I love her.
I thought that I was protecting her by leaving.
I walked away from her so easily. And yet, here I am going back to her because seeing her with another man makes me want to kill—to torture.
There’s also the fact that I cannot stop thinking about her, no matter what I do to try and rid my thoughts of her, she’s right there in the forefront of my mind every waking fucking minute.
Maybe I don’t know what love feels like. Emiliya tells me that she loves me, and I say it in return to appease her, but I don’t know what the emotion feels like. I understand what the need to protect my sister feels like, and what the need to protect Ashley feels like.
I close my eyes as the plane ascends into the bright, blue sky, taking me closer to where I belong. Closer to the woman who holds my heart hostage. I think about that. If I truly loved her, wouldn’t I give her what her heart desires? Wouldn’t I relent and give her a child? Marry her and give her my last name?
I second guess my mission.
Perhaps I should let her live her life and leave her alone. She’s obviously moving on from me. That big, fucking asshole was pressed up against her. The images of them together are now burned in my brain.
I shake my head.
No—I will see her, I will talk to her, and I will make sure that this is what she desires. I don’t know what I can offer her except what we had before. As long as she doesn’t try to push me for more. I want what we had back; I want her in my life and in my bed.
I miss her.
She’ll probably tell me no, seeing as she’s found another man to warm her bed, and maybe he’s not as fucked up as me. Maybe he can give her all the things that I can’t—like love, marriage, and a family. Or maybe, just maybe, she could give up those things for me?
I pick up my phone and I call the only person I know who can help me. A man that I should have called six months ago, but was too fucking stubborn to contact. Tatyana’s father, my Pakhan in Russia, the man who mentored me—Sergei Orlov.
“Orlov,” he grunts into the phone.
“I need your advice,” I murmur.
“About the Bratva?” he asks.
“Nyet.”
“About the fact that you’re a fucking asshole?” he barks.
“Yeah,” I sigh.
“I can help you with that. First, you need to double check, make sure your head is completely out of your ass, or what I tell you won’t fucking matter anyway,” he says.
I grind my teeth together and try not to be a smartass to a man that I’ve called to ask for advice. Then I sigh out an exhale and close my eyes in a long blink before opening them again.
“I’m ready to listen,” I somberly announce.
“You were a fool to push her away and abandon her,” he explains. I open my mouth to speak, but he’s already talking. “As her Master, which, let’s face it, that was exactly what you were to her, you broke a trust that will not be easy to repair. Though, it is fixable. Everything is fixable with patience and hard work.”
“How?” I ask.
“You have to submit yourself to her,” he says. I scoff at his words. “You have to relieve her of her burdens of caring and worrying about herself, because you need to care and worry about her more than she does herself. You are not the most important person in your relationship. You must serve her as she serves you. It isn’t about you, it’s about her. I think since helping to heal her you’ve forgotten this.”
“I left her so that she could be happy and so that she could have the things she wanted out of life, the things I can’t give her,” I say in my defense.
“This is your problem. You left because you won’t give her the things in which she truly desires, which makes you a piece of shit dominant and master, and you don’t deserve her.”
“Wait a goddamn minute,” I call out.
“Oh, shut up, you spoiled prince. You think that she wanted you to leave her? You think that she can live a normal life? You are wrong. I watched you at the wedding, both of you. She’s your true submissive; she would do anything for you. Unfortunately, she gave you all the power and you shit on it. You didn’t appreciate it for what it was. And let me guess? Now, you’ve seen or heard evidence that another man is sniffing around and you’ve decided to make your play for her? Proving, yet again, that you are a spoiled prince.”
“Sergei, you tread on thin ice,” I warn.
“Because I speak the truth? Man the fuck up, Yakov. A little blonde haired, brown eyed, American girl has your balls in the palm of her hand and it pisses you off. Wake-up. My little black haired beauty who is kneeling at my feet right now? She too has my balls in the palm of her hand. It’s not about power. It’s not about who is the stronger of the two. It’s about mutual respect and love. If you give her what she needs, I swear she will give you everything you could ever desire. If you don’t, then you don’t fucking deserve her.”
Seregi doesn’t give me a chance to respond before he ends the call. I stare at my blank screen and think about his words. He’s not the first man to tell me that I don’t deserve Ashley. Yet, this is the first time I truly believe it.
I didn’t give her what she desired—I can’t give her what she desires.
I prop my elbows on my knees and bury my face in my hands. For the first time in my life, I’m conflicted. I didn’t even feel this conflicted when I pulled the trigger and shot my father in the head; but when it comes to Ashley and the future I want with her, I’m conflicted.
I don’t want to ruin anymore of her life, but I can’t imagine not having her in my own life, either.
I don’t know what the fuck to do.
I’m so lost.
I SEEM TO FIND myself standing in front of my mirror often, just as I am today, with my eyes scrutinizing my body and trying to avoid the places I don’t like to look.
Tonight, I’m wearing a dark red shift dress. It isn’t what I would call sexy, as it doesn’t cling to my body provocatively, however it is very short. I also think it’s classic. I slip into my very tall, silver sandals, and once again, scrutinize my appearance.
