes out to trace along the tip of my cock, circling the silky skin there. "Would I hurt them if I put my mouth on you?"
Stifling another groan, I manage to say, "Even if you could, I would want your mouth on me. But no. Sucking me won't hurt them."
Her eyes light up again. A clear gray color that shows she's happy, and her gaze holds mine for a moment before she dips her head and swallows, sucking me into her hot mouth.
Those plush lips tighten around me as she feels each bump of my piercings before she surges forward, pushing my cock against the back of her throat, coughing.
I try to pull back, and her hand around the base of my dick squeezes harder as her other hand slides around to my ass and holds me there.
Breathing through her nose, she tries again, pulling away until just the tip is between her lips, then back in again, a little harder. Gaining confidence, she moves faster, her tongue stroking me. My balls are drawn up so fucking tight, she has to stop before I choke her with my come.
"Oksana," I say harshly. I pull free, trying to control myself. "I'm too close."
"I had a dream about that," she smiles. There's a sly tinge to it now.
"I don't know if you were watching that dream or not, but I want you to come.
" My cock is back inside her fiery mouth.
Her hand tight against my ass and pulling me closer, taking my cock further into her mouth.
She moans, surprised, as the tip pushes down her throat and the vibration is too much. My head drops back.
"Fuck!" I roar at the ceiling as I feel her throat muscles tighten around me as I spurt. She swallows me.
Her throat grips me as my vision whites out. There's nothing but the warm water streaming down us and the feel of her throat pulsing against my cock.
***
Moy svet – a Russian endearment meaning my light