by Jasmin Quinn
Janice led her to Rusya’s suite, paused at the door. “I’ve moved your things into Rusya’s apartment at his request. Yours too now. I figure we could turn the other room into a nursery if you want. Set it up so that it’s down the hall. That way you can be close but have a little space.”
“You’re excited for the baby,” Esma said.
“Aren’t you?” Janice opened the door and ushered her through.
Esma hesitated, gathering her thoughts, then stepped over the threshold. “I am, Janice. But I’m overwhelmed and right now so tired. All the time. I don’t know why.”
“Because you’re in the first trimester. Your body’s going through a lot of changes and you’ve been through so much. You need to recover, rest, eat well, be happy. Babies feel the stress and they bring that with them into the world.”
“How do you know all that?” Esma felt mothered, smothered and didn’t want Janice to know so much about babies when she knew so little.
“My partner was pregnant when I met her.” Janice shrugged. “I supported her through it.”
“Your partner?” Esma was more than a little surprised. “I didn’t realize you were in a relationship.”
Janice gave Esma a gentle shove toward the sofa. “I keep it discreet. She knows what I do and accepts it, but we have separate lives because if Rusya knew, he’d want her here where no one could reach her, use her against me or him.”
Esma sat down on the sofa, but Janice remained standing. “Does that mean you’re a mother?”
“Auntie. It’s good enough.”
“You shouldn’t have told me.”
Janice leaned her head to one side and let out a small breath. “I know.”
Esma said the words Janice needed to hear. “I won’t tell.”
She saw the sheen in Janice’s eyes, the subtle blink to banish it. Maybe Janice needed a friend too. The woman turned towards the door. “I better go see how Rusya is, if he needs anything.” She closed the door behind her.
Esma leaned back against the cushions of the sofa and folded her hands in her lap as she closed her eyes. Her mind wasn’t racing like it usually did. Her brain wasn’t asking for a drink. There were no secrets between them. And he married her, brought her home, treated her well. Maybe these walls were a prison, but they weren’t a cold, concrete cell. And she felt safe, overwhelmingly safe. For the first time in her life, she had a home.
She kicked off her shoes, curled her feet up onto the sofa, and let her body sink into the cushions. Yes. She was safe.
Chapter 65
When Esma opened her eyes, she saw Rusya, in an armchair that he’d moved so he had a clear line of sight. A fire was flickering in the hearth of the fireplace and the room was warm. Her shoes had been moved, placed neatly by the door, and a blanket was tucked around her. She sat up slowly, felt the stretch of her muscles as she covered her mouth and yawned. She gazed at Rusya. He was in a dress shirt, the one he wore home, but his tie and suit jacket were gone, his cuffs open and pushed partway up his forearms, the collar unbuttoned, exposing his chest, causing Esma’s stomach to flutter. She coloured as she realized she’d been staring too long and too hard. She looked to his face, which held a small grin.
“Esma, do you want a honeymoon?”
“Wha…? A honeymoon? Do you?”
Rusya lost his smile, shifted, ran a hand down the back of his head. “I thought you might want to go somewhere.”
“You thought that?” Esma couldn’t quite believe that Rusya came up with the idea of a honeymoon on his own.
And Rusya, being Rusya, wasn’t about to hide the truth. “Well, yes. But Anto mentioned it, said it was the best thing. That it would make you happy.”
It bothered her that Rusya was talking to Anto. “We’re not them,” she said. “I don’t want a honeymoon. I want to be here, stay here. I feel safe.”
Rusya stood, walked over and sat next to her, took her hand in his, mapped her fingers one by one with his other hand. “I don’t want one either. I can’t imagine what we’d do on a honeymoon.”
Esma almost rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you ask Anto what he did on his honeymoon?”
“He already told me.” Then he stopped and when Esma looked into his face, she saw him reddening. “I guess I lack imagination,” he muttered.
“He shouldn’t talk to you about his wife. She wouldn’t like it.”
Rusya was smart enough to understand the message below the words, nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Their first real conversation, Esma thought. And it was fucking bizarre and time to change the subject. “What time is it?”