I look okay enough. My hair is styled in large, soft curls and my bangs are still in their slash across my forehead; my makeup is heavier, as it’s evening, and my handbag a pretty shimmery silver that matches my shoes. I bear no cleavage, as my dress is high cut, but it shows quite a bit of leg.
I wish I felt prettier. I wish that I felt cleaner and more worthy of the man that is going to pick me up for dinner. I don’t know that I ever will. I don’t know that I will ever feel good enough, or clean enough, for any man.
A knock on the door tells me that my date has arrived.
I look through the peephole and I see that it’s Mika. I open the door with a smile, a fake smile, but a smile. His gaze starts at my feet and slowly work their way up my body, roaming over my hair before they connect with my eyes.
“You’re breathtaking, mishka,” he murmurs.
“Thank you,” I whisper, shaking my head as I step out of my apartment, closing the door behind me.
“I should take you back inside and order take out so that no other man can look at you,” he murmurs as he wraps his hand around my hip. Then he pulls me into his body and lowers his face to meet mine. “But let them look; you’re not theirs, you’re with me.”
I grin up at him, unbelieving of his words, but enjoying them nonetheless. It feels nice to be told that I’m pretty. Yakov often praised me, but never my appearance, only my service to him. If I did something he approved of, I was praised. He would call me a good girl—something I miss greatly. But the only men who have ever noted my physical appearance are Gregori, when he first took me, and now Mika. Though I don’t want to think of Gregori, he did feed me many compliments in the very beginning.
“Did you have a good day at work?” I ask as Mika guides me downstairs and into the parking garage.
“I did, mainly because I knew my evening would be spent with you,” he whispers
.
I don’t respond with anything other than a blush as I slide into the car.
As soon as Mika sinks into the driver’s seat, he puts the car in drive and wraps his hand around my thigh before we take off. Mika’s touch isn’t anything new, but tonight it seems different—maybe because I feel differently toward him.
I’m going to try and let him in, as Kirill and Ziven suggested I do. Though I want to push him away, I can’t. He is as they’ve drilled into my head, a good man. Yakov isn’t coming back, and the more hours that pass, the more I realize that it’s true—he’s not.
Mika is here, and he’s gentle, patient, and kind. I need to open myself up as much as I can and let him in.
“Tonight we’re eating at Kirill’s restaurant. Is that okay with you?” he asks, giving my thigh a squeeze.
“Yes,” I murmur, thinking about the last time I was there.
It was a few months ago for Kiska, Kirill’s daughter, and her ballet recital celebration dinner. I was a ball of nerves, and I almost couldn’t eat the delicious meal he had served, family style.
I was grateful that I didn’t have to worry about ordering, but just being in a restaurant that was full of so many people made me extremely anxious.
Tatyana must have noticed because she kept grabbing my hand and holding it throughout the evening in a show of support. It was nice of her, very nice of her, but tonight she won’t be there.
I look down at Mika’s hand on my thigh and let out an exhale before I turn to him. I take in his strong jaw and profile, noticing how serious, but also how relaxed he looks.
He’ll support me, and he’ll take care of me. I don’t know him well, but I know these things about him. They’re just part of who he is, ingrained in his personal makeup. I like that about him.
We don’t say anything else as we pull up to the valet parking. The attendant opens my door and without second guessing or looking at Mika for permission, I take the man’s hand as he helps me out of the car. A few seconds later, Mika is at my side, slipping his hand to my lower back and brushing his lips across my cheek.
“That was very good, Ashley. I’m extremely impressed,” he whispers against my ear, his hot breath sliding over my skin and sending a shiver over me.
“Thank you,” I whisper, looking down at my feet as we walk.
Once we’re inside of the restaurant, I stand back and allow him to talk to the hostess. He laughs at something she says and I look up at him, watching his head tip back slightly as I listen to his warm, deep laughter fill the space around us.
It sounds beautiful.
I haven’t had a lot of laughter in my life from the men I’ve known. When I hear it, it always sounds odd to me, but with Mika, it sounds absolutely beautiful.
“Our table is ready,” Mika announces as he walks toward me and holds out his hand. I slip my hand in his, and together, we follow the hostess to our seats.
“You know her?” I ask once we’ve been seated at a booth in the back.
“I do. We come here often for meetings,” he shrugs. “She’s a nice girl, in college to become an architect.”
“Wow,” I whisper.
“You should look into college,” he says as he motions for somebody to come over, presumably the waiter. “White wine?” he asks. I nod before I reply to his comment.
“I haven’t finished high school,” I whisper, looking down at my fingers, which are now twisting together in my lap.
“Two waters, a white wine, and a beer,” Mika orders.
He then moves. A second later, he’s sitting next to me with his hand wrapped around my cheek as he gently tips my head back to look into my eyes.
“You haven’t finished high school?” he asks.
I hate that I have to admit this, again. I feel so embarrassed every time I say the words out loud. I shake my head instead of verbally answering him.
“Gregori stole so much from you,” he murmurs as he lowers his head and rests his forehead against mine. I suck in a ragged breath and wait for him to say something else. “If this is something you want, I’ll help you with that.”
