by Holly Bargo
Henry brought in a speech therapist one day, saying, “You’re making good, steady progress with the motor skills, but I can’t fix your tongue. Louisa’s great. She’ll have you spouting poetry in no time.”
Pyotr wondered who would pay for the speech therapist, but had no way to adequately express his concern. He could not help but be proud of himself when he finally wrote a note to Cecily asking that practical question. He wasn’t proud of the wobbly, unsteady handwriting that looked like a five-year-old child’s.
Looking at the handwriting that staggered drunkenly across the paper, Cecily raised teary eyes and enveloped him in a hug.
“Oh, I’m so proud of you!” she enthused. “You can write again!”
The. Money,” he prompted in halting syllables.
Cecily averted her gaze, then decided he deserved honesty. “Vitaly, Iosif, and Gennady are all helping with the costs. I’m saving as much money as I can so we can pay them back.”
“They. Must. Stop.”
Cecily shook her head and said, “No, Pyotr. It’s no sin to accept help when it’s needed—and we do need it. We’ll repay them as we’re able. They understand.”
“I. Have. Money.”
“I know you do. We’ll tap into that when you’re better.”
Temporarily defeated, Pyotr’s head fell back. The next day, he astonished Henry and Louisa with his grim determination to recover as quickly as humanly possible.
“Now I know why they feared you in the cage,” Louisa commented upon catching his hard, focused expression.
“You. Know?”
She aimed a sly grin at him. “I’m a secret aficionado of cage fighting. You fighters are so sexy. When Henry mentioned your name, I had to make sure I was assigned as your speech therapist. My friends are all agog that I’m working with the formidable Ice Bear.”
Pyotr hadn’t realized that he’d be known so far from Cleveland, Ohio. Underground cage fighting usually remained local.
Louisa glared at him with maternal censure. “You’re not going back to the cage, you hear me? Another blow to the head like the one that took you down could very well kill you.”
Pyotr agreed. His cage fighting days were over.
The day he walked across the parlor with no more aid than a cane was cause for celebration. Mrs. Macdougal brought up a dusty bottle of wine from the cellar and Cecily drank a congratulatory glass before kissing him full on the mouth. That was when Pyotr discovered that other parts of his body were waking up, too. His fear that he’d never again be able to make love to her melted away, although having to wait until his erection got the message that there would be no nookie that night made his bladder scream for relief. He almost didn’t reach the bathroom in time.
Four months after moving to San Antonio, Pyotr could dress himself, write legibly, and, if he did not rush, speak clearly. In English and Russian. He considered himself lucky to have retained both languages. In slow, careful words, he thanked Mrs. Macdougal for the use of her front parlor and announced that he would move back upstairs with his fiancée.
“You need to marry that girl,” she said.
“I want to, but...”
“Don’t give me any buts,” the old woman chided. “That girl loves you. She wouldn’t have put up with your grumpy self all this time if she didn’t. You need to marry her.”
“I have no employment. I cannot support her.”
“Stupid, prideful man,” Mrs. Macdougal muttered. “I’ll figure something out.”
Several days later after Cecily left for work and Henry and Louisa had finished with him for the day, Mrs. Macdougal approached Pyotr. “Get up, boy. You’re coming with me.”
Pyotr glared at her, but obeyed. At her order, he climbed into her car and held on for dear life as she drove several blocks as though no other vehicles shared the streets. His eyes widened when she pulled in front of a martial arts studio.
“Well, get out, boy.” She met his gaze and sighed. “I’ve still got some influence in this town. My youngest sister’s brother-in-law’s second cousin owns this joint. He’s retired military. He’s agreed to work with you to bring you back up to speed.”
Pyotr had no words. But that was okay, because Mrs. Macdougal had plenty.
