Chapter 12 - Anya
Bright, harsh light stabs into my closed eyelids as my brain slowly wakes up.
The first thing I’m overly aware of is the headache. A pulsing, thick, painful drum beating against the inside of my skull.
I try to open my eyes, but they feel swollen and dry, and burning. Groaning loudly, I roll onto my back and instantly regret moving. The headache triples, and my stomach somersaults with nausea.
“Oh no,” I whimper, clutching my head and my stomach at the same time.
What did I do? What happened? Why the hell did I get so drunk?
I lie in bed, waiting—waiting for the pain to dull or the headache to disappear, but it’s not happening. If anything, it’s getting worse. I need water and painkillers.
Giving in to the inevitability of having to get up to get those things I so desperately need, I open my eyes, squinting against the brightest morning ever.
I sit up slowly, clutching my head as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I have to sit there for a moment to gather myself.
That’s when I see the glass of water and the painkillers waiting for me.
Did Emmanuil put those there?
Oh my gosh. He was there last night. Oh my gosh, I remember coming home with him—I think we were laughing? An image flashes through my head. Me—taking my dress off? That can’t be?
I look down at my body and groan loudly.
All I’m wearing is my underwear.
Okay, let’s just go with what we know. I know I didn’t sleep with him. I definitely would have remembered that. But what did I do? Because already I’m dying from embarrassment knowing I said or did something that’s going to make me cringe.
I toss three painkillers into my mouth and gulp down the entire glass of water, ignoring the nausea, knowing that hydration is key to getting rid of this horrible feeling.
Hydration and pretending like I didn’t make a complete fool of myself.
And a shower.
A shower is a good place to start.
I drag myself towards the bathroom, peeling off my bra and kicking off my panties. I climb under a hot spray of water. I smell like fruit and sunblock. It could be worse.
When I wash my hair, I massage my fingers into my scalp, kneading away the pulsing ache. It’s helping. Between that and the painkillers, I’m thirty percent less dying by the time I get out of the shower.
I no longer feel like my head is going to explode or like I want to vomit whenever I move.
Thank goodness.
Please let Emmanuil be at the office today. Please let me not have to face him.
Food. That’s what will fix the rest of this hangover. Maybe some bacon on toast. My stomach churns. No. No bacon.
A waffle with butter.
Ice cream?
Did something happen with ice cream?
Groaning, I wish I could remember, but dread knowing anything.
I find the softest short, cotton dress in my closet and slip it over my body. I clip my dried hair into a high bun and dab cream onto my face.
“Okay, I look almost human,” I say to my reflection in the mirror.
I don’t feel it, but at least I look it.
I’m about to sneak downstairs to see if I can find a quick snack without being spotted when my phone rings.
It makes me jump, and I have to fish it out of my purse, where I left it last night.
“Kris,” I say cheerfully, pressing the phone against my ear.
“Hey kiddo, how is my little sister doing out there in the great big world? How’s your vacation going?”
“It’s great,” I say, massaging my temples. “I’m having so much fun. I made some new friends, and we might go spend the day shopping today,” I say, hating the fact that I am keeping secrets from him. But I have to. Keeping them safe is all that matters.
“I don’t understand you girls and shopping. Doesn’t it ever get boring?” he teases me.
“Never. A girl can never have too many new pairs of socks,” I laugh.
He cracks up laughing, too. “Yes, socks, of course.”
I miss him so much. Hearing his voice has my heart aching for home. My throat closes a little, and I swallow away a lump of emotion.
“Well, I just wanted to check in, kid. Behave yourself. Let me know when you’re going to be home.”
“I’m not sure yet, but when I decide, I’ll message you,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t give away my homesickness.
“Chat soon.”
“Bye.”
I hang up and stare at my phone for a long time. I can’t keep lying. I can’t keep this story going forever either. At some point, Kristopher will get suspicious, and everything will come crashing down.
Between the hangover and my surge of emotion after talking to my brother, I decide I can’t risk going downstairs, because I definitely can’t face anyone. I curl up on my bed and close my eyes, drifting back to sleep again.
It turns out that sleep is the best cure for a hangover, because when I woke up late in the afternoon to my phone ringing again, I hardly had a headache anymore, and my stomach was somewhat settled.
I wouldn’t opt for a hike or anything, but I’m feeling so much better.
I reach across the bed to grab my phone and grin when I see Georgie’s name.
“Hi girrrrl,” I say excitedly.
“Hey, raccoon. Why are you ignoring me? I miss you,” she says playfully.
“I wasn’t ignoring you. I just had a bit too much of a party last night and then woke up this morning feeling like someone dragged me backwards through a bush. I promise I was going to reply to the hundred messages you sent last night.”
“Two. I sent two,” she huffs. “You’re so dramatic.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “So, you went out dancing? Are you partying up a storm there? Have you met any cute guys?” She throws questions at me.
I giggle and stretch my legs out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as we chat. “No, I’m not here to meet guys,” I laugh.
“Oh, come on. It’s been years since you broke up with him. It’s time to move on. You deserve to fall in love again, Anya.”
She knows what I went through when I left Emmanuil.
She knows that it tore me apart, but she doesn’t know the real reason I had to do it.
Her version of the story is that it was a mutual decision because we lived so far apart.
It was a stupid reason to tell her. Something like that would never have kept me from being with him, but she accepted it and was there for me when my heart broke and I couldn’t get out of bed.
