by Nicole Fox
She arches her body into mine, digs her fingers into my shoulder blades, and looks me in the eyes when her orgasm roars through her. I finish moments later, panting and pressing my face into the hollow of her neck.
She smells like lemons and honey, and I take a deep breath of her, getting my fill until the next time. Then, I push away from her, zip up my pants, and leave her naked and alone on the couch.
21
Eve
I haven’t seen Luka in a month.
Well, I’ve seen him, but not him. Not the way I saw him the night in the sitting room. I’d been playing the piano, thinking about him, and then suddenly, he was there. Like, really there. The way he used to be. The rage that had settled in the lines of his face was gone, and for a moment while we were having sex, I thought maybe he’d forgiven me. But then he left, and I didn’t see him for days.
When I saw him again, the angry lines were there around his mouth and eyes, and he didn’t talk to me or look at me or touch me. He didn’t touch me during the “six-day window,” either. He didn’t even come home those days. I wandered the mansion like a ghost, trapped on the other side with no one to talk to.
Perhaps that is why I’m so excited to see my father. I haven’t seen him since the wedding, and before, going a few weeks without seeing him would constitute as a blessing, but now I’m desperate for human interaction.
He had to ask permission from Luka, and apparently, my father had an easier time getting in touch with my own husband than I have because he texted and told me he would be over for lunch. Two guards showed up mid-morning to stand watch. I assumed Luka sent them to keep an eye on us. He probably wonders whether we aren’t planning to torch the mansion and make a run for it.
So, to display total transparency, I spent all morning in public spaces. I cook in the kitchen and then, instead of going up to my room between steps, I wait in the living room. I read or practice the piano with two sets of narrowed eyes on me at all times. When the soldiers report back to Luka, I want them to tell him how boring I was to watch.
My father arrives just as I’m pouring the spicy chicken curry over bowls of white rice. I usually make Italian meals for my dad—he thinks there is no better way to a man’s heart than homemade pasta—but I was desperate for something warm and spicy.
“Do you always have guards on you?” he asks, pointing at the guards as he walks into the kitchen.
“No, they are here special for you,” I say, smiling and holding back tears at the sight of him. It feels so good to see a friendly face. I cross the kitchen and throw my arms around his neck in a way I haven’t since I was a little girl. He hugs me back, pressing a kiss to my cheek.
“How are you doing, kid?”
I waver, wondering how much of the truth to tell him. “Not as good as I hoped.”
He frowns. “I’m sorry, dear. Ivan Volkov can be a hard son of a bitch, and I think his son might be even worse. I’m sure you’ll win him over, though.” He nips my chin with his thumb and then brushes past me to the food. “What are you serving up today?”
After not seeing him in six weeks, I thought we would spend more time talking about how married life has been, but I’m sure the conversation will circle back to me. I follow him to the island, grab our bowls, and walk them into the dining room.
“Spicy chicken curry. I held back on some of the garam masala so you wouldn’t get heartburn.”
“I don’t know what that is, but thank you,” he says, taking his plate and shoveling a large bite into his mouth.
He seems to eat without tasting anything, which I hope means he likes it. “How have you been, Dad? How are things?”
Since I haven’t seen Luka, the only thing I know about the outside world and what is going on with the Furinos is what Chiara has told me, which mostly relates to who is dating who and which men she has slept with. Not exactly high-priority information.
“Not great, kiddo,” he says, taking another bite and shaking his head. He seems to be balding more than the last time I saw him, and there are new lines in his forehead. Things must be bad. “I knew this deal with the Volkovs would stretch us a little thin, but they took more of our territory than I bargained for. We are losing money, and I’m not sure how to make up the cost. I want to expand, but I can’t get a clear answer from Ivan where their lines are, and if we push too far, we could end up toeing forbidden territory. And I don’t have any interest in breaking the deal and starting a new feud.”
“That’s too bad,” I say. My dad has never talked to me much about the business side of things, so I’m surprised he is being so forthcoming. I decided to do the same. “The Volkovs are upset about the attack at the wedding.”
“Yeah, what was that about?” he asks in a disinterested manner, as if it was a fist fight instead of an assassination attempt.
“I’m not sure, but Luka thinks I may have had something to do with it.”
He shakes his head. “No. He knows you didn’t. There is no way. Don’t worry, everything will be fine.”
“Dad, I don’t think so,” I say. “I mean, Luka will hardly speak to me. He thinks—”
“He is a Volkov,” he says, as if this explains everything. “He’ll come around. He’ll forgive you in his own time.”
“But—”
“Have they said anything about what they’re doing to learn more about the attack?” he asks, cutting me off.
“No. I mean, like I said, he isn’t really talking to me.”
“But you’re his wife.”
I sigh, pushing my curry around my bowl. I was craving it all morning, but now that we are finally sitting down to eat, I can’t stomach it. My insides turn and recoil at the sight and smell. I push my bowl away. “Our marriage is a business deal. Luka isn’t confiding anything in me.”
My father’s lips press together in frustration. “That is no way for a relationship to work. You have to talk to one another. You need to let him know he can open up to you.”
