She settles gingerly onto the sofa. “I’ve already seen one. I just need to rest and take it easy. I meant to apologize to you, Willow. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did when I found out your identity. Of course it’s not your fault that your father did what he did.”
I don’t bother to correct her that Vasily isn’t my father, but I do feel happier just knowing it. Lighter, freer. I haven’t had any of my attacks since Sergei told me, haven’t been tempted to claw at my own flesh.
It has been an enormous weight off my conscience. It shouldn’t make such a difference, but somehow it does.
“Think nothing of it. I’m just glad you’re all right. How did you get away from them?” I ask her.
“Pepper spray. And there were some people nearby. These men attacked me as I was walking to my car in a grocery store parking lot. I screamed a lot and sprayed them, and they ran away.” She shakes her head sadly. “It’s the end for me, I’m afraid. Akim is no more.”
The thought of letting Cataha win so easily infuriates me.
“But you can’t let Akim die,” I protest. “Reforma can keep putting out stories and say they’re from Akim.”
“No!” Ludmilla protested instantly. “That puts everyone at Reforma at risk.”
I’m getting madder and madder. Why is she just rolling over? Yes, it’s very frightening. That comes with the territory, and she knew it when she took the job. It’s just not right, letting Cataha win like this.
Sergei, thankfully, agrees with me. He makes a gesture of impatience. “I created Akim, not you,” he says to her, his voice rough with anger. “You can check the contracts that you signed with my lawyers if you disagree. I decide what Akim does. Akim is not a person – he or she is a symbol of resistance and change. And as for the people at Reforma, they can choose whether or not to continue publishing Akim’s stories. If they don’t, Akim and all my financing will move elsewhere.”
Wonder and respect bloom inside me. I had no idea that he was the creator of Akim.
“You’re right. You’re right. I’m sorry, Sergei, I’ve just seen too many pictures of Cataha’s victims. I don’t ever want to see that happen to my co-workers at Reforma.” Her voice is hoarse with sorrow. “That look on their faces. How long it takes them to die…” Tears spill onto her bruised cheeks.
“That’s their choice, though,” Sergei says to her.
I feel a brief flash of resentment. How nice that he lets them make choices. I wish he’d extend the same courtesy to me.
Ludmilla just nods wearily. “I’m going to go lie down for a while.”
“How did you create Akim?” I ask him after she limps away.
“I recruited Ludmilla to write the stories under the pseudonym of Akim, because she was an excellent journalist and I knew her past, how she’d lost her sister and never stopped looking for her. I convinced Reforma to hire her. I paid Reforma millions of dollars for security and to pay the salaries of their reporters, and took them from a tiny little newspaper to a massive worldwide presence that’s impossible to ignore.” He shrugs. “But I won’t accept credit when I don’t deserve it. It sounds heroic and noble, but it wasn’t. That was all part of my long game. To bring down the men on my list.”
“Are you sure?” I ask him. “There were lots of ways you could have taken them down. You could have kidnapped them and tortured them for days, weeks, months. But you did it in a way that cost you a lot more money, took a lot more time, and struck a massive blow to the flesh trade. I think you don’t give yourself enough credit. You do too many good things for people to have it just be an accident.”
He chews his lip thoughtfully and frowns, but for once he doesn’t argue with me.
Since he’s not in one of his combative moods, I try to press my advantage. “Can we please talk about the wedding? I’m asking nicely, Sergei.”
He stands up, and I think he’s about to give me grief, but instead he shocks me. “We’re going to go on a date this afternoon.”
“What?”
He sighs. “Let me rephrase that. May I take you out on a date this afternoon?”
He’s actually asking me? Sergei Volkov is giving me a real, genuine choice?
“You really want to take me out on a regular date, like normal human couples do?”
“Yes.” He nods vigorously. He looks so serious, so hopeful even, that I couldn’t possibly consider saying no. “When we’re married and it’s date night…what would that look like?” he says.
