Chapter 12

Viktor

CHAPTER TWELVE

We drive back home in silence for the first half of the trip. The weight of what just happened lingers in the air. Lydia's usually vibrant eyes are clouded with a mix of confusion and something I can't quite place. Maybe acceptance? I don't know. But I know I need to make this right for her.

“Do you have a doctor you could see?” she asks, her voice breaking the heavy silence.

“I don’t need a doctor.”

She reaches for my right hand and lays it gently in her lap. It’s bloodied and bruised from delivering a beating that had to happen. She doesn’t flinch or pull away, and that steadiness in her touch unexpectedly grounds me.

Today, Lydia watched me beat a man before I sliced his throat right in front of her. It was brutal. It was vicious.

It was necessary.

I saw the shock in her eyes, but she didn’t look away. Why isn’t she more disturbed? Why isn’t she running from me?

I glance at her, blowing out a breath. “Alright, then. I’ll clean you up myself. Tell me you have a first aid kit.”

“Yeah, baby,” I respond, the term slipping out naturally.

She shivers and moves a little closer to me, that small gesture sending a wave of warmth through my chest. Solidarity I didn’t expect and never hoped for.

“What happens now?” she asks, turning to me, uncertainty evident in her eyes.

“I will take you home. We get cleaned up, we get some dinner, and we go to sleep.” I shrug, trying to sound nonchalant. “And tomorrow, we plan our wedding.” I let go of her hand and scrub it across my brow, feeling the adrenaline still pumping through my veins. “After a night like this, I need to let it bleed off.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, her voice soft but probing.

My eyes are focused on the road. “When I fight, when I let that part of me take over, it’s not easy to just turn it off. It’s like… it’s like an engine that’s been running at full throttle and suddenly slams to a stop. The energy, the power—it doesn’t just disappear. It has to wear off, or it consumes me.”

She swallows hard, trying to grasp the weight of my words. Her acceptance of this part of me brings a strange sense of relief.

“Makes sense. So what do you need to do?” she asks, her voice steady.

“I need to come down slowly. We need to come down slowly. That means I don’t want to talk much or do anything outside of routine. It’s how I cope, how I keep it all from spilling over.”

“You need aftercare?” she says, a hint of teasing in her voice, trying to lighten the mood.

I growl softly. “How the fuck do you know what aftercare is?”

“Okay, alright, don’t change the subject,” she says, sobering quickly.

Her understanding sends a chill through me, but she continues. “Okay, Viktor. I get it. After something intense, I need to go for a walk or something. Though, I mean, to be clear, I've never done anything like that.”

I nod, a glimmer of something—gratitude, maybe—warming me before I turn away, feeling the tension in my shoulders slowly easing.

“I’m honestly… well, I’ve never done what you did, but I’ve had intense moments of…” She looks away and doesn’t give me details, but I know exactly what she’s talking about. I know she’s been arrested, and her time in boarding school was more like a reform camp than school because of her vices.

“What do you find helps?” I ask her.

She sighs. “A hot shower. Sometimes a drink, but that's my least favorite way of handling it. Weed.” She looks out the window, pausing. “Sex. You?”

My vision momentarily clouds, but I shrug it off. Sex.

Fucking sex.

Her openness surprises me, but it’s exactly what I need. I grip the steering wheel tighter, knowing that tonight, we'll both find our ways to cope—to come down slowly and face whatever comes next together.

“Some of that, or sometimes I lift. Sometimes, I just need to sleep for hours and hours.” I don't tell her that sex isn’t part of my toolbox.

It's been at least five years. Yeah, some people would call it a dry spell for guys like me. But sex with anybody else would be like licking pavement to try to satisfy my appetite. Never.

“I want to tell you that I'm sorry you saw that,” I begin. “But I don't want to lie to you, Lydia.”

She nods and swallows. “Do you think he was lying, though?”

“I do not. I wouldn’t have killed him otherwise.”

“Oh,” she says in a little voice. “Right.”

I have the sudden desire to break something.