She came over every day to make sure I was eating and slowly healing.
She’s the best friend I could ever ask for.
She’s my family. And that’s why I would never let anything happen to her.
That’s why I will protect her. Because that’s what family does for each other.
“I know, but it’s—it’s not that simple,” I sigh.
“Actually, it is. You meet someone nice. You let them take you for a romantic dinner. You kiss them under the moonlight, and you fall in love. Done.”
“You make it sound so easy,” I grin.
“Just do it. Stop putting off your life for someone who is so far in your past. Let yourself move past him. You haven’t even let one guy have a chance since you ended that relationship.”
Something spikes in my memory.
It intrudes into my thoughts, and my eyes shoot wide. What did I say to Emmanuil last night? I cringe, covering my face with my hand.
“Mouse, I have to go,” I say. “I’m heading to the beach, but I’ll call you later.”
“Okay, don’t forget, okay? And send me some photos.”
We say goodbye, and I sit on the edge of my bed, dreading what I have to do next.
I’m so embarrassed, and I’m not entirely sure exactly how much of it is my head messing with me or what really happened last night.
But either way, I have to go and clear things up with Emmanuil. Whatever I did say, I have to tell him it was just because I was drunk. I didn’t mean it.
One image is very vivid. I, half naked, with him standing looking down at me.
I chew on my lip as I walk through the mansion in search of him.
Emmanuil is in the kitchen, making a cup of coffee.
I walk in and hesitate, wondering how angry he is with me for how drunk I got.
“Hi,” I say nervously.
He turns to look at me with a smirk on his face. “You’re alive,” he teases.
“Barely,” I huff, narrowing my eyes at him, reading his expression. He folds his arms across his chest and carries on grinning at me.
“Do you want something to eat?” he asks.
“Yes, but first, I need to just say—um, last night—I didn’t really mean what I said.” My cheeks are already burning hot from embarrassment.
“And which part exactly didn’t you mean?” he asks, walking closer to me.
“Um, you know which part,” I stammer, backing up against the kitchen counter.
He leans over me, and my heart races, but he reaches up to get a coffee mug from the cabinet above my head, and I give myself a stern lecture about reading into things.
Why is he in such a good mood, though?
“The thing is,” he says, without stepping away from me, “you said some pretty shocking things last night, so I want to be really specific about what is and isn’t the thing you are referring to.”
He’s toying with me. He knows I don’t remember the specifics.
I huff and scrunch my nose. “Come on, Emmanuil, give me a break. I was clearly very tipsy and—"
“Tipsy? Kitten, you were drunk as a skunk.” He chuckles, the heat of his body soaking into me. I’m dying inside. I was clinging onto some semblance of hope that maybe he hadn’t noticed exactly how drunk I was.
“Did you, um, put me in bed?” I ask, not able to look into his eyes.
“I did, after you tried to strip down and go swimming,” he says playfully. “It was quite the show, I have to admit.”
“You perv. And you were the perfect gentleman, I suppose? Didn’t look at all?” I laugh, feeling lighter. Maybe I didn’t say anything stupid. Maybe that was the worst of it.
“Honestly, I might have stolen a glance, or three.” He winks. “But the best part was when you confessed that it’s been a while since you had sex and how badly you wanted it last night.” The words hang in the air between us. His eyes are glittering with dark mischief.
His body shifts against mine, and electricity sparks, desire flooding through me when I understand the look in his eyes.
My heart is racing, and I’ve suddenly forgotten how to breathe.
I did say something stupid. Something so, horribly, embarrassingly stupid that now he knows the truth, and I’m never going to live this down.
“I, um,” I stammer.
“Do you want to fix that little problem of yours, kitten?”
“Problem?” I whisper, his lips hovering above mine as he leans closer.
“You must be struggling. Not finding relief in such a long time. Your body must be craving attention. I can help you with that,” he says in a growl against my lips.
“Emmanuil,” I whisper, my heart beating too fast and my body screaming for his touch.
“Anya,” he whispers my name too, enjoying my tension. “Tell me exactly how long it’s been, a few months? A year? How gentle would I have to be with you if I were to give you what you wanted?”
He rocks his hip forward, and I feel how hard his cock is.
My mind is racing too fast, too many thoughts, too many words spinning through my mind, and him, so close to me, offering me exactly what I want from him. The attention, the adoration—
“It’s been five years,” I blurt out. Instantly, I realize what I’ve said.
He leans back, his eyes wide. “Five years?” he asks, knitting his brows.
I let out a frustrated huff of air. “Yes, okay, whatever. I wasn’t with anyone after we broke up. It doesn’t mean anything,” I blurt out again. Why am I still talking? Why am I digging this hole deeper? Why is talking about sex with Emmanuil driving me completely and utterly insane with lust?
“No one?” A low growl rumbles through him as his hand slips around my waist, pulling me harder against him. “You weren’t with anyone else since we broke up? Why?” His voice is low, menacing, deep, and dangerous.
It’s making my heart beat wildly, and heat is building between my legs. The way he’s looking at me as though he wants to tear me apart with his cock. Like he wants to fuck me harder than he ever has in the past.
“There isn’t a reason. It just happened that way,” I say, wanting to talk about anything else.
“There’s always a reason, kitten,” he says, refusing to let this go.
His cock is throbbing against me.