He says it like it is so simple, and I almost want to laugh. At one point, I thought I would be that person for Luka. The one person he could relax with, but not now. Now, he looks at me with the same disdain he views everyone else. The door on that reality has slammed shut.
“I don’t think that is going to happen.”
“Try,” he urges, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “What good is it for you to be here if you can’t be useful?”
“Useful?” I narrow my eyes. “What does that mean?”
He smiles. “Come on. I didn’t raise a dummy. You know what it means. Maybe ask Luka about their dealings, find out where the lines are, and report back to Dad. That would be helpful.”
My insides go cold. Luka was right. Not about me, but about my father. My marriage to Luka was meant to end the feud, but my dad can’t let it go. He wants me to be a mole on the inside. He wants me to be a double agent, reporting what I learn back to him, even though he knows how dangerous that would be for me. He knows how much of a risk it would be. He knows that if Luka found out, he could call it a breach of contract and kill me on the spot.
“Okay?” he asks, reaching across the table to pat my hand. “Just a little favor.”
A little favor that could get me killed. I can’t even look at him. I stare down at the table and shake my head, and my dad is so wrapped up in his thoughts, he doesn’t even realize tears are slipping down my face. He tells me he has another meeting and leaves before he has even finished lunch. He kisses me on the cheek as he passes and shows himself out.
When Luka comes home, I’m at the piano again. Since I’ve had nothing but free time, taking on a new hobby has been a good way to keep my mind off of things. I’ve cooked and baked just about everything I know how to make, so even my favorite pastime has lost some of its appeal.
I expect him to march past the sitting room and go straight to his bedroom, but his footsteps hesitate outside the door, and then he comes in. I spin around on the bench, heart pounding against my r
ib cage.
“Hi.” The word is desperate. A lifeline thrown out in hopes he’ll grab hold and pull me in. Because I’m floundering. The meal with my dad did little to comfort me. In fact, it made things worse. I’m alone in this mansion. Alone in this marriage. Alone in this world, and I need someone who cares.
He steps forward and holds out a book. “I bought this for you.”
I grab it too quickly, eager for the human interaction. It is a cookbook. A French cookbook.
“You have another lessen with Cauchon in a few days. I thought you might like to brush up on your French cuisine.”
It is a small gift, but so thoughtful I feel tears burn the backs of my eyes. “Thank you.”
I want to ask him why he got this for me and why he scheduled me another cooking class with Véronique, but I don’t want to break the spell. So, I just smile and run my hands over the book, wondering if it is a peace offering.
“I haven’t seen you around very much,” I say. Understatement of the century, but I’m trying to mend fences, not burn bridges. “Have you been busy?”
He hums a noncommittal response, and I bite my lip. “My father came for lunch today. Though, you already knew that.”
He nods and shoves his hands in his pockets. I want him to sit down and talk to me, but he looks awkward and stiff in the room.
“I made curry, and there are leftovers in the kitchen if you—”
“I have a question,” he says suddenly, cutting me off.
“Okay.” It’s embarrassing how eager I am to please him. “Shoot.”
“Your ex-fiancé, the gunrunner,” he says, as if I have more than one previous engagement. “What’s his name?”
I barely knew the Irish gunrunner, but I didn’t offer up his name on purpose. Because if I did, I knew Luka would go after him. For a multitude of reasons. To ask him about the attack the day of our wedding or to ask him about his arrangement to me. And while I don’t care about the gunrunner at all, I don’t want Luka to put himself in danger. Though, considering the number of times he has come home covered in blood, I suppose that ship has sailed.
“Why does it matter?” I ask.
“I have a nickname for him. It’s Irish, but it translates to ‘horny bull.’” Luka gives me a knowing look and my cheeks flush.
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” I admit, finally voicing the truth I’ve wanted to tell him from the beginning. “I only met him a few times and my dad was always with us.”
Something like relief crosses Luka’s face before the hardened exterior returns. “Do you know his name?”
I nod. “But I don’t understand why you need to know it. Why any of this matters. Just tell me what you are doing, and I—”
“Are you trying to protect him?” he asks, his top lip curled back in a snarl.
“No!” I set the cookbook down on the piano bench and stand up, walking towards him. He takes a step back. “I don’t care about him. I care about you. I don’t want you doing anything that will get you hurt.”
“Stop lying to me,” he growls.
“You think I’m lying?” I ask, tears rolling down my cheeks now. I don’t even try to hide it. I’ve been hiding my true feelings for weeks, and I can’t do it anymore. I’m a raw nerve, and Luka is about to see all of me. “You think I don’t care about you? I haven’t slept in weeks waiting to hear you come home at night. And when you don’t, terrible thoughts run through my head. I live for the brief glimpses I catch of you coming back for more clothes or to shower. Just knowing you are alive means everything to me. So, no, I don’t want to give you the name of a man who means nothing to me so you can run off and put yourself in danger. If that means I’m disloyal to you, then I’m sorry, but—”
“Give me his name.” His voice is so flat and lifeless, it stops me in my tracks. I stare at him, looking deep into his green eyes, but there is nothing there. No anger or pain or jealousy. Nothing. I barely even recognize him.
I drop down onto the bench, my legs giving out, and shake my head. “Cole Morrison.”