“Almost 7. Service for dinner will be in the dining room. We should go.” He stood, offered his hand and Esma took it. He didn’t relinquish it as he led her from the room, down the stairs, to the dining room. Not until he helped her to her seat, next to the head of the table. Next to his chair. The waiter, Jeremy, the same waiter as before, the last time they dined together in this room, when Rusya hit the table with his fist. When she went to bed without dinner. The young man nodded to her as he filled her wine glass with sparkling water. Said, “Mrs. Savisin.” Filled Rusya’s, then left.
“Is that who I am, now? Mrs. Savisin.”
Rusya dropped his napkin on his lap, reached for a roll. “Yes.”
She didn’t know if she liked it, the loss of identity. Yes, she was a romantic, wanted to be loved, cared for. But she was afraid of losing herself. Always afraid of losing herself. She said nothing and he stopped buttering the bread, put his knife down, looked at her, his face a question mark.
“Who else would you be?”
She followed his lead, reached for a roll and ripped it apart, concentrating on buttering it, not looking at him. “No one.”
Her answer was clearly unsatisfactory as Rusya stopped her hand by wrapping his fingers around her wrist. “You’re my wife, Esma. The staff will respect that. You will respect that.”
“Perhaps you should write me a rule book on what being your wife entails.”
Rusya took back his hand, picked up his roll, then set it down again. Jeremy came out with a broth-based soup. “Let’s try to have one meal in peace, shall we?”
The waiter set the bowl in front of Esma, who murmured, “Sure,” to Rusya and “Thank you,” to Jeremy before picking up her spoon and digging in. She was hungry, the soup was delicious, and she thought Rusya was right. Except it was impossible. Each time one said something, the other objected or countered. He wanted her to see his personal physician. She wanted an obstetrician. Preferably female. He wanted her to concentrate on the baby and her wellness, she wanted to continue her work on the Turkish file. He wanted to know about her escape from Jackman’s, she didn’t want to talk about it, told him straight up that she wasn’t going to give up the name of the one man on the inside who put his neck on the line for her.
She saw a flash of anger, jealousy in Rusya’s eyes but he covered it. By the time dessert arrived, a warm apple crumble drizzled in honey and topped with a small melting scoop of ice cream, both had lost their appetites. She rose first. “I haven’t worked out in weeks. If you don’t mind, I want to take a swim.”
And he said, “Only a swim, no weights until after you’ve met with a doctor. Until you have permission. No sauna or hot tub either.”
Esma nodded, deciding to take the small victory. He said a doctor.
After her swim, she returned to the suite… her suite… their suite. Fuck. He was there, his suit gone, wearing loose pajama bottoms, the ones that hung low on his hips, showing his hard, perfect chest, the six-pack of muscles on his stomach and the scattering of hair that trailed away to a very big promise. In the armchair, in front of the fireplace, reading a newspaper, a glass with vodka on the side table. She stopped in her tracks as her eyes got lost in all the ridges, his face, arms, chest, stomach. He was so good looking in all his darkness and Esma felt the heat between her legs. Maybe they did need a honeymoon.
She lo
oked away, not meeting his gaze. “I need to shower,” she muttered.
She stepped into the bathroom, the beautiful big bathroom. It was everything she’d always wanted and never had. A tub for two below a large square window, the blinds closed now. She imagined being in the tub with Rusya, in the dark, with a few candles. Sinking into the hot water, maybe some bubbles, soft music. Kissing and touching. Making love. Two sinks, his and hers and she saw her few items on the counter by one of the sinks. The large mirror on the wall so if she were sitting on the vanity and Rusya were there, between her legs, holding her, he could watch as he fucked her. She drew in a breath at the thought as her vagina clenched.
She turned towards the shower, thinking she should have a cold one. It was big, a glass door on a hinge, a bench, and a large mirror, her shampoos and soaps already there, next to Rusya’s sitting on seamless, inset shelves. She turned on the water, the showerhead, droplets of warm rain. As she undid the knot on her bathrobe, Rusya was there, behind her, drawing the robe from her shoulders, down her arms, discarding it on the floor, his pajama pants next to it. He guided her into the shower, held her to him as the warm steamy water rained over them, and then seared her with a long, greedy kiss.
