Chapter 21 - Emmanuil
“Don’t walk away from me,” I snarl, angry that she’s ignoring me again.
She huffs and spins to face me, her hand already on the railing of the stairs and her foot on the first step. Even in her darkest moments, she still looks incredibly beautiful. The way her eyes lock onto mine makes my heart pause, skipping a beat.
“What?” she snaps, her gaze is dark and moody.
“You didn’t want to talk about it at the office, but we are going to talk about it now,” I demand. “You can’t avoid this conversation, Anya.”
“Why? There isn’t any point. You’ve already made up your mind. So, I’ve already made up mine,” she says coldly.
“Of course there is. You can’t go back to your brother. Why the hell would you tell him you’re coming home soon?” I ask, trying to stop my anger from getting the better of me, but it’s difficult, fear and anger colliding.
I walk over to her and pull her hand off the railing, forcing her to face me. I grip her wrist tightly so she can’t move away again. “Talk to me.”
“Emmanuil, you and I both know that I have to go,” she sighs, deeply troubled, but not giving me any acceptable reason for her insistence.
Inside me, the anger is winning.
I snort in annoyance. “I know nothing of the sort.”
“Why would you want me to stay?” she asks, her words being thrown at me like a challenge, an accusation. But I can’t figure out what she’s accusing me of. Things between us have been amazing. We’ve been growing closer, healing, the past almost forgotten as we move forward.
Have I been wrong this whole time?
Have I misunderstood everything?
“Because you’re my wife, and you belong here with me,” I snap, losing my patience.
Anya yanks her hand free of my grip and shakes her head. “Just because I’m your wife? No other reason?” she says. Her eyes are shining, but not with the usual bright glow that I’ve come to love. They are shining with the threat of tears.
“What other reason do you want?” I demand.
She presses her lips together, obviously not pleased with my answer.
She turns her back on me and storms up the stairs towards her room.
“What are you doing? We aren’t finished talking,” I growl, marching after her, taking the stairs two at a time, right on her heels, refusing to let this go.
She doesn’t answer me, and I follow her into her bedroom, where, to my horror, she pulls a bag from her closet and sets it on her bed with the top unzipped.
I stare in disbelief. This can’t be happening.
I won’t allow this to happen. She isn’t going to leave me again.
Last time she slipped away from me, and I didn’t have a chance to do anything to stop it, but I won’t let it happen again.
My heart is raging so fast I feel dizzy with panic.
She goes back to her closet to pull clothing out and starts packing.
“You can’t be serious?” I say in disbelief. “You’re packing? You want to leave right now? Tonight?” I have to convince her to stay another day. Another moment. One more chance to fight for her.
“Yes,” she says tightly, not pausing as she shoves clothes into the suitcase in messy bundles, unfolded, unsorted.
She heads back to her closet to get more, and I step in her way, blocking her path, using my body as a shield to stop her escape. I tower over her, demanding her attention.
She huffs and steps around me. Unfazed.
I grab her arm and spin her, pushing her so that her back is against the cupboard, my hands locked onto her arms, pinning her down.
“Let me go, Emmanuil, this has to happen,” she snaps.
“No, it doesn’t. If you think I’m going to allow you to walk out of here, you’re wrong.” I won’t. Why can’t she see how hard I’m fighting for her?
A tear rolls down her cheek, and she bites down hard on her bottom lip.
“I have to,” she mutters weakly.
I grab her face and force her to look at me. “Why? Why do you have to go?”
“I have to go. I can’t stay with you anymore,” she says through her tears.
I can’t stay with you anymore. It’s me she’s trying to escape?
Her words cut into me like a double-edged sword.
She never intended to stay, did she? She was always going to leave me again. This was all fake.
I don’t want her to leave.
The fear fueling my anger suddenly makes sense.
I’ve fallen madly in love with her all over again.
The idea of her leaving has me in a wild, dangerous panic.
Yes, I told her brother I was using her.
I was angry. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to provoke him. But even when I told him that, I knew it wasn’t true.
But now she wants to leave, and I’m questioning everything.
Was this all another game? Was Kristopher controlling her from the beginning? Was she ever on my side, honoring the deal we made shortly after she got here, or was she constantly feeding her brother information the entire time she’s been living with me?
Anger spikes, blinding me, making me dig my fingers harder into her arms. I’m a dangerous man when I don’t get what I want—and there is nothing I want more in this world than her.
I won’t let her do this again. I won’t go through that pain again.
“You’re hurting me,” she squeals, trying to break free of my grip.
“You’re not leaving,” I growl, desperation spiking the edge of each word.
She glares up at me, her eyes burning with defiance.
Her cheeks are flushed red, and her breath is heavy, her chest heaving.
I push her harder against the closet door, my blood spiking, desire rushing through me at the sight of her trapped beneath me, helpless, but fierce.
Without thinking, in rage and frustration and fear of losing her again, I kiss her.
As soon as our lips touch, I expect her to slap me, or kick me, or fight harder to escape my force—but she doesn’t.
She grabs the back of my neck and pulls me closer to her lips.
She moves against me, her body writhing and rubbing over mine.
My heart rate spikes, my blood boils with feverish passion as we start tearing each other’s clothes off.
She rips the buttons of my shirt as she tugs it open, running her hands over my torso.
