15. Tatiana
15
TATIANA
T he pain that flits across Lucian’s face surprises me. He doesn’t look angry at my outburst, even though my words are far more scathing than I’ve let them be in the past. They’re utterly raw and honest, because I couldn’t keep holding it in. I couldn’t keep pretending that it didn’t happen, that he hasn’t hurt me. I can’t stand another of Lucian’s grand gestures and romantic dinners, the persistence that he seems to think will win my heart.
Not when he hasn’t answered for what he did.
He hasn’t even acknowledged it—the fact that he ripped out my heart the day he had my father killed. He might not have been the one holding the gun, but his men are responsible for my father’s death. They were following Lucian’s orders, and I don’t understand how he can stand there and act like I could ever love him after that. Like his charms could possibly make me forget. My body might crave his touch, but my heart is broken because of him, and I don’t know how it will ever be whole again.
“Tatiana,” he says softly, taking a cautious step toward me, his charming playfulness set aside as he finally takes my anger seriously.
And as he lifts his hands, palm up in a gesture of surrender, my tears start to fall, hot and fast.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, taking another slow step before lowering onto his knees before me.
My stomach flip-flops at the unexpected display of supplication, and my feet feel rooted to the spot as he reaches out to grasp my hips, pulling me close. Blood roars through my ears as he kneels at my feet, wrapping his arms around my waist, his chin resting lightly against my abdomen as his hazel eyes look up at me with such genuine and intense remorse it steals my breath away.
“I was wrong. What I did was…God, I’m so sorry. When I spoke to your father a year ago—when I asked if I could marry you—he refused me outright, saying that no man would be worthy of his daughters.” The words rush from Lucian in a frantic plea, as if he’s desperate for me to understand.
My chest aches, the tears coming harder as I fight my body’s instinct to lean into his touch—to listen to what he has to say and believe him.
“I could see the fire in you—long before you revealed it to the rest of the world. I fell in love with that fire, and I thought your father was trying to crush it…”
There’s that word again, love . I don’t know what to make of it. The way Lucian confesses to falling in love with me feels so passionate and raw—his voice growing possessive as he wills me to believe him. But how can he say he loves me when he’s why I’m so devastated? He’s the reason I can’t trust my irrational feelings toward him.
“You were always so subdued around him, at the galas, like he didn’t want you to be the powerhouse I know you are. And every time I got you to myself for a moment, I could sneak a glimpse of that spirit. I thought he tried to tamp it down, that he was keeping it carefully locked away—like he kept you and Natasha locked away from the world. I thought I was setting you free when I put an end to Boris’s reign. And now that I know the pain I’ve caused you…” He swallows convulsively, shaking his head as the regret consumes his proud features. He looks…horrified. Like he’s only seeing it now, the evil in his actions—all the pain he’s caused. “I feel terrible for having hurt you. That was never my intent,” he murmurs.
His revelation has rocked me to my core, and hearing the conversation he had with my father—and learning that my father said no one would ever be worthy of me—only makes me cry harder. I miss my father terribly—God it hurts—and I hate that I’m so inexplicably drawn to the man responsible for his death.
I know my father was a stubborn man, and that he wasn’t always right. But everything he ever did was for me and Natasha. He believed in us when the rest of our archaic, messed-up world couldn’t see our worth simply because we’re women. And hearing Lucian say those same uplifting words puts my emotions in even more of a tangle because he sounds far too much like my father—progressive, understanding, supportive—when all I want to do is see him as a monster.
But that’s becoming harder and harder to do when he acts like a gentleman. When he looks at me with open respect. When he supports my authority without feeling the need to step in and take control.
I’ve never been more confused than I am right now.
An agonized sob rips from my throat as all the grief from my loss comes crashing down around my shoulders. I’m glad Lucian doesn’t go so far as to ask for my forgiveness, because I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to give that to him. Not when he tore apart my family, when he took my father and mother from me like they meant nothing at all.
But when he stands to pull me into his arms, I don’t have the strength to push him away.
It’s the first time he’s held me without trying to make a move on me, and I’m grateful. Because pleasure isn’t going to ease this kind of pain—the bone-deep anguish of losing my parents before their time. Instead, he lets me cry it out, and as the tears start to flow unchecked, it feels as though this is the first time I’ve really had the chance to grieve their deaths—because I’ve spent all this time trying to stay strong for my sister, to prove my grit to my father’s men.
