Chapter 28
For a while, my wife didn’t say anything.
She had not one smart comment, not one sharp little comeback, not even a dramatic sigh or eyeroll.
She just lay there beneath me, damp skin cooling under mine, lashes resting against her cheeks, lips parted as they drew in soft breaths.
Her fingers were still tangled in the sheets, but the fight had gone out of them, had gone out of her whole body.
I should’ve been satisfied. I was, somewhat. I mean, the part of me that liked to win had won. I got to hear my name connected to hers, not because a paper said so, but because she finally surrendered enough to say it. Theory Grace Miller-Jones-Sidorov. My pretty, petty, perfect wife.
But looking down at her now, seeing how soft and distant she looked, a different feeling spread through me. I wanted her, wanted this so badly that I wanted to be careful. I needed to be careful.
“Theory, milaya,” I said, brushing my thumb across her cheek.
Her eyes fluttered, but they didn’t open all the way.
She made a little sound that wasn’t a word.
I lowered my mouth to hers and just kissed her for a second.
I could still feel the trembling in her legs.
She was curved against me in the way she’d been since she stopped pretending she wanted to get away.
I wasn’t sure I liked the quiet, not after all that had happened to her.
Tonight was intense. I had pushed when she had pushed because that was what we had talked about.
We had tested it in smaller ways before tonight.
She liked being chased. She liked being overpowered by someone she trusted.
She liked the fight as long as she knew exactly who was catching her, as long as I was catching her.
Me. Only me forever, now. Still, I worried about triggering her.
My wife had survived a man who hurt her because he wanted to break her.
So, when she gave me this part of herself, I didn’t take that lightly. I couldn’t.
“You with me?” I asked.
She sighed, then nodded once. I eased off her slowly, watching her face the whole time. She frowned a little at the loss of my weight, then turned her head toward me.
I pulled the sheet up enough to cover her and tucked it beneath her arm. “I know, baby.”
She sighed again, louder.
“You okay?” I asked.
Swallowing, she nodded again. “Mm-hmm.”
“No, not mm-hmm, Theory Grace. Words. I need to hear at least one,” I sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over her.
Her eyes finally opened. Barely. “Don’t piss me off, Targen.”
I smiled before I could help it. “That’ll work. You still mad at me?” I asked.
Her mouth curved. “Probably.”
“There goes my baby,” I sang my off-key rendition of Usher.
Her smile widened but then disappeared. She looked at me like she was trying to remember where her attitude went.
I smoothed her hair back. “Damn, shorty. Don’t go looking for it yet. It’ll be there when you get ready.”
“You right.” Her eyes closed again.
I got up, went into the bathroom, and took a quick shower.
Before I dried off, I turned on the tub.
She liked it hot, but not too hot. She wasn’t trying to dry out her skin, she’d told me.
I found the lavender oil she liked but added only a little.
She said too much made her feel like she was being attacked by a garden—my baby definitely had a way with words.
Then, I grabbed two towels from the warmer, drying myself with one, before wrapping another around my waist.
When I went back, she still hadn’t moved.
The sight of her in our bed did something to me.
Whatever I felt, I knew it wasn’t lust, at least not primarily.
I liked the fact that she looked worn out from our session.
I liked even more that she looked safe and content.
And she looked mine, like she belonged to me in a way I had been chasing since I got back from Siberia.
“Come on, pretty one,” I said gently after I had pulled on briefs and shorts and stuffed my feet into slides.
She didn’t open her eyes. “Where?”
“Bath.”
“I can’t move.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
She made another soft sound when I slid one arm beneath her shoulders and the other beneath her knees. Her head fell against my chest as I lifted her.
“Targen,” she whispered.
“I got you.”
She nodded once, like that was enough.
In the bathroom, steam curled around the mirror. I lowered her into the tub slowly, keeping a hand behind her back until she settled in. Her breath caught when the warm water touched her thighs.
“Too hot?” I asked.
“No.”
Her voice was soft the way that I loved. Yeah, I loved her smart-mouthed and sparring with me. But this? Soft and open and trusting? I adored that shit.
I sat on the marble bench beside the tub and watched her for a moment. Her knees were bent as her head rested back. Faint marks from my mouth had appeared on her honeyed skin. Satisfaction spread through me at the sight.
