I try to wipe the vulnerability from my face, but I doubt I’m successful.
“It’s my room, zaika,” he says mildly. “I’ll be back.”
It sounds more like a warning than a comfort, but I’m relieved anyway. When he closes the door, I sit down on the bed and indulge in a good cry.
Vlad
I send Zoya to Alessia with a tray of food and pace around the mansion. Mika is settled in his room, already eating from a tray. Good. Zoya will take good care of him. I had a feeling. She may look dour, but underneath the rough exterior is a soft heart.
Blyat, it nearly killed me to walk away when I could hear Alessia crying behind the door. I only left in the first place because I doubted she wanted me around. Because I didn’t dare punish her by removing her clothes. Or smacking that beautiful ass of hers. Because seriously—another round of her coming from my punishment and I won’t be able to hold back. I will hold her down and fuck her raw.
But then she asked if I was coming back—like she didn’t want me to go.
Fuck.
Now I can’t stay away. Leaving her alone is an impossibility.
I check my accounts and find the money has already been wired from Alessia's brothers. I expected them to comply, but seeing how quickly they responded satisfies me. It's good to know she is as cherished by them as she should be. They are taking no chances with her safety.
I make a round of the estate, making a mental list of updates and maintenance that need to be done, then go back to the room.
The tray of food is gone and Alessia’s moving around in the bathroom. I hear the bathtub drain and a few minutes later she walks out wearing one of my t-shirts and a pair of the panties I had Zoya buy, along with other basic clothing items..
It would be night in the U.S. even though it’s only mid-day here. She must be getting ready for bed.
My cock thickens. She smells fresh, like cucumbers and fruit.
She looks ripe enough to eat.
All afternoon long.
She stops when she sees me, breath catching. “We’re not consummating the marriage.”
“Eventually, zaika, you’ll beg me for it.”
She scoffs. “Keep telling yourself that.” But her fingers tangle with one another like she’s nervous.
“Come”—I pat the bed—“I need to check your blood sugar.”
She advances, wariness in her step.
I test her blood sugar and it looks good. I’m half disappointed, half relieved I don’t get to lift that t-shirt and see what she looks like in a different pair of panties when I administer her shot.
She yawns.
“You’re ready for sleep? You should really wait until it’s dark out. Reset your internal clock. Or so they say.”
She walks to the windows and closes the shades. “There. It’s dark.”
I try and fail at withholding a smile. There’s something so fresh and easy about her. She pushes but it’s not bratty. Not bitchy. Apart from her meltdown after the call with her brothers, she’s rolled with her abduction remarkably well.
She’s one in a million, for sure.
I want to kiss her. The thoughts surprises me, because I’m not the kissing type. I’m more of the type to pound a woman from behind and never ask her name. But she has those full, shapely lips. I want to taste them. Savagely.
And slowly.
And every manner in between.
She pulls the covers back on the bed and climbs in.
I’m suddenly fuck-all tired myself. I haven’t slept more than a few hours in days now, not wanting to let my guard down. But now that I’m in Russia, with bratva soldiers all around to guard my kingdom, I can sleep.
I get up and brush my teeth, then strip down to my boxer briefs.
Alessia watches from the bed, her eyes on the wound she gave me. I touch it. It’s healing fine. Still tender, but not infected.
I climb in under the covers with her and listen to her breath go shallow. She’s afraid of me, of course. Or maybe excited. A little of both, probably.
After five minutes of silence, she says, “You could touch my head if you wanted.”
I smile and push myself up to my elbow. She’s facing away from me, curled on her side. “You want me to massage your head again?”
“Yes?” she says in a small voice. It sounds like a question. Like she’s not sure about what she’s asking. Maybe she knows she shouldn’t invite me to touch her.
“Say please. Pozhaluysta.” I give the word in Russian.
“You have a thing about me begging, don’t you?”
I burrow my fingers in her hair.
She makes a soft whimper in reply.
“Pozhaluysta,” I direct her again.
“Mmm. Fine. Pozhaluysta.” Her pronunciation is not half bad.
I reward her with steady strokes. I find the sutures of her skull and rub gentle circles along them, fist my hand in her hair and pull from the roots.