“Cecily told me what you used to do. I was never partial to boxing or anything like that, but I can see how a big, strong bull like you would find it attractive. Anyway, I told Aaron—that’s the boy’s name, Aaron—that you used to be a professional and were recovering from an injury. He recognized your name, would you believe that? I heard your speech therapist, that hussy, also knows you from the fighting circuit.” She paused to take a breath and grabbed a paperback book from the door pocket. “Now get out. Aaron’s expecting you. I’ll just take a seat on one of those benches there and enjoy the sunshine while I read.”
Still speechless, Pyotr levered himself to an upright position and entered the studio. A short man, built like a fireplug, approached and nodded cordially. “You must be Adeline Macdougal’s project.”
“I believe so,” Pyotr replied, still a little stunned.
“I’m Aaron.” He held out his hand. Pyotr took it and they shook, but without the macho squeezing that immature men attempted to use to assert dominance.
Pyotr had no doubt that Aaron could wipe the floor with him if he so chose. Hell, Mrs. Macdougal could pummel him if she had a mind to.
“Pyotr Idaklyka,” he replied.
Aaron shook his head and released the other man’s hand. “Never thought I’d have the Ice Bear in my studio.”
Pyotr held his silence, although he was again surprised that the instructor recognized him. He wondered without amusement what Maksim’s reaction would have been had he known that Pyotr’s name and reputation had spread beyond the Cleveland metropolitan area. He rather thought that his former boss would have assigned enforcement to someone else and reserved him for the cage fighting circuit where he would likely have generated greater profits for the Bratva.
“Well, come on. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Pyotr followed him onto the thick mats padding the floor.
“Take my hand and squeeze,” Aaron ordered, using the tone of command developed in his years as a drill sergeant.
Pyotr obeyed. He took the other man’s hand and squeezed.
“Not much grip left,” Aaron observed without judgment. “Don’t worry, Ice Bear. We’ll have you back in fighting form in no time.”
Pyotr found himself adding strength training to speech and physical therapy. As Aaron predicted, he pushed, bullied, and commanded Pyotr into exerting himself beyond what he thought possible. He came to crave the discipline and found himself feeling more like a normal man as his feet pounded the pavement when fifty yards extended to a mile and then five miles. Within weeks he began sparring. Sure, he sparred with skinny little girls who barely came up to his chest, but the movements slowly and surely returned to muscle memory.
I’m back, he thought with deep satisfaction as he extended a hand to Aaron to help him stand.
The sweating instructor accepted the assistance from where he’d been thrown to the mat, nodded, smiled, and said, “The Ice Bear’s back.”
Chapter 17
Pyotr rolled over and curled his body around Cecily, who sighed and snuggled closer to him. He’d counted it a triumph when he could finally sleep in their bed again, but six nights a week she arrived home near midnight, dead on her feet after having worked a twelve-hour shift. She looked so exhausted, he hadn’t the heart to demand intimacy. So, he contented himself—never mind his unruly cock—with holding her close at night, feeling her thinning curves against his hardening muscles.
Regular physical activity in the martial art studio plus physical therapy and additional exercise were restoring his strength, coordination, and agility. Likely, his left leg would always drag a bit and his left arm would never match his right for strength and quickness, but he could whip damned near anyone who sparred with him now. He w
ould not ever return to his former prowess, but what he could wasn’t so shabby.
If only he could get Cecily to work less, to quit driving herself into the ground. His hand slid over her hip, feeling the protruding bone. He stroked down her the outside of her thigh which used to feel pliant and yielding and now felt firm and... not so yielding. He missed her full, soft curves. He detested the way her clothing hung on her. He absolutely hated the dark circles under her eyes and the way weariness imprinted her features.
He was going to have to do something about that.
If nothing else, Cecily needed to relax and regain her energy, but he wanted—no, needed—to make love to her.
Not for the first time did he wish that she had stayed in Cleveland, instead of pursuing her dreams and issuing that ultimatum.
Not for the first time did Pyotr admit, albeit privately, that he felt great relief in no longer having to answer to Maksim’s whims and summons. He didn’t particularly enjoy beating up people who couldn’t fight back.