If she's even entertaining the slightest notion that Yudin was even the least bit redeemable…

Fuck.

When I get my hands on him… I don't think she'll be able to look at me that time.

By the time we get back to my house, it's late. She's tired and I am too, but I'm fucking starving.

“I don't think we've eaten anything since breakfast, and I'm famished. You?”

She nods. “I could literally tear the legs off one of your tables and eat it with a little ketchup right now. Maybe even without the ketchup.”

I smile. It feels good to smile. It feels good to become human again.

“You like pizza?” I just told her I'm not gonna lie to her. Is this a lie? I'm trying to be polite and not freak her the fuck out. Because I happen to know for a fact that pizza is one of her favorite foods in the entire world. Especially New York style, with all the meat. It's almost unfair how much I know about her and how easily I will be able to use that to my advantage.

I look over at her. Her hair is disheveled, her face streaked with tears, dirt, and blood. She needs cleaning up as badly as I do.

“How the fuck did you get blood on yourself?”

“You did a lot of… splattering?”

I grunt under my breath but don’t reply.

“Alright, so we're gonna order food, and then you're gonna get your ass in the shower.”

She gives me a sidelong look. “Are you going to personally wash me, sir?”

Shit. What happened back there?

“Maybe I'm an old-fashioned man. Maybe I don't think I should touch you until we're married.” I pull up in front of my house and park the car. “Don't touch your door.”

I think I've earned at least this one little crumb.

I wonder if she'll push me. I watch as she sits with her hands in her lap. When I get around to her door, she reaches for the handle. I stand on the other side of it. Our gazes lock, but she doesn't open the door. She seems torn, unsure of what to do next.

Good. I want her to at least keep guessing about contradicting me.

I open the door and reach for her hand. In this short time, it's already become my thing.

I like the feel of her hand in mine. She doesn't trust easily, but it's the slightest gesture and gives me no small measure of comfort. For this one brief moment in time, when her hand is connected to mine, her fingers entwined, she's not going to get away from me. And no one's going to take her away.

It's quiet here, set apart from everyone else. My little sanctuary in the city. From my front door, I can see the bright lights of Manhattan in the distance.

My family owns this area of New York known as The Cove. Businesses pay us to keep them safe, and we employ over two-thirds of the residents. It's a power move that has served us well.

I wonder what it's like being back in New York for her.

Her family home is thirty minutes from here, but she didn't spend her childhood there.

I open the door and touch the app on my phone.

“New York style pizza,” I tell her. “I like it with a lot of meat. Sausage, bacon, pepperoni. Red sauce, none of that white sauce bullshit. You order anything you want.”

I'm not just trying to appease her this time. The truth is, I've been eating it this way since the first time I saw her.

I place it in the cart and hand her my phone.

It's dark when we enter the foyer. I don't bother to flick on overhead lighting. I know from my distance surveillance that this house has been undisturbed, just how I like it. I had a cleanup crew sent to where she set fire, but luckily the damage was contained and you’d never know what happened.

“I don't need anything else. That looks fine,” she says quietly. She doesn’t want to admit it’s her favorite.

“They're kinda known for their handmade ice cream. It might help… the bleed off.”

She fucking adores ice cream more than any chocolate or baked goods or anything like that. She gives me a sidelong look. “You want to fatten me up?”

No, baby. You're fucking perfect. You don't need to change a fucking thing.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Fine, I want ice cream; I’m getting it.” I take the phone and add two hot fudge sundaes to the cart, an extra large order of french fries, and a salad, just to appease her conscience. I know what she likes. I tap the button and order it.

“It'll be here in thirty minutes. Let’s go shower.”

She heads to the shower, but her shoulders slump. I wonder if her bravado has failed her. Before she gets to the bathroom, she turns and sits on the bed and buries her face in her hands. Her shoulders shake, and I can't tell if she's crying.

I stare and look at her, unsure of what to do. Adrenaline still surges through me. I haven’t crashed yet.

“Are you all right?”

I don't know what to think of this. I don't know how to help her. I reach tentatively to rest my hand on her shoulder.

