Chapter 16 #2
“Do you play?” I nod toward the chess board, trying to change the subject.
“I know how. Vladimir made a point of teaching all of us, but it’s more his and Yuri’s thing.”
“And all these books?”
“Yelena likes to read when she stays here for a while. Vladimir and Olga grab some books sometimes too.”
“There are books in our room.”
Our room—the sound of that word still feels strange and too intimate.
“It helps with my insomnia. I think it’s one of the few habits I inherited from my mother, trying to cure insomnia by reading.”
Maksim doesn’t speak about his mother with sorrow or like he’s trying to hide a pain that never healed. I think the grieving process must be different for someone who lost their mother so young. He’s spent far more of his life without her than with her in it.
Suddenly, this thought makes me curious. What was little Maksim like?
A small eight-year-old Maksim, lost after his mother died. Something tells me he had the same serious look he has today—that hasn’t changed. A little boy without a mother, without siblings, with only the affection of the housekeeper who made him eat properly.
Come to think of it, we weren’t that different. I was alone too, my parents weren’t around, and my grandmother gave me all the affection she could.
“Maksim.” I call softly, determined to broach the subject that’s been hovering in the back of my mind since he mentioned marriage in the car on the way here. “You said this marriage is real.”
“I did.”
“So do you want children?”
He stops eating. The silence hangs over us, thicker than before, and my husband raises his eyes, waiting for me to finish my train of thought.
“The Pakhan needs an heir, doesn’t he? Continue the lineage, leave the empire to someone, all that.” I hold his gaze. “Is that why you wanted to get married?”
“Marrying you had nothing to do with that,” he responds, more curtly than I expected.
“That doesn’t answer my main question.”
“I don’t know.” His jaw tenses once and relaxes. “I’ve never thought about it. But I don’t think I want children.”
“Why?”
He looks away toward the window. When he responds, his voice comes out low and resolute.
“This world isn’t a place for children, Svetlana.” A pause. “I grew up with a sadistic father who only wanted a son to turn into the Bratva’s heir. I won’t do the same.”
I swallow hard at the mention of his father.
“Did you really do what they say? Kill your father when you were a teenager?”
Maksim carefully sets the silver utensil on the plate, leans an inch closer to me, and narrows his cold eyes.
“Will you call me a monster if I say yes?”
I hold my breath for a split second, but it’s enough for him to notice. Maksim is attuned to every tiny detail I let slip, and instead of giving the answer he expects, I say the only thing I believe.
“I think you had good reasons.”
Maksim stays close for another moment before he relaxes again, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms over his chest. The tattooed forearms visible beneath his rolled-up sleeves should make him look more relaxed. But he still has a lethal air about him. He always does.
“I wasn’t a teenager, I was nineteen,” he responds calmly, like someone talking about the weather.
“Very young.”
“You were already a soloist at that age. Senior ballerina, right? Much younger than most.”
“Look at us, a couple of precocious youngsters.”
The sarcastic joke slips out before I can stop it. It’s always strange when someone brings up my past at the Bolshoi and I end up resorting to self-deprecating humor. It sucks.
And worse than that is saying outright that we’re a couple. Because we’re not. Even though we’re married and sharing a bed, we’re far from being a couple.
“And you, do you want children?” Maksim returns to the original subject, which isn’t much more comfortable than this one.
“I haven’t really thought about it either.” I shrug. “I thought it would be dance my whole life. It was the only plan I had. There wasn’t room for anything else.”
“And now there is?”
The question catches me off guard. I look up at him and he’s watching me intently. Waiting to see what my answer reveals about me and how I see us.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “My life changed completely over the last month. I’m still trying to get my bearings.”
Maksim doesn’t respond, just watches me and gives a slight nod. Almost imperceptible.
After that, we finish eating unhurried. The conversation doesn’t disappear completely, just shifts into small comments here and there.
When the bowls are empty, Maksim stands up.
He collects both trays, stacks one on top of the other with that precise care he brings to everything, and I watch, enchanted, because it’s the most domestic thing I’ve ever seen this man do.
“Do you wash the dishes too?” I tease.
“I just take them to the kitchen. Washing them is asking to get whacked with Olga’s wooden spoon. She doesn’t let anyone touch the dishes and silverware.” He stops beside the sofa, trays in hand, and looks at me. “Going to bed?”
“I think so.”
There’s a second of silence. Neither of us says anything about what happens next. Neither wants to talk about the room that’s ours and the king-size bed that, even though it’s huge, seems too small to hold so much tension. We just stand there, with that unspoken conversation hanging in the air.
“I’ll come up soon, too.” There’s no promise in his statement, but it’s not empty either. “I have some things to take care of first.”
“I imagine so.” There’s no regret in my voice, just agreement.
“Good night, Svetlana.”
“Good night, Maksim.”
He goes to the door, but stops before leaving.
“The blouse.” A pause. “Wear it more often.”
Then he leaves before I can respond. Just as well, because I wouldn’t have known what to say.
I’m alone for a moment in the room I’ve claimed as my own. The scent is different now—Olga’s fabulous soup, the ever-present wood and paper, and a touch of cigarettes and masculine cologne. I breathe deeply, allowing myself just for a second to accept the truth:
I wanted him to come to the room with me.