I consider that. “Well, so far you’ve always made all the decisions. So let’s say we’d take turns with that. Sometimes I would pick what we do. I’d want to go for a walk by the waterfront, and then to an art gallery, and then dinner at a restaurant of my choice. And…I’d want to choose my outfit.”
He stands up. “Let’s do this! You tell me the restaurant, I’ll make the reservations. I do need to run it by my security team, but there shouldn’t be any problems.”
I glance at him, suddenly feeling shy. After all my protesting about wanting to make my own decisions, I’m about to make a silly request.
“Sergei?”
“Yes?”
“I know I’m choosing everything else but, but…I want you pick my outfit. I kind of like it when you do that. I don’t know how, but…you always pick the perfect outfit for me. It’s like you know me better than I know myself sometimes.”
When Sergei dresses me, I feel as if he’s with me all the time, in a way, wrapping me in his strength like a cloak.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” He tips my head back and kisses me softly. “Yes, Mrs. Volkov, I will pick out your outfit for you this afternoon.”
* * *
SERGEI
I’d love to lie. I’d love to say this feels natural, but it doesn’t. I feel like a tiger that’s been let loose in a crowd of gazelles, whipping its head around, deciding where to sink its fangs in first.
I want to bark orders at Willow. I want to tell her to do impossible things, just to force her to resist. I want to see Willow fight me. I want to see the look in her eyes when she realizes she’s lost yet again. The humiliation, the submission, the angry acceptance. Then the craving. The raw hunger that I’ve forced on her.
And sometimes she wants that too, but not all the time. It can’t be like that all the time, or I’ll lose her. I want her caged, yes, but I want her to stride right into that cage happily. If she’s truly miserable, then by winning, I’ve lost.
This is much harder than I thought it would be.
Before I met Willow, my entire life, every human interaction was a fight, a negotiation, a brutal establishment of my dominance.
I always moved and spoke and acted in a way that let others know that my word was law and defiance was death. I didn’t make dates. I made battle plans.
But today I will force myself to be what Willow needs, for once.
I have dressed her warmly, in black wool slacks, a sparkly black sweater, black puffy down coat, and fur boots. I’m wearing my heavy leather coat and a hat, which probably isn’t even necessary. The cold doesn’t seem to touch me. Maybe it doesn’t dare. Maybe like recognizes like.
My guards trail discreetly behind us.
We wander through a historic district, towards a bridge that leads to the restaurant she’s chosen, our breath puffing in the frosty air.
The wind catches the strands of Willow’s hair and whips it into her face. I stroke it out of the way. She still has her hair extensions in, and I know she still keeps little blades and lock picks hidden in them. I haven’t taken them from her, because I want to let her have at least the illusion of freedom.
And I can’t deny, I like that side of her. There’s a part of her that’s weird and crazy and feral just like I am, and it calls to me, sings to me, tells me that she’s my perfect match. The yin to my yang.
We keep walking, in silence.
Normally my silence is strategic. Make my enemies wait, anticipate, fear what I’m about to say. Now I’m just
walking down the street with my fiancée, staring at the sights as if I’ve never seen a city before. In a way, I haven’t. Not like this.
The architecture in this historic walking distance is a mix of styles, from the twelve hundreds to the sixteen hundreds. Aesthetically, it’s stunning. The cobblestone streets are narrow, and tourists are goggle-eyed with awe, gathering in clots to snap picture after picture.
Distracted. A herd of baaing sheep. If an assassin wanted to take them out, they’d never see it coming.
I start idly performing a threat assessment. Looking for areas that might conceal a sniper. The rooftops would be ideal; you could run from rooftop to rooftop for blocks on end. Doorways are less than optimal. Yes, they’re deepset and plunged in shadow, but the street is crowded and there are no vehicles here, so it would be difficult to escape after – no. I’m not doing this, not today.