She moved slowly, rubbed a spot on her thigh that made my eyes drop lower. She’d disturbed the water and bubbles and for a moment, I could see them.
Her scars.
The anger came the same way it always did when I saw them.
What had happened to her was something I’d never fully comprehend.
I understood that there were men who hurt others because they enjoyed it.
There were men who hurt others because they were paid.
There were men who hurt others because it was for business or family or survival.
Then there were men like Chauncey. Men who needed to make women small, so they felt big. I wanted to make sure he felt like that. See, dead was too easy. Dead would give him peace. I wanted him to have terror.
Theory’s eyes opened, and I knew I had let too much show on my face.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
I looked at her. “Don’t what?”
“Please don’t go wherever you just went.”
I dipped the washcloth in the water and wrung it out. “Damn, milaya, I put it on you like that? I’m right here,” I evaded, pretending not to understand.
“No, you not,” she insisted. “Your face changed. Like you went somewhere that could take you where I couldn’t reach you… again.”
She was too tired to hide the fear in the words, on her pretty face, in her warm eyes.
“That will never happen… again,” I promised her.
For long moments, she just looked at me. Then she nodded like she believed me.
I washed her shoulder slowly. “I hate what he did to you.”
“I know.”
“I hate that your body had to heal from him.”
“I know.”
“I hate that sometimes I touch you and have to think about how not to touch because of him.”
“Targen—”
“That’s why when we… when things happen like tonight… I want it clear that I’m not just another man who taking something from you.”
She sat up a little. “You’re not. I don’t feel like that about you at all!”
I glanced at her face. “You sure about that right now?”
Biting her lip, she nodded. “I’m sure.”
I nodded once, but it wasn’t enough. Not yet. “I want you to be sure that I know the difference between you fighting me and you fearing me.”
A tear slipped down the side of her face. I caught it with my thumb. “I know the difference,” I repeated.
Her lips trembled. “I know you do.”
“Good, because I might get a lot of shit wrong. I might be a little too controlling, a little too jealous, a little too used to making decisions before I ask for input.”
She kissed her teeth. “A little?”
I tapped her nose. “Hush. I was saying, I might not be perfect. But this? I won’t get this wrong, moya zolotse.”
She reached for me, fingers brushing my wrist.
“Come here,” she whispered.
“You in a tub.”
“So?”
I leaned down because I was apparently weak where she was concerned. I honestly had no interest in improving. She kissed me softly, no challenge in the soft pressure. It was just her mouth on mine, all warm and sweet and trusting. When she pulled back, her eyes were clear, certain.
“I liked it. I need you to know that. I liked it. I wanted it. I pushed you because I wanted to see if you’d push back.”
“I know.”
“Targen.” Her fingers tightened around my wrist. “Listen to me, for real. I liked it. You didn’t hurt me.”
I studied her face, then nodded. “Okay.”
“And…” Her gaze slid away, a little shyness coming into her expression now that we were talking. “I liked saying your name.”
A slow smile pulled at my mouth. “Which one?”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t start.”
“I’m asking a serious question,” I lied.
“No, you being annoying.”
“And you avoiding.”
She sighed. “Jones-Sidorov.”
I leaned closer. “Say all of it.”
“You so greedy.”
“With you? Always.”
She shook her head, like she really was annoyed, but she gave in. “Theory Grace Miller-Jones-Sidorov,” she said softly.
I looked at her. This might be the best moment of my life, her in warm bath water, hair damp at the edges, skin marked by me, looking up at me all soft and giving me her name mixed with mine without a fight.
I kissed her knuckles. “That’s my wife.”
“Don’t make me regret being sweet.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Lies you tell.”
“Yeah.”
She laughed a little, sounding tired but genuine. I washed her slowly after that. Her arms. Her neck. Her stomach. Her legs. And between those thighs in a way that had her whispering my name as she grabbed the sides of the tub.
When the water cooled, I lifted her out, wrapped her in one towel, then used the other to dry her myself.
She let me. I was shocked. Theory usually accepted help from me like it was a suspicious package left on her porch.
Tonight, she stood between my legs, her hands rested on my shoulders, while I sat on the bench near the tub.
She instructed me on why I should pat instead of rub water from her skin.
“You tired?” I asked.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Hungry?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
She wrinkled her nose at me. “You be tryna feed me like I’m a stray cat.”
I shrugged. “You got stray cat energy sometimes.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Boy!”