Luka turns around immediately, heading for the door.
“Luka.” I call out to him with no idea of what I want to say. With no idea of how I can make this better. The only thing I know is that I don’t want him to leave.
Surprisingly, he turns around. I don’t know if he is curious or if, like me, he is filled with unspoken thoughts and feelings. His green eyes fall on me, and I plead with him silently, begging him to stay. To stay with me. To cross the room and hold me and be with me and forgive me for all the things he thinks I did.
He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. After a few seconds, he turns and leaves.
I sleep in fits and starts, and when I wake up for the fourth time in the middle of the night, I’m starving. I didn’t eat much for lunch and nothing for dinner, and the spicy curry in the fridge sounds like the best thing in the world. So, I crawl out of bed and pad barefoot down to the kitchen, stopping outside of Luka’s door to try and hear anything on the other side. He isn’t there.
The smell of spices fills the kitchen as the curry heats up on the stove, and by the time I’m pouring it over the rice, my stomach is growling. I eat one entire bowl without bothering to wait for it to cool down, burning my mouth in the process, and then make a second. I typically prefer depth of flavor over pure spice and heat, but I feel like I could drink a bottle of hot sauce right now. In fact, I walk to the fridge and drizzle hot sauce over the curry. The flavors shouldn’t go together at all, but it smells amazing, and tastes even better. I’m four bites into the strange concoction when a sudden realization washes over me, making me drop my fork.
I missed my period.
With everything going on with Luka, I didn’t think about it. Not really. I’d done my best to push our attempts at having a baby out of my head, and when we didn’t sleep together at all in the last month, I forgot about it completely. Nobody gets pregnant the first month they try. But, I did.
I don’t need to take a test or go to the doctor. I’m certain of it. It seems so obvious now. I’ve been nauseous and exhausted, which I blamed on my nerves and sleeplessness surrounding Luka’s absence, and I’ve traded in spicy wings and Asian curry for my usual Italian fare. Plus, most damning of all, my period is late. Two weeks late. And I’ve never been late before.
I want to call Luka and tell him, but I don’t have a way to get in touch with him. And I have no idea what his reaction would be. The idea to have a child together had been his father’s, and although Luka had agreed to it, he didn’t sleep with me during the last ovulation window. Did that mean he’d changed his mind? That he actually didn’t want a child? Would this news bring us closer together or drive the wedge even deeper?
Thoughts are filling my head too fast, and suddenly, the curry feels like a lead brick in my stomach. I scoop what is left in my bowl into the trash, and as I’m rinsing the bowl in the sink, I feel the food making its way back up. I barely make it to the bathroom in time.
I flush the toilet when I’m done and lean back against the cold tile wall. I want to cry and scream, but there is also a part of me that is happy. I’ve felt completely alone for weeks, and now, I’m not. I have someone in my corner. Someone on my team. My baby.
But what will happen when the baby is born? Will the Volkovs take it away from me? Will I be allowed to raise my child or, like Luka, will their childhood be nonexistent? Replaced with learning about the Bratva lifestyle? Will they wear a tracker bracelet, too?
That image alone—a tiny, baby-sized tracker bracelet—pushes me over the edge. Whether it is pregnancy hormones or a fit of hysteria, I decide I can’t stay. Luka is my child’s father, but I haven’t seen the real Luka in weeks. I can’t depend on him to look out for us, so I have to do what is best for me and my child.
I tug on my bracelet in a futile attempt to break it, but just like every other time I’ve tried, it stays resolute around my wrist. But this time, I don’t care. Luka can track me
down if he wants, I have to leave. If he wants me to stay, he’ll have to chain me to a wall.
Because I’m getting the hell out of here.
22
Luka
I almost don’t check my phone when it buzzes. It’s late, and I’ve been getting so little sleep as it is—sleeping in a back office of the ice skating rink is not all it is cracked up to be—that I’m willing to let whatever emergency is making my phone blow up wait until morning. However, no matter how tightly I squeeze my eyes shut, I can’t ignore the possibility that it could be Eve.
She doesn’t have my phone number because I never gave it to her, but there are ways for her to find it. If she dug through my office long enough, she’d find a cell phone bill. Maybe she did that and is now calling me to tell me the house is on fire or someone has broken in or any of one thousand different terrible ways to die.
I shouldn’t care. Not after everything she has put me through, yet, I still drag myself off the tiny futon and over to where my phone is charging in the corner. As soon as I see the notifications on my phone, I realize it isn’t Eve calling or texting me about anything. Though, it does have to do with Eve.
She left the mansion.
After she first came to live with me, I jumped at every vibration of my phone, expecting it to be her trying to escape. After a while, however, I eased up. She wasn’t going anywhere. And for the brief moment we were actually happy together, I forgot about the bracelet entirely. But now, she finally did it. She finally ran.
I grab my keys and sprint through the dark ice rink for the front doors. The city streets are almost empty as I tear through red lights and blow through stop signs to get to her. I can see her flashing dot on the GPS, and she is moving slowly enough that I know she is on foot. She could have stolen one of my cars or called a taxi, but she was so desperate to leave, she decided to run.