He inhaled, breathing deeply of the warm scent of Cecily’s skin and hair. His cock swelled with anticipation. Sighing, he glanced at the clock. No, he would not, could not, wake Cecily. She’d barely had five hours of sleep.
Monday was her day off. Pyotr once again fixed his determination to let her sleep as long as possible, to be as lazy as she wanted, to rest, damn it. He’d fix something rich and fattening for her to eat, since that Jaime Tobiano apparently wanted his best cook to wither away to skin and bones.
Pyotr frowned. If his eyes were open, they would have narrowed. He did not like Chef Jaime Tobiano, who wanted Cecily for his own. He knew Cecily felt she owed the man for her job, for the opportunity he gave her. Pyotr disagreed; Cecily owed no one. Her culinary brilliance needed trumped-up Tex-Mex chef to sponsor her in his kitchen. But words to that effect only offended her and he had long since learned that what hurt her hurt him doubly so.
So, he kept his mouth shut.
He stroked his hand down her side again, reveling in the satiny texture of her skin.
For the briefest moment, he considered lifting her leg, stroking her center, easing his swollen, rigid penis inside her. Silently cursing himself for being an animal, an uncouth barbarian, he pushed the idea aside.
His Cecily was no whore to be treated as such. She was so much more than a means for physical relief. She held his heart in her reddened, roughened hands.
Pyotr stroked his hand down her side again, lingering over her flank, that part of her body that stubbornly held onto her former plumpness, the thick thighs and plump buttocks she had once lamented and that he had so greatly enjoyed.
Chert voz'mi, he would be obliged to jack himself off to find relief now.
With a muffled grunt, he rolled away from Cecily. She sighed again in her sleep, rolling toward his warmth. He pressed a barely-there kiss to her cheek and whispered, “Ya lyublyu tebya.” He rose and padded across the bedroom. The dresser drawer opened almost silently. He grabbed some clothes walked with quiet steps to the bathroom where he took care of his erection before throwing on a pair of shorts, tee shirt, socks, and running shoes. Minutes later his feet pounded the concrete sidewalks and sweat poured freely down his body as he ran.
Pyotr’s route took him past an older strip shopping center that nonetheless seemed to remain in business despite the newer shops being built less than a mile away. Urban sprawl. That morning he glanced at the storefronts as he jogged past and noticed that one of them had a sign in the window. He veered closer and read it: FOR LEASE. Cecily’s long-ago mentioned idea sparked bright and alluring.
He stopped and pulled out his phone from a zippered pocket and dialed.
“Zdravstvuyte?”
“Vitaly, it’s Pyotr.”
“How are you doing, Pyotr? It’s good to hear from you.”
“I’m much better now, getting back into shape. How are Gia and Emilia?”
“That’s a great improvement. Gia is lovely, as always; she has finally gotten the EPA to act regarding the findings related to her research of Lake Erie water pollution. Little Emilia is walking now, getting into everything.” After a pause, Vitaly asked, “You’re not going back into the ring, are you?”
“No more cage fights,” Pyotr promised. “Hey, what happened to all my stuff? My apartment?”
“Iosif and I put everything into storage. The lease on your apartment expired months ago.”
“Ah. Sell it off. The furniture, my appliances. Sell it off.”
“What are you doing, Pyotr?”
“I’m going to open my own martial arts studio.”
“Systema Spetsnaz,” Vitaly murmured.
“Yes. Everywhere I see karate, judo, jujitsu, even Krav Maga. But nowhere do I see Russian martial arts. It’s a niche and no one is better at it than I.”
Vitaly did not respond. Pyotr wasn’t sure whether that was because he disagreed with his assessment of his prowess or whether he disapproved of the venture.
“You never did lack for confidence,” Vitaly said carefully.
Pyotr huffed a laugh. “I’m not as good as I once was. I know that. I’m slower, not as...capable as I used to be. But I’m still good, very good. And I can teach.”
Vitaly grunted. “You are a good instructor.”