I look at an older couple who are holding hands. They’re staring at a church built in the fourteen hundreds, in the Danish brick gothic style. He’s telling his wife that they used bricks in those days because the areas around the Baltic sea didn’t have natural stone resources. I’m thinking about how easily the stained-glass windows would shatter under a hail of gunfire.
Willow reaches out and grabs my hand. I stiffen, then force myself to relax and squeeze her hand in mine. I hold her hand, but I am aware of it with every single footstep.
It feels unnatural. She’s grabbing my right hand, which limits my ability to grab the Glock tucked into the holster on the left side of my waistband. In the event of an attack, ripping my hand from hers would cost me as much as three crucial seconds if I needed to go for the pistol.
And more than that – it makes me feel naked and vulnerable in a way I haven’t experienced since I was a little boy.
Forced to display my feelings to the world. My soft, girlish feelings.
This is the part where, once upon a time, I’d have torn away from her and said something cruel. Or where I’d have dragged her into an alley and bent her over a garbage can, or forced her to her knees and made her service me while she cried in fear that someone would see us.
But not today.
It didn’t even occur to me to hold her hand; she had to initiate it.
Sweat beads on my forehead.
How do you walk down the street with your fiancée? How is it done?
I look around us now and observe how other couples walk. Normal couples. Hands around each other’s waists, gazing into each other’s eyes. They make it look natural. They move in rhythm with each other, pausing at the same time, turning their heads towards each other as if directed by some unseen voice.
It’s like there’s this whole world out there that I’ve never let myself see. I’ve lived in an alternative universe that was always a war zone. I’ve scanned the world through the eyes of a despotic king. I’ve evaluated strengths and weaknesses, probed for hiding spots and ambushes.
Willow looks around and sees beauty and kindness and love.
Can I really do this?
Can I give my Willow the life she deserves?
The answer is, there is no choice. I can’t live without her. Not if I want to stay sane.
I crave her sweetness, her laughter, her humor, her kindness. I crave her approval. I want her to look at me with that light of admiration shining from her eyes. I want to be worthy of that look she gives me.
“Thank you,” she says suddenly, stopping. And I realize that my tensely drawn muscles have started to relax, and I’ve walked the entire length of the street and onto the bridge, holding her hand. She slips her hand out of mine and she circles my waist with her arms, but stands there, tentative, unsure.
“The pleasure was all yours,” I tease her, and pull her up against me for a long, hungry kiss.
She laughs happily. “You jerk.”
“How observant of you. I’m also the jerk you’re going to marry in seventeen days.”
She looks as if she’s about to argue, then bites her lip.
“That’s right,” I tell her, tipping her head up and forcing her to look into my eyes. “The rules still apply. If you defy me, you think I won’t take you right here on the bridge?”
“What if we got arrested for indecent exposure?”
“I have very good lawyers on retainer.”
“Fine,” she says, her gaze dropping submissively. “This is me not arguing. This is me not saying a word.”
This little battle of wills, which I’ve just won, makes me so hard. And I realize I don’t need to break her into pieces in order to get my rocks off. This is more than enough for me.
She’s taking deeper breaths now, and I can tell that she’s turned on too. She loves my dominance. I don’t always have to lace it with brutality.
And as we walk to the restaurant, hand in hand again, I’m smiling. I think I can do this. We’re a match. She needs me as much as I need her. Her light needs my darkness.
The maître d’ sends the waiter off to see if our table is ready.
She’s happier and more relaxed than I’ve seen her in ages. The smells of butter and garlic and sizzling meat drift our way, and she inhales deeply, drawing them in.
“Will you sleep in bed with me again tonight?” she asks, her voice soft and hopeful. “With me in your arms?”
“I will. By the way, I could see that you were about to argue with me about the wedding. But since you were such a good little girl and you stopped yourself, I’ll wait until we get home before I punish you.”
“Now I get punished when you just think I’m going to argue with you?” Her voice rises in an indignant squeak. Then she blushes and glances quickly at the maître d’ to make sure he didn’t hear her.
I slide my hand under her coat and squeeze her ass cheek, hard enough to hurt her a little, and she lets out a whimper.
“Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”
“No,” she says, trying to squirm out of my grip, but I grab her arm and hold her still.
“How about ‘sir’?” I say to her, smiling gently. “I like it when you say sir.”
“Yes, sir,” she murmurs. “I don’t have a problem with it.”
Now all I can think about is rushing her through dinner so I can get her back home.
Chapter Seventeen
Day fourteen…
Sergei waits until after breakfast to drop the next bombshell on me.
“Perhaps Ludmilla would like to go with you to your wedding dress fitting today,” Sergei says to me, and his eyes have gone winter cold again. “You’re to be there in an hour.”
This is the first I’ve heard of it. Anger prickles underneath my skin.
Sixteen more days.
Every time I start to relax and just try to enjoy getting to know this newer, kinder version of Sergei, he has to throw this in my face again. I feel as if a golden noose is tightening around my neck and strangling me. Yesterday he was funny, sweet, sexy Sergei. Now he’s got that angry, challenging look back on his face, daring me to say a single word about my own fate, my future.
“Oh, that’s today? Sure, I would love to go,” Ludmilla says, looking surprised.
“But Sergei, she can barely walk. We should postpone it,” I protest.
He gives me a look, but I don’t drop my gaze. I know that last night’s date was an attempt at distraction. And it was a wonderful, perfect night, right down to the rough sex we had when we got home. But that was one night.
“We can’t,” he says with a hint of danger in his voice. “This was a rush job already.”
I want to scream, And whose fault is that? But I don’t dare.
Maybe if Sergei had been raised like normal people, he’d understand me. He thinks he can control everything and everyone around him. All he has to do is bark out an order, and he gets it. Every time.
What he doesn’t comprehend is that while you can control people’s actions with brute force, you can’t control feelings.
And no matter how hard I try t
o tell him, he won’t listen.
“I am feeling much better,” Ludmilla assures me. “I really would like to get out of the house, and this sounds like so much fun! It’ll get my mind off things.”
Great. So if I say no, not only do I get in trouble with Sergei, but I’m the jerk who’s making Ludmilla sit around stewing in misery.
“I’ll go get on some warmer clothes,” I say.
“I’ve got them lying out on the bed already,” Sergei informs me.
Not today.
When I walk into the room, I spare one quick glance at the clothing he’s laid out on the bed for me. A rose-colored cowl-neck sweater, black velvet slacks. Beautiful. Normally I’d love to pull that sweater over my head, knowing that he picked it out because he thought it would be perfect for me. Today, if I wore it, I’d feel as if it were strangling me.
I deliberately go into the closet – which at least isn’t locked, thank God for small favors – and pick a different outfit. A long, plum-colored wool skirt, thick winter tights, a mauve turtleneck sweater. And I take my time about it. Sergei’s brows draw together in a scowl when he sees what I’m wearing, but I ignore it.
We take the boat across the water in uncomfortable silence, just me and Ludmilla and Sergei and ten bodyguards. Ten. How long will our life be like this?
Ludmilla glances from Sergei to me and back again. She can obviously tell that something is wrong, but wisely, she doesn’t ask.
There are cars waiting for us at the boat dock. The bridal shop is a short trip into town, one in a row of shops on a cobblestone street. The drivers pull over to let us all pile out, and I can’t help but think how ridiculous we must all look.
“I’ll wait outside,” Sergei says. “Bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her dress before the wedding.”
We pause outside the shop, and as Ludmilla heads into the store, I draw Sergei aside.
“I am officially, seriously pissed off at you right now,” I snap at him. “You’re taking what could be a joyous occasion and making it miserable for me by not letting me have any choice in it. I am going to go in there and put on a happy face for today, but if you don’t at least postpone the wedding, I am going to stand right up there on our wedding day and tell everyone that I will not marry you. And I don’t care if you beat me black and blue when we go home. I don’t care if you beat me until I pass out.”
Thirty Days of Hate Page 13