She wrapped her hands around his neck as he threaded his fingers through her hair, the kiss deepening, their tongues dancing, her lips stinging as he nipped the lower one, then kissed her too hard. She brought her hand down his chest to his penis, hard, erect, ready. Wrapped her hand around it, couldn’t bridge it, too big, but she gripped it tightly, stroked it as he let out a hiss of air and trailed his lips down her neck. She wanted to drop to her knees, take his cock in her mouth, taste him, but he held her to him when she tried.
“Let me,” she said.
“No.” The word strangled in his throat. No explanation and she let it be as his breathing deepened. He dropped his hand to her pussy, his fingers in her folds, running through them, stroking her clit roughly, causing a flair of pain, of desire, of need.
She cried out at his handling, fast, forceful, too much and as she tried to step back he picked her up, his hands under her ass. She opened her legs and he settled her onto his cock, as she guided him to her, her tightness welcoming him, tightening around him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her legs around his back and dropped her head into the crook of his neck as he thrust up hard into her, his fingers biting into her ass.
“Fuck,” he growled, slamming her against the wall, flattening her as he drove into her. Out of control and Esma felt his primacy flowing from him – the way he held her, the way he fucked her. His hands moved to her thighs, and he tightened his grip, hard, bruising. Each thrust a sensation reverberating from inside and out, driving her passion, and she bucked her body against his, her nails raking his back, her teeth sinking into his shoulder.
He dropped to his knees, bringing her with him, not stopping, not checking on her. He was lost, a haze of desire, passion, pouring out of him into her. Everything, she felt it all. Felt the heat, the pain, the pleasure roar through her, forgetting him, forgetting everything as she leapt off the edge, spiraled up, then down, her orgasm crashing through her, shaking her to the core. She heard herself cry out, sounded distant to her ears, keening his name as he fucked her.
Then his groans became louder, his hands gripping her flesh. “Fuck!” he shouted as he came. “Fuck!” And he pumped into her as he held her to him. Until there was nothing left, and still he held her, his head dropping to her shoulder, his lips grazing the flesh, then back to her mouth, kissing her desperately, deeply. They stayed that way, his hands in her hair now, his lips on her mouth. Until she was breathless. Until Rusya came back. He moved his face back from hers a few inches. Smiled. Open, sincere, touching his eyes and leaving her heart hammering.
“Are you okay?” He had her back pressed against the wall, his cock still half-hard inside her.
She nodded and shook her head at the same time. “Fuck, Rusya. I don’t think I can walk.”
He groaned, dropped his head to her neck again, raked his teeth across her skin. “What are we going to do?”
She wondered about that too. They were willful, both of them, which brought the passion, in so many different ways. And he, always things his way, even the sex. Not letting her blow him, deciding everything. What were they going to do?
He disentangled himself from her, helped her to her feet and then standing so close, using the soap to wash her, heating her up again, he pushed her against the wall of the shower, pulled her hands up over her head, wrapped the fingers of one hand around her wrists and held them while he attacked her with his other hand, pressed against her, his hard, dark eyes staring into hers as he fucked her with his fingers, used her desire to stroke her pussy, brought the wetness to her ass and invaded it with a finger. Relentlessly, until her moans turned into a scream and her orgasm ripped through her. Her knees buckled and she would have fallen if he hadn’t been holding her up with his body. The tremors started everywhere, her vagina, her clit, her ass, spread down to her toes and finally, ended at her womb, pulsing longer than she thought was possible.
Rusya stepped back from her, picked up the bar of soap and washed himself as she leaned against the shower wall, eyes on him, not moving, actually unable to move. If he was trying to fuck her into submission, it might work. He stepped out when he was done, dried himself and put on his pajama pants. A glance at her, a small smile as he noted she was still pressed up against the wall, still catching her breath. Then he left, closing the door behind him.