This time, she doesn't flinch or turn away, but she also doesn’t answer my question.

“You go first,” she says shakily. “Go shower and I’ll go after you.”

Is she playing me? Is she trying to get out of this room so she can attempt to escape again? I doubt it, but I’m not taking risks either.

I shake my head. “No. You either come with me, or you go alone.”

Her shoulders sag. I want to make it better. I hate that she's distraught, and I know that I had something to do with this.

“You’ll feel a lot better after a shower and some food.”

Finally, with a deep sigh, she gets to her feet. “I guess that’s sensible. I don't know how I feel about you showering in the same room with me. I know we’re going to get married, but I don't trust you. We hardly know each other.”

“I know. I didn't say I was getting in with you. Go. Get in the shower. But I’m not leaving you alone. We're getting married in a few days, Lydia. The sooner we get comfortable with each other, the better.”

“Fair.” She stands and stretches before she starts taking her clothes off. I turn my head away, but her voice arrests me.

“No. We’re going to be married, right? Why turn away? That’s only a waste of time and playing games. This is me. This is what you’re marrying. Let’s see what you think.”

Her voice is hard. Challenging. I stole a woman who’s constructed of sheer fire and ice and should have expected nothing less.

Holding my gaze, she lifts the pretty red top, now wrinkled and smudged, over her head. “I hope that all comes out of this. I would very much enjoy wearing that again.”

Doesn’t matter if it does or not. I’ll get her another. I’ll fucking hire someone to sew her another one if I have to.

She stands in front of me, her full, curvy body making me fucking hard. Maybe I don’t need to bleed anything off. Maybe just watching her is enough for me to let that shit go.

Her blush-colored bra pushes up her full breasts. She’s got the sweetest little dimple in her belly. I imagine laying her down and tonguing it before I taste even more of her.

We’ll get there.

I take a step toward her before I realize what I’m doing. I freeze, her gaze still locked on mine.

Next, she reaches for the hem of her leggings. Her fingers, adorned with long, blood-red nails, hook into the waistband before she begins to slide them down. I swallow hard as she pushes them over her luscious hips and shapely thighs. A hunger gnaws at my core, a craving that food won’t satisfy.

She folds the leggings and places them next to her top. I’m standing in front of her, staring at her perfect body. I can’t believe that she’s mine.

Mine.

I reach for her shoulder and stroke it with the pad of my thumb. “You’re a fucking masterpiece. The most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on.” When she opens her mouth to likely protest, I shake my head. “And don’t you dare contradict me. If you say one fucking self-deprecating thing about your body, I’ll put you straight over my knee and spank you until you beg me to stop and you’re ready to admit you’re fucking gorgeous.”

“You wouldn’t,” she whispers, but the heat of her gaze tells me there’s a part of her who hopes that I will.

I stare into the depths of her eyes and comb my fingers through her hair. I lean in and kiss her temple. “I promise I would, so I wouldn’t test that theory. Let’s clean you up. Our food will be here soon.”

“So sex isn’t in your arsenal of tools to come down after a high like that?” she whispers.

I kiss her cheek and turn her around to face the bathroom. “I guess we’ll have to see.”

In the bathroom, I turn the shower on. “I want you to trust me. I'm not going to take advantage of you. I promise. You are getting in the shower, and you’re not leaving this bathroom until I take a shower, too.”

She looks over at where the clothes are. “Does your housekeeper do laundry?”

I shake my head. “I don't trust people to do shit like that for me.”

“Very nice. A man who can take care of himself. I'm impressed.”

I don't take the bait. I open the shower door and jerk my head. “Go.”

As she steps into the shower, the doorbell rings. I can hear it from here and quickly pull up the monitor on my phone. I can't see Lydia except through the frosty glass, but she is trying to look at me. “Food?”

I nod and tap a button on my phone. “Leave it at the door. Thanks.”

She looks for me again. “I need a few more minutes. Do you want to go get the food?”

I feel a corner of my lips quirk up. “Nice try, Lydia. Nice try.”