I roughly pull her top over her head and throw it aside, her hair falling loose and messy over her shoulders, tears still streaking her face.
Layer by layer, I undress her, revealing more of her perfect form until she’s completely naked, her skin against my skin, and my cock aching to be inside her.
I forget everything else. It all falls silent. All I see and feel and hear is her, right in front of me, right with me in this moment.
I pick her up and carry her to the bed. I won’t let her leave. She belongs with me, and to me, and I refuse to let the same thing happen again.
The next few hours are a blur of perfect skin, perspiration, her teeth grazing over my flesh, her breath against my ear, her sweet, beautiful moans, and her scent, all over me, every inch of me connected with her.
It’s a release, a catharsis of anger and fear. An acceptance of my love for her. And an acknowledgment, in passion, that she belongs to me.
Afterwards, we lie together, breathing heavily. My heart is beating against her breasts as she lies on my chest, her head resting on my left side, listening to my heartbeat. She says nothing, but her fingers trace small shapes on my skin, sending soft shivers through me.
As we lie there in silence, I know one thing for certain. No matter what else is in doubt, no matter the confusion of what has been going on with her and her brother and whether or not she has been truthful this entire time—I don’t care. I want her here with me, and I will fight for her.
The anger has faded, spent in the throes of passion.
My mind is clearer, my heart is hurting, but my thoughts are clear.
Reaching around her body, I wrap my arms tightly around her, holding her close, determined to make this work.
I lie awake for an hour, listening to her soft breathing as she falls asleep and her body relaxes against mine. I roll onto my side, with her held against me still. I refuse to let her go.
Closing my eyes, I eventually drift to sleep as well.
I’ll fix this.
When we wake up, I’ll explain how I feel, we can talk through, and we can make this work.
***
As soon as I wake up, my thoughts instantly go to Anya.
I reach across the bed to pull her close to me, but she isn’t there.
Sitting up quickly, the bright light of morning makes me squint into the room, searching for her.
“Anya?” I call out, my voice rough from sleep.
Cocking my head to the side, I listen for any signs of where she might be. Maybe in the kitchen, making coffee? Or the bathroom, showering?
But I don’t hear a thing.
It’s a big house. Don’t panic. She’s here.
Kicking the blankets off, I stretch my legs as I stand up, flexing my arms over my head and groaning as my body comes awake.
I find my pants, discarded in a pile of crumpled clothes the night before, and slip them on before I head downstairs to look for her.
Walking through the house, I can feel it, though.
It’s an energy thing. She’s so radiant that her energy fills spaces. And it feels absent now. My heart begins to sink when I walk into the kitchen and she’s not here, either.
But the stark, white piece of paper next to the coffee machine is glaring at me from the doorway.
Folded into four.
It’s sitting there with my name written in neat, feminine bubble-looking letters. I touch it to see if it’s real, and my heart sinks lower.
She’s obviously not here.
And I’m not sure I want to know what’s written in this letter.
I turn away from it, heading back upstairs.
I climb into the shower, thinking about it, but trying not to.
I scrub my body as though I’m trying to scrub away the knowledge that the letter exists. Because somehow, accepting it is also me accepting that she might be gone forever.
The water runs too hot, turning my skin red and making me dizzy with heat. Blood pumping in my ears, silencing my other thoughts.
But I can’t stay in here forever. And no matter what I do, that letter will still be waiting for me downstairs, neatly folded with bubble letters, right next to the coffee machine.
I climb out and dry off. In the bathroom mirror, my reflection stares back at me, with dark eyes and an unshaved face, my mouth set in a hard line. Stressed.
I get dressed and brush my hair back with my fingers.
I go downstairs and stand next to the coffee machine, refusing to acknowledge the letter as I make a cup of coffee.
Behind me, Logan knocks on the kitchen door and steps inside. “Sir, I have the morning’s report for you.”
“Leave it on the counter,” I snap.
I hear him moving behind me. He sets it down right next to the letter.
For a moment, he stares at it.
“Was there anything else?” I growl at him, shooting a piercing glare in his direction.
“No, sir,” he stammers, backing away, leaving the kitchen.
I finish making my coffee and pick it up. Without looking at the letter or the report, I pick them both up and carry them upstairs to the library.
All of her special books line the shelves around me.
I sit on the armchair in the corner by the window and set my coffee down on a small table.
With a heavy sigh, I toss the report aside and hold her letter in my hands, rubbing my fingers over the crisp, folded page.
Slowly, I unfold it. Once. Twice.
Until her neat handwriting fills my vision. My heart churns as I start reading.
Dearest Emmanuil,
I’m sorry, but I can’t stay. There are a thousand things I want to say to you, but I doubt any of them will make a difference. There is only one thing that matters, one thing that might change the course of your thoughts and hopefully where your anger is directed.
It was never my brother.
Kristopher was not the one who stopped me from seeing you five years ago.
It was my father, Faiz Ilyin.
I am sorry we could not rewrite the past.
Anya
My fingers can’t seem to hold onto the page anymore.
It falls from my hands, flittering down, catching and gliding, and lands on the floor some way away from me.
My eyes are staring at nothing. Numb, cold pain is throbbing in my chest.
I am sorry we could not rewrite the past.