Esma closed her eyes once she was alone, let her fingers trace their way down to her pussy, still a little pulsing. She let out a shaky breath and a whispered, “Fuck.” Then when her heart stopped hammering, she finished her shower.
Later, they sat together on the sofa, both reading the paper, not talking, but this time, it felt right. The not talking.
Chapter 66
Marisol was nervous as she sat in the backseat of the car next to her husband, on their way to Rusya’s house. It had been a long hard few weeks. Katerina whisking her away, actually taking her out of province, into Alberta, to Calgary. Refusing to let her use a phone to call Anto. Explaining that Rusya’s plane had crashed while he and Esma were on board.
Esma! She never thought she’d see the woman again. The little Turk who saved her life. She never had the chance to show her thanks. And the idea of losing Rusya in a plane crash sent her into a spiral. Mourning him, not knowing what was going on. Then after, even after, when Katerina told her that Anto had called, that Rusya was alive, Esma too but at Jackman’s, Anto refused to talk to her on the phone, wouldn’t let her come home. Rusya knew about him and Jackman. He wanted her safe. She was hysterical, angry, more than she had ever been in her entire life. Beyond the fear she felt last summer when Anto, a stranger then, kidnapped her and held her in a remote cabin.
She wanted him safe. She raged at Katerina who let her, tried to calm her, console her and then when Anto came to get them, raged at him. It was a fight like they’d never had because this time, Anto crossed a line with her. He held information from her, made himself unavailable to her, and put his life on the line without her.
Anto was surprised at her reaction, then angry that she wasn’t backing down, and then a dawning, a realization that they were partners no matter how imbalanced their relationship was. Not that she would ever leave him – the root of her anger stemmed from her fear of losing him. The sex was more passionate, which she hadn’t thought possible, but something lit up in her. A desperation so deep that she lost her passivity. She needed him desperately in a primitive, carnal way. And he needed her in return.
They were still finding their way back to each other. She had trouble forgiving him for what he did and he had trouble giving his power up to her. And Rusya inviting them over for dinner, perhaps a gesture of goodwill, no hard feelings and all that. The first time for her since he found out about Anto’s duplicity and hers by extension. He promised Anto she was sa
fe, but it was a meaningless promise if he couldn’t make the same promise to Anto, and he hadn’t. She needed to get him alone. She would make Rusya promise her, she needed to hear him tell her Anto was safe.
And Esma, he was married to Esma. Anto told her what happened. The entire story as he knew it, Esma married, Esma pregnant. Esma sober. Rusya knew almost everything now, but he didn’t know how Esma saved her life last summer. Another secret kept from the mob boss and Marisol wondered why. Maybe because everything seemed so complicated. Maybe because last summer, Anto thought Rusya might have been behind the attacks on Mari. In the big picture it was a little secret, but it could trip them up in the future and Rusya would see it as another betrayal. Maybe a last straw for him.
She told this to Anto, pushed Anto to tell him. Another big fight, Anto making her promise she’d keep her mouth shut. It angered her that he didn’t trust her to follow his lead. So much simmering anger and resentment in her right now and she hadn’t yet found a path away from it.
Janice met them at the door when they arrived at Rusya’s and led them to Rusya’s office. As they entered, Esma and Rusya, who had been seated on the sofa, stood up. Mari studied Esma. Last summer, the little Turk tracked Anto to his house in Whistler, bonded with Mari while she was high and Esma was drunk. Saved them all from certain death when the bad guys blew up Anto’s home, then killed two men with a knife, and carried their rifles on her back while she led Mari to safety. Last summer, she had a smile that split her face and a spirit that made Mari think of mischievous elves and dancing fairies. Now, she seemed smaller and frailer. More contained, less animated, serious.
Mari felt her eyes water as Rusya introduced her to Esma. The two shook hands as if they were strangers, not two women who had been through so much together. And Mari, remembering the last time she saw Esma, the small woman’s whispered confidences about a difficult life, to bring Mari to an understanding of why she and Anto were who they were. Standing here now, and Mari owed her so much.