Lucian’s arms feel dangerously inviting as I bury my face against his chest and sob, my body racked with sorrow. It seems all wrong to be drawing comfort from the man responsible for my pain, but I don’t know who else to turn to. I have no one to lean on for this particular loss. Natasha has too much on her plate already, and any sign of weakness might destroy the rapport I’ve built with the Sokolov men.
But Lucian…well, with Lucian, I have nothing more to lose. He’s already taken everything from me—and he’s asking for the world in return. Hearing the reasons behind his choices, understanding his motivation has opened up the floodgates, and now, I can’t seem to stop the overwhelming emotion that has finally fractured my composure. It’s the pain behind my outbursts that has been steadily growing worse since our wedding day—the fury I’ve been taking out on him every time he tries to extend an olive branch.
I can’t keep holding back.
I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel what I feel.
As much as I wish it, I’m not made of stone, and finally, Lucian has found a way to bring my walls crumbling down.
His arms tighten around me, as if he’s trying to hold me in one piece as he keeps me tucked beneath his chin. For the first time, I’m aware of our age difference—the fact that he’s over ten years older than me. I feel like a little girl crying against his chest. But Lucian creates a safe space for me, a warm support to let me feel my emotions without demanding anything from me—almost like a father would. It makes me all the more conflicted. He’s my husband—the only other man who should serve that purpose in my life, but it feels so wrong to need him like this when my father can’t be here to do it because of him.
My breaths grow ragged as my sobs intensify until I’m on the brink of hyperventilating.
“Shh, Tatiana, breathe,” Lucian soothes, easing us both onto one of the patio chairs as he pulls me onto his lap.
He gives me just enough space to cradle my chin so he can look at my face.
“Oh tesoro ,” he murmurs, the agony in his eyes growing as his thumb brushes the tears from my cheek. “What have I done?”
The question is so soft, I’m almost sure it wasn’t meant for me, and a moment later, Lucian tucks me back against his chest as he lets me cry to my heart’s content. It feels like an eternity. The fading sunlight trickles into the sea, enveloping us in deep twilight, and still he just holds me together as I release my pent-up grief.
I cry until all my tears are gone, until I feel like every drop of moisture and emotion has been wrung from my body. And the crushing exhaustion that seeps into the vacant cavity of my chest sweeps me off to sleep before I even realize I’m gone.
It’s dark when I open my eyes, and as I peel back my dry lids, they feel like sandpaper from all the tears I cried. I’m on my side, sleeping alone in a strange bed, in a room I don’t recognize. For a moment, I’m confused, almost dizzy with the lack of familiarity. Then it all comes flooding back to me—how Lucian carried me off to Italy without my permission.
I’m so frustrated with him because he makes these grand gestures that largely impact my life without seeming to consider how they might affect me. I could tell by his apology and explanation earlier tonight that he had no clue about the pain he was causing when he killed my father.
I’ve never seen Lucian regret anything before today. But the anguish on his face was so open, so vulnerable, it had to be genuine.
Good. He should feel remorse for what he’s done. He killed a good man the night he took my father’s life—well, as good a man as any of us can be in this business. And my mother? She was an angel, a woman with a bleeding heart of gold who only ever tried to put good back into the world.
Still, knowing where Lucian was coming from makes it harder to hate him so completely.
It’s difficult, hating someone who loves you—even if they hurt you. And it’s clear to me now, that Lucian does love me.
Thinking about Lucian makes his empty side of the bed feel that much more vacant. I haven’t spent the night without his arms around me since our wedding day, and I wonder where he must be at this time of the night. The bedside clock says it’s nearly two in the morning. I’ve slept like a rock since sunset and missed dinner completely.
What has my husband been doing since then?
I sit up in bed, letting the covers pool around my hips as I use the dim moonlight filtering in from our patio to search for him. Quietly, I slip out of bed, padding across the tile floor of our bedroom, and as I approach the balcony, I spot him.
He’s leaning against it, his hands gripping the wrought iron railing as he looks out at the ocean below. His expression is thoughtful, almost sad, and it makes me feel strangely vulnerable to see him like that. I want to step outside and ask him what’s wrong, but I don’t want to lower my defenses.
Still, I’m shocked to realize I miss the comfort of his arms.
That’s what drew me out of bed, and now that I’ve found Lucian, the urge to go to him is overwhelming.