Chapter 24

Twenty-Four

R uby

I don't recall passing out last night, I only know that I did. When Kirill pushed off the bed after delivering that sinfully attractive, "Good girl" that sparked life into my sex-crazed alter ego—I'd pulled on a pair of panties before dropping into the bed under the covers, the movie still playing on the screen as Kirill showered.

I don't recall him getting into bed. After two very intense orgasms, I'd been dead to the world the second my head hit the pillow. Funny, I'd figured the shame of them would eat me alive well into the night.

Now, I wish I could have stayed asleep all day, because my husband is looking at me over his cup of coffee while I clutch my tea, and his eyes tell me he isn't willing to let me get away without answering his question.

And, boy, it's a question I don't want to answer.

"Ruby." He sets his coffee on the table, leaning into it. He repeats his question, "Why didn't you tell me?"

I play dumb. "Tell you what?"

Maybe, if I put him on the spot, he won't want to continue with this mortifying conversation.

"Why didn't you tell me you were a virgin?"

Well, there goes that.

Does the man even know what it is to be embarrassed?

My cheeks are on fire. No, my entire body is on fire. And yet, I'm shivering. My shot nerves have been shot for so long, one would think I'd figure out how to live like this. Alas, I have not.

I wiggle under the pressure of his gaze. My lips part, close, and part again. Then, at a loss, I shrug.

"Ruby." There is a warning in his voice I should heed. I don't.

"Kirill." I return his tone. And then I shake my head. "I don't know why I didn't tell you. I didn't know how."

He raises a brow. "A simple ‘I'm a virgin' would have sufficed."

"I don't want to talk about this."

He rubs his hand through his short beard. "Too bad. I do."

Over my cup, I glare at him as I force myself to take a small sip of my tea.

He presses, "How is it that a twenty-three-year-old woman, raised in the most flippant society in the world, remained a virgin?"

There's a lot to unpack in that question. I don't bother. I just mutter, "It might seem archaic and anarchic, but I was raised that way. And—for me—it had meant something." I stare down into my tea. "Once upon a time, anyway."

His voice is thrown gravel, rough. "It means everything to me."

I can't help it; I roll my eyes. "You're a man. Making a woman bleed when you shove it in the first time is always special ."

He responds to the bitter sarcasm in my voice with a hard, cool glare. I fight against the shiver that wants to break out over my body. I think, not for the first time, about abandoning the breakfast dishes and moving closer to the fireplace where Simba—the smarter of the three of us—is curled up.

"Knowing that I am the only man you have been with, or will ever be with, is what is special to me, Ruby."

"Why?" I demand. "What does it matter if I've slept with a hundred men?"

Anger flashes in his eyes. "It matters because I would have a hundred men to hunt down and end."

My jaw drops. I scoff, "You're ridiculous."

"I am obsessed," he returns easily. "And you are mine. All the parts of you are mine, wife. One day you will come to accept that. Until then, the point of this conversation isn't to argue."

"What is the point, then?"

"The point, dear wife, is to tell you that I will not have you keeping secrets from me like the one you kept last night."

"What does it matter, Kirill?"

His voice raises, but only a little. Still, it's enough to shock me. "It matters because I could have hurt you. I did hurt you."

My breath snags. I take a sip to wash it down, murmuring, "It wasn't so bad. Just a bit unexpected, is all." I glance at his hands where they sit in one balled fist on the table. Quietly, I explain, "You have quite large fingers."

His lips quirk. "I would have been much gentler, far less crazed, if I had known."

I frown as I study him. "You didn't suspect?"

"I did," he admits. "And then I thought of your age, and the choir boy at home, and I thought?—"

I stiffen. "Choir boy?"

His jaw clenches, a muscle there, jumping. "Yes, the boy-man you were flirting with before you were taken. Before you knew you were mine."

"I wasn't yours."

"You were born mine, Ruby."

I squirm uncomfortably. To mask my discomfort, I huff. "You're impossible. How did you know about him?"

"My brother?—"

I interrupt, "The one who took me?"

"Ilya, yes. He looked into you for quite some time before he took you. There was a file. I have it." He doesn't look apologetic at all. "I also looked into your life, afterward, of course. Once I knew I was keeping you, I did my own research."

"You looked into me?" I can't help it, I'm utterly shocked. "As in, investigated my life?"

"As much of it as I could." He watches the angry hurt overtake my expression, his unchanging. "You refused to speak with me. I had questions."

"And what did you learn from all your research?" I can't help the bitterness to my words. The cool bite of them.

The man has skin thick as iron. Nothing gets through to that hard, dark core of his. Nothing fazes him. He's fire with a heart of dry ice. The burn of him is deadly.

"I learned that you are an introvert. You had very few friends, and yet your community valued you greatly. You volunteered in soup kitchens, the Church, and the pediatric hospital where your mother worked. But unlike her, your days spent there took a toll on you. Still, you went. If you weren't volunteering, you mostly stayed home on weekends. Although, before and after Church service, you often flirted with the choir boy."

"His name is Miles."

His tone becomes pitch black and dangerous. "I am aware."

Pulling my lip between my teeth, I fight the urge to flee him. When he looks at me like this, I can't help but be reminded of how it felt in my early days with him. When he'd interrogated me, and terrified me.

Admittedly, he still terrifies me a little. But not as much as I know he should.

I don't know why that is.

Then, something he said before registers, and horror strikes me hard. "Is he—is Miles still alive?"

Kirill watches me for a long moment. My breaths turn short. Finally, he puts me out of my misery. "He is." I release a relieved breath. "For now."

"What?" I wheeze. He can't be serious.

"Why do you care about him either which way? You are married to me."

Oh, my goodness, he is serious. "I can't be the reason someone loses their life, Kirill. I can't. I couldn't—I couldn't—" I'm struggling to breathe, to pull breath into my lungs. "I couldn't live with myself."

He studies me for a long moment, before he sighs. It's a heavy sigh that reveals just how far off track we've travelled, and how displeased he is with himself for letting this go this far astray. The rope between us that was tethered so tight this morning, is once again frayed. I'm once again hanging on by a thread, dangling from a string of uncertainty over an angry ocean just waiting to swallow me whole. To consume my dreams and steal my air. To devour my life .

I stand, taking our dishes to the sink. I'll deal with them later.

"I'm going to shower."