My eyes widen and my mouth gapes open slightly, his words surprising me and knocking me completely off kilter.
“You’d help me?” I rasp.
“It wouldn’t be a diploma from a high school. You would have to take classes for your GED,” he explains.
“Seriously?” I breathe.
“Yes, Ashley. I told you that I’m here to help you discover what you want, be there for you, and support you. This is all part of that promise that I made to you. I didn’t mean it only sexually speaking. I meant it for all aspects of your life,” he whispers before he brushes his lips against mine.
I don’t get the chance to respond as our waiter appears again and we order our food. This time, Mika asks if he may order for me. I nod in agreement, grateful that I don’t have to nervously stare and stutter over the menu. I don’t understand anything he’s ordered either, as he’s speaking in gorgeous, fluent Russian.
“I ordered a few appetizers, a couple entrée’s, and some sides. Then I ordered a couple desserts for later. We’ll share,” he shrugs.
“That sounds like so much food,” I mutter.
“We’ll make a night of it, savor it, as it’s supposed to be done. We’re going to spend the evening talking, eating good Russian cuisine, and getting to know each other better,” he announces.
“There isn’t much to know about me,” I say.
“Sure there is. You have hopes, dreams, and aspirations just like everybody else. The first step is discovering them, then we can find a way for you to achieve them,” he grins.
“I would like a high school degree,” I mutter.
“Then tomorrow, we’ll research that.” He nods as the waiter sets a couple of plates in front of us.
“Russian Blini,” he says, pointing to a dish that looks like a pancake with some kind of black things piled onto a white cream in the middle. “It’s like a crepe with red caviar and sour cream.”
My eyes widen at the word caviar. I don’t know much, but I know that that means fish eggs. I wrinkle my nose at the thought of eating them.
“You’ll like them, give it a try,” he murmurs as he cuts one and holds it on a fork up to my lips.
I open my mouth, because obedience is still something I’m very much trained for. I don’t ever think that it will go away. I chew the food and am surprised that I don’t hate it. The caviar isn’t completely disgusting. It’s a little salty, but mixed with the crepe and the sour cream, it’s all very delicious.
“Oh, is this a roll?” I ask as I reach for a beautiful rounded brown roll.
“This is pirozhki. It’s a roll, but this one is stuffed with mushrooms. It’s very good.”
I turn the roll over in my hand and decide to place it down on my plate and cut it with a knife instead of just shove it in my mouth. Once I’ve cut it, I take a bite and moan at how heavenly it is. Normally, I’m not a fan of mushrooms, but mixed with the warm bread and whatever kind of sauce they use, it’s perfect.
“It’s good, yeah?” he chuckles.
We spend the rest of the evening doing exactly as Mika wished to do. We talk. There is no deep, meaningful, heavy conversation between us, and I find that I enjoy it. It’s nice to let go and forget some of the darkness that seems to surround me and just breathe. I drink the wine that Mika ordered me, and I don’t object when the waiter fills my glass several times throughout the evening.
“What is it?” I ask when the waiter finally brings our dessert. It’s late, and we’re the last people in the restaurant.
“Muraveinik. It is a baked cookie dough crumbled and mixed with nuts and caramel frosting. A sweet treat for my beauty,” he murmurs.
I blush at his words before I sink my fork into the tall cake. Then I bring it to my lips and taste it. If I thought that dinner was superb, and it was, then the muraveinik is out of this world.
“This is amazing,” I say.<
br />
“Everybody thinks that we can’t do food. We do food, and we do food well in Russia. Trust me, I did not want for anything while I was there. Though I missed some of my favorite American foods, I had plenty of delicious things to eat and enjoyed every moment of it.”
“I would be fat,” I say, shaking my head as I take another bite of the dessert.
“Not possible,” he chuckles.
I enjoy my dessert way too much. I eat the entirety of it before Mika takes his wallet out and throws several hundred dollar bills on the table. Then he stands and walks over to me, holding out his hand for me to take. I do, wobbling a bit on my unsteady, wine legs.
“I think I drank too much,” I whisper with a giggle.
“Come now, let’s get you home and in bed,” he laughs as he pulls me in closer to his side.
I’m giggling as we walk to his car. Then, perhaps because of the wine, or maybe it was all the delicious food, I stop. Mika turns to me and I don’t hesitate as I wrap my arms around his shoulders and lift up on the toes of my high heels before I press my lips against his. He grunts and I slide my tongue between his lips as my hands move to the nape of his neck.
As soon as my tongue touches his, he moans and spins me around, pressing my back against the car as his hands grab hold of the backs of my thighs. He then slides them to cup my panty-clad ass. His tongue duals with mine for a split second before I melt into him and give him full control over the kiss, over me as his hands squeeze my ass roughly and his tongue fucks my mouth.
I can barely contain my rage at watching that piece of shit manhandle my Ashley. He’s all over her, touching her, kissing her. She’s not his—she’s mine.
I growl and grip my steering wheel even harder, wondering how much strength I would need to break the fucker off and throw it at Mika’s fucking blond head.
Living for the Badman (Russian Bratva Book 4) Page 7