“Seriously, pizza’s no good cold.” She's totally fucking testing me. She'd eat pizza cold straight from the fridge. It's one of her favorite things.

“It'll stay hot for a while longer.”

“You still have to shower. And I am dying to shave these legs.” She looks down. “Fine. Listen, Viktor. You're going to be my husband whether you want to or not, and we’re both starving. Come shower with me already.”

Lydia isn't like other girls. Others would be shaking in terror being alone with a man she hardly knows. But Lydia likes to live on the edge. She likes to be scared. I'm going to use that to my advantage.

“Are you sure about that?”

My voice is low, husky. I can't help the raging hard-on I get with the suggestion of being near her nakedness and sharing a shower with her.

Lydia frowns, turning so that the shower water cascades over her shoulders and back.

“Is there anything I can do to prevent our marriage?”

“No.”

Her voice is hard. “So we're going to share a name, rings, and a bed. Then, yes, I’m sure. We can share a shower.”

There's that edge again. My cock throbs. I can't wait to fucking tame this woman.

“This shower is big enough for all of your brothers to fit in here.”

I growl before I realize I'm even responding, and she laughs out loud. It's music to my ears.

“I’m not saying I want to share the shower with your brothers any more than you do. I'm not saying they should. I'm just saying they could. So relax.”

I strip my clothes off and throw them into the hamper.

“I like a man who keeps his things tidy.”

“Is that right?” I ask, opening the shower door. Steam billows out at my skin.

“So my house fits your needs? Is it clean enough for you, your majesty?”

She's extremely neat and tidy and hates anything out of place. Even before she gets to work, she always has to clean up her space. Her car is impeccable.

When I found out she was coming here, I hired an entire team to clean my house from top to bottom. Even though I already have a housekeeper, we did a complete deep clean all the way down to the basement.

“It does. I like that.” She finishes rinsing her hair and turns to face me.

“Dear God,” she says, shaking her head. “How much do you lift?”

“Like, how often? Or how many weights?”

She shakes her head. “Never mind. I don't think it would make sense to me anyway. I wouldn't know what it looks like to bench press fifty or a thousand pounds. Your body speaks for itself.”

“Is that right?” I look down on my body. “What does it say?”

All traces of humor leave her. She looks from the top of my head, down my neck, and over my shoulders. The heat of her gaze skates down my skin to my massive erection, my strong thighs, all the way down my legs.

“Your body looks like it's been honed into an instrument of torture. Perfection.” She licks her lips and swallows. “It says you're trained to kill.”

She's not wrong.

I step into the shower. “It also says that you are incredibly turned on by me,” she whispers, almost surprised.

“Did you seriously need to see my hard-on to know that?”

I'm going to go to bed tonight with the worst fucking case of blue balls I've ever had in my life.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Honestly? No. Of all the things I've doubted about you and me so far in this short time that I've known you, your attraction to me has not been one of them.”

Yet she lets me hold her hand. She's let me comfort her. Lydia may be afraid of me, but if she is, she hides it well.

I reach for the bar of soap and scrub it on my back. Quickly wash and rinse.

I'm aware of her watching me. I'm aware of the way her breath hitches, and she looks away.

I want to touch her. I want to feel her. I want her to touch me.

She leans over me, reaching for the conditioner that Polina bought her. Her arm brushes mine, and I have to hold my breath to keep myself still. To keep myself from grabbing her and ravishing her right here in the shower, hours after I've taken her into my captivity.

I swallow hard, the rise of adrenaline making the blood pump in my veins.

“See? It's easy to read.” She turns and looks at me, her thick lashes dotted with droplets of water. She moves closer to me. “God, so many things I wish I knew.”

“You can ask me anything you like.”

“Really?”

“Mmm.”

“Do you speak Russian?” she asks in Russian. “I've always wanted a man to speak Russian to me.”

“Konechno, ya delayu.”

Of course I do.

“Why do you want me to speak Russian?”

