27. Natalia

27

NATALIA

"I don't want it, Leif!" I cry. "Take it away!"

If I wasn't so damn pissed off, the image of my hulking bodyguard blushing as I brandish a massive pink dildo like a weapon would be hilarious.

I could probably make this easier for him by putting the sex toy down, but as it turns out, I'm more of a misery-loves-company sort of gal.

If I'm suffering, he can suffer right along with me.

"Natalia—"

"Don't you ‘ Natalia' me!" I seethe. "I don't want his gifts. I've already told all of you that if Andrey sends me another gift, send them back!"

"He insists?—"

With a wordless, frustrated scream, I lob the pink dildo directly at Leif's head.

He could catch it easily—I've seen the man snatch an arrow out of mid-air when he and Anatoly were shooting bows at the archery range in the backyard—but he chooses to duck instead. Guess he's afraid of getting his hands wrapped around a wobbly pink penis. Coward.

I stomp back over to the black box I just opened and start tearing out all manner of other sex toys. "‘ To help you through all the nights —'" I read off the handwritten note as I send a sapphire blue vibrator flying, "— I'm not available! "

Next goes the diamond-studded butt plug.

"Who the hell does he think he is?"

Then a small purple something that's got me stumped.

"Does he think I can be bought? That I'm some baby oven that he can placate with expensive gifts?"

I grab the biggest bottle of lube I've ever seen and raise it above my head. Leif shields himself like Mt. Vesuvius is about to erupt. "We're just following orders here, ma'am."

"You are my bodyguard," I remind him icily. "You should be following my orders."

He squints at me from the open window on the patio. "That's not exactly how it works."

Having emptied the box of sex toys, I storm out onto the patio.

Leif scurries back a few more steps. Leonty and Olaf are already hiding way out by the pool. "If you cowards won't stand up to him, then I will. Where is he?"

"Uh…"

"Leif!"

He points towards the main house with an exhausted sigh. "In his office."

I set off, guns blazing, for the main house. Man, does it feel good to direct my anger at the very person who's been steadily raising my blood pressure these past few days.

It's all been from a distance, though. Guerilla emotional warfare. He hasn't visited me at all the past four nights. I haven't seen so much as his shadow.

Despite that, I get several packages every day.

Like the black-knitted Prada dress he sent me on Friday.

And the pair of jewel-adorned Jimmy Choos the day before.

But a box of sex toys is the last straw. It stops now.

I have to check with Yelena where exactly Andrey's office is. The house is like a labyrinth on the inside. Even still, by the time I find myself in front of the brass-studded gate to his inner sanctum, my anger hasn't abated in the slightest.

My goal was to barge right in for maximum effect, but annoyingly, the door's locked. So, I settle for thumping my fists against the surface.

"Andrey! I know you're in there. Let me in."

There are a few seconds of silence before I hear footsteps. The door swings open. I open my mouth, ready to let him have it.

Except, it's not Andrey looking down at me with his usual broody calm. It's Shura.

"Natalia. Is there something I can do for you?"

I spy Andrey in the background, shielded partly by Shura's sharp shoulder. Cowards . All of them: Andrey, his men—hell, the whole damn male species. Cowards.

"I want to speak to Andrey."

"He's in a meeting at the moment."

I pretend to accept that answer. "Oh! Oh, he's in a meeting, is he? Well, then I guess I'll have to just come back—" I scowl and push past Shura, forcing myself into the office.

Andrey doesn't even bother rising to his feet. He just fixes me with a deep, probing glance, as he addresses the person he's talking to on the phone. "I'll have to call you back, Ivan… Yes, yes… See that it's done."

He hangs up with an exasperated sigh. "Natalia." His tone is cold as ice. His eyes, even more so.

Somehow, it cuts differently in the daylight.

Or maybe it's the absence of the post-sex high that usually softens all those rough edges of his.

"I want you to stop sending me gifts."

Not one muscle moves on his face. "I haven't sent you anything you can't use."

"I don't want to ‘use' a single damn bit of it," I snarl. "I'm not some empty hole you can just hurl sex and cash into so it stays quiet. I'm not a midnight distraction. I'm not a fucking leech."

I hear a soft click. When I glance back over my shoulder, I realize that Shura left. We're alone. Fine. Better not to have witnesses for the ensuing homicide, anyway.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Andrey rumbles. I wait for him to say something else—anything else, really—but he keeps looking at me with that coolly detached expression.

"That's it? That's all you have to say to me?"

"To be perfectly honest, Natalia, I'm willing to say whatever I need to if it means I can continue with my day."

Heat rushes to my cheeks. I feel as though my head's about to explode.

"You're busy? Poor thing. It must be hard to be so darn important . Well, guess what? I'm not busy at all . I've got nothing to do except sit around and wait for gifts I don't want and visits I want even less. I'm—I'm—I'm sofuckinglonely."