“I am,” Pyotr said, remembering the days when he and Vitaly served in the Russian military. They had taken advantage of both his lethal prowess and his proficiency as a teacher. He sighed. “Vitaly, do this last thing for me. Cecily is working herself to death trying to earn enough money to repay you and Iosif for the cost of my care.”
“Pyotr, you are our brother. We are glad to do this for you.”
“Vitaly, you have a family to support and, soon, so shall Iosif. I cannot rely upon Cecily any longer. It is my duty, my honor, to provide for her. I am a man, not a child.”
“Bog,” Vitaly relented. “We shall sell all but your personal items. Those we will ship to you.”
“Spasibo. I will see if a local bank here can transfer my funds and close my accounts in Cleveland.”
After a few meaningless pleasantries, the call ended and Pyotr decided he was satisfied with the result. He glanced at the telephone number on the sign in the storefront window and called.
“Basil and Harbrecht Properties. How may I direct your call?”
“I wish to lease the storefront in the shopping center on Magnolia Street.”
“Please hold while I transfer you.”
A short while later, Pyotr had an appointment to meet an agent to discuss leasing the property. Feeling like he’d accomplished something, he finished his morning run.
Cecily still slept when he tiptoed into the shower, which didn’t surprise him. Emerging from the shower and dressed in khaki pants and short sleeved shirt, he got busy in the kitchen to make syrniki and eggs with sausage and dill. The simple and hearty meal would go well with a pot of hot tea, liberally sweetened with honey and brightened with lemon.
Perhaps the smells of cooking woke her, or maybe the banging of pots and pans did it. Cecily emerged from the bedroom looking delightfully rumpled.
“Oh, you’re making breakfast.”
“Da. Sit and eat. You have been working too hard. Let me take care of you.” Pyotr gestured toward the dinette with the spatula in his hand.
“What are you making?”
“Russian breakfast,” he replied. “It will help put the meat back on your bones.”
Cecily looked down at herself. “I thought men liked their women slender. I know I haven’t been this thin since I was six.”
Pyotr frowned, although he knew she exaggerated. “You are wasting away.”
“Hardly.”
“I am big man,” he grunted. “I do not want my woman to break beneath me when I am between her legs.”
“Oh! Oh.”
Pyotr rather liked the way her cheeks turned bright pink and her legs wobbled. He knew she remembered their passionate coupling. God knew he certainly
did. He filled a plate and carried it to the table.
“Sit,” he repeated. “Please.”
The “please” came softly, almost pleading. That buckled Cecily’s legs more effectively than his sexy growl ever could. She looked up at him as he set another plate on the table and took his seat.
“Thank you, Pyotr.” She lifted the mug to sip the tea he’d poured for her.
“I have decided you will no longer support me.”
“Huh?” she spluttered, nearly spitting out the tea.
“I am a man.”
“Yes, I’d figured that one out for myself,” she replied in a dry tone.
“Is my duty to take care of you.”
His accent thickened. He dropped his articles. Cecily knew he felt deeply about this, but, damn it, so did she. With deliberate care, she set down the mug.
“Pyotr, are you leaving me?”
“Kakiye? What?” he barked. “Nyet. Of course, not. Why do you think that?”
Meeting his gaze with a calm she did not feel, Cecily said, “Because you said I could no longer support you.” She bowed her head and blinked away tears. “I’m sorry what I’ve done hasn’t been enough.”
“Nyet. Glupaya zhenshchina.” He rose from his chair and went around the table to kneel beside her. He took her left hand in his and kissed the palm. Then he turned her hand over. “You see this ring? This ring is a sign of my promise to you. I never break my promises.”
“I don’t understand.”
He hated the tears that trickled down her sweet, soft cheeks. “I am a man, your man. It is my duty and my pride to take care of you and our children.”
“But we don’t have children.”
“Not yet.” He kissed her palm again. “Marry me, Cecily. Let me take care of you like a man should.”
“Do you mean it? Really?”
Where, he wondered, had she developed his crippling sense of low self-esteem? Perhaps, he reasoned, it was her weariness talking. Yes, that was it. She was merely exhausted and unable to think clearly.