She hangs her head and takes a step closer to me. “I think it's hot. I've always imagined my husband would speak my native language to me. I think it's my Russian blood. Something about that calls to me.”

“Then why aren't you speaking Russian now?”

She shrugs and doesn’t answer.

“Have you been with a lot of women? It seems like a reasonable thing to ask someone who’s going to be your husband.”

She takes a step toward me and reaches for the bar of soap in my hand.

“No. Some, but they didn't need anything from me.” I sink a world of meaning into that response, unsure of how she'll take it.

Without a word, she washes my shoulders and my neck and my chest.

“Aren't you going to ask me if I've been with a lot of men?” I shake my head.

“I don't need to. All I needed to know was that you thought fucking Yudin was worthy of your time and attention. I’ll remedy that. He didn’t love you and wasn’t worthy of you.”

Her eyes flash, and she snorts.

“And this is what real love looks like? This is the real deal, right? Who are you kidding, Viktor?”

I shake my head.

“You need to know that I fucking hate him, and I'm going to kill him. And I'm not going to lie to you about that. I thought by now you would've seen who he was.”

She shakes her head and turns away. “I'm starving. Let's get out of here and get something to eat.” I’ll have to remember she changes the subject when she gets uncomfortable.

We rinse and towel off, not saying a word to each other. I show her where Polina left some clothes, and I pull on a pair of boxers. The whole time I'm wondering, what does she think of me? Does she still think that asshole was worth her time?

I show her to the kitchen. She wears soft flannel pajama shorts and a little tank top. They fit her perfectly.

“These are nice. I'll have to thank Polina. Do you have a dining room?”

I shake my head again.

“I eat in the kitchen. I'll show you.”

In silence, we quietly get paper plates and napkins out.

“Do you like pink lemonade and Diet Coke?”

I shake my head. “I don't give a shit. My housekeeper got those.”

They are her favorite drinks. She's smart enough to know why they're there. She eyes me curiously and takes a bottle of water, leaving the lemonade and Diet Coke there. It feels like a moment of calm before a storm of emotions is about to hit. Lydia burns as hot as the fires she sets.

She's grateful right now. She had a shower, and I ordered her favorite foods. But she doesn't like the control over her life, and that's going to come to a head eventually.

We sit at the kitchen table, the food spread up before us. Lydia takes a large slice of pizza and eats slowly, her eyes fluttering closed.

“Oh my God, this is so good,” she says, savoring her food. I watch her. I love making her happy.

We eat until we’re full.

“Soon you'll meet Aria, Mikhail's wife. These were her favorite when she was pregnant.”

I put the rest of the food away as she throws the paper plates in the trash. It's simple and comforting, but we're both mostly just tired. When our eyes meet, an unspoken understanding passes between us. Maybe she's trying to reconcile the fact that I know so much about her, and yet I'm still a complete stranger.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Mikhail: They lied or he was warned. No Yudin.

Lydia shifts in her seat, drawing my attention back to her. Her gaze is intense, her lips slightly parted. “Who was that?” she asks, her voice soft but probing.

“Mikhail,” I reply, my voice low.

Her eyes narrow slightly. “Do you always handle your problems with violence?”

I step closer, the air between us charged with tension. “I do what needs to be done to protect those I care about.”

Her breath hitches, and she doesn't back away. Instead, she stands, closing the distance between us. “And what about me, Viktor? What do I need protection from?”

“From anyone who would hurt you,” I say, my voice rough with emotion. “Including yourself.”

Her eyes flash with defiance. “I don't need a protector.”

“Maybe not,” I murmur, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “But you have one anyway.”

She shivers at my touch, a mixture of anger and something more in her eyes. “You think you know everything about me,” she whispers, her lips inches from mine.

“I know enough,” I reply, my voice husky. “Enough to want to keep you safe. Enough to want you.”

Her breath catches, and for a moment, we just stand there, the tension between us electric. Then she steps back, breaking the spell.

“We'll see,” she says, her voice trembling slightly. “We'll see if you really know me, Viktor.”

I shoot Mikhail another text.

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