The words tumble out before I can stop them, and shit . I would give my left kidney if I could just take that last part back, please and thank you. I'd give the right one, too, if necessary.

Andrey runs a hand over his stubbled jaw. "I've given you everything you need."

"I don't need expensive gifts," I croak weakly. "When I'm not at work, I'm stuck in that godforsaken pool house, staring at empty walls with nothing to do and no one to talk to."

"You seem to be spending a lot of time with Mila. Or does she not count?"

"She… she counts."

"And Leonty mentioned that you've renewed your friendship with the blonde troublemaker who crashed the wedding."

So much for having bodyguards that keep my secrets.

"Does she not count, either?" he continues.

"I… She does… That's not?—"

He rises to his feet, those silver eyes flashing dangerously. All the anger that carried me across the lawn and through the house deflates now that I'm here.

"What I'm hearing is that you're lonely for me ."

I can't help the gasp that falls from my lips. "That's not true."

"No?" he ventures with a raised eyebrow. "Then tell me again, lastochka : why are you here?"

Say something. For God's sake, say anything.

"It just feels bad," I admit in a tiny whisper with my eyes rooted to the floor, "to have you slip into my bed at night whenever you want to. And then disappear immediately after. It makes me feel… used."

There's no regret or apology in those heartless eyes as he walks around the desk towards me. "I was under the impression that we had an agreement . One that you entered into of your own free will."

"Yes, but?—"

"We both agreed: just sex."

"I'm aware, but?—"

"Then it seems you misunderstood me," he says smoothly. "I offered you sex, not companionship."

I bite back the tears threatening my vision. I cannot— will not —allow myself to break down in front of him. "Let's be honest: you didn't offer me anything. You made sure I had no other options and then you took what you wanted."

I don't stick around to wait for his reaction. I turn on my heel and speed out the door, yanking it closed behind me.

Shura is standing in the sunlit hallway. His face twists in concern when he sees me. "Natalia, are you?—"

"Fine! Fine! Everything's fine!" I shriek as I rush past him.

But the tears are already running down my cheeks and there's no way in hell he didn't see them.

I'm so desperate to get back to the relative safety of the pool house that I make a sharp left as the corridor narrows and run headlong into Yelena.

She exclaims in Russian but reaches out to steady me at the same time. "Natalia!" she gasps, "Are you… Are you crying?"

"No," I lie through a choked sob.

Her face hardens as she tightens her grip on my arm and pulls me deeper into the house.

"No," I try to protest. "I'm going… pool house… I don't want to…"

"Hush now, child." Her voice is soothing, and I find myself falling silent as I let her lead me into the kitchen.

She seats me in one of the chairs around the breakfast table. The bright light sweeping in through the sunroof stands in cruel contrast to my mood. All I want to do is get in bed, curl into a fetal position, and stay there until the pain in my chest disappears.

If it ever disappears, that is.

"Come now, malysh , it can't be all bad," Yelena insists in a murmur. "Don't cry now or the baby inside you will be born sad."

It's the kind of old wives' tale that makes me roll my eyes and dry my tears at the same time. I wonder idly where Yelena heard it. Which wizened old woman sat her down in a kitchen, dabbed away her tears, and gave her that pearl to one day pass onto me?

With a jolt, I realize that she can't be much older than my mother would have been if she was still alive.

"Now, tell me: what's wrong?"

I look up at her kind face and try to imagine that she is my mother. The problem is, I can't see my mother as an older woman. To me, she's frozen in place at thirty-four—dark-haired, blue-eyed, beautiful as ever.

"I-it's… not important," I mumble.

Yelena makes an impatient click with her tongue. "It's him, isn't it?"

"Doesn't matter."

She lets out a long-suffering sigh. "I wish I could tell you something different—but the truth is, malysh, this is who Andrey has always been."

My heart plummets.

"He just doesn't see that what he's doing is hurting you."

I wipe away a fresh wave of tears. "Yes, he does. He just doesn't care."

"I've known him a long time, my dear. Andrey's the type of man who will put himself in front of a bullet if it means protecting you and that baby. But I'm afraid when it comes to feelings, conversation, intimacy…" She shakes her head. "That's never been his strong suit."

"How did he get to be that way?"

Dropped on his head as a baby. Vitamin deficiency. I want it to be something easy and straightforward like that, if only so I can tell myself that he's not actively choosing to break my heart.

"Necessity, perhaps," she suggests, which dashes all my hopes. "Or maybe it's just self-preservation. All I know is that he'll never give you his heart, my dear. There's no point in coveting it."

She's righter than she knows. You can only covet something you have no right to. Something that was never yours.

And God knows Andrey Kuznetsov has never, ever been mine.