Chapter 19

"Is he as intense in bed as he is outside?" Krista's question makes me choke on my coffee. Luckily, I manage not to spit all over my laptop.

"Krista!" I keep my voice down while on the phone with her at the coffee shop. I've come here every afternoon for the past three days, scanning the want ads online and talking myself out of looking at re-admittance for school.

"Well?" She laughs from the safety of the other side of the connection. "Is he?"

My face flames, which is ridiculous. No one here can hear her question, but it brings back memories of everything we've done in the last few days. It's enough to set my face on fire.

"Yes." I finally answer. "I didn't have to… well, you know… afterward."

She gasps.

"Coraline, are you telling me that you haven't been with a man who's been able to get you off this entire time?" The woman sitting at the table next to mine side-glances me.

"First of all, it's been a long while since anyone had the opportunity, and second of all, I thought I was just… broken." I whisper the last bit and turn my head away from where the woman is getting settled in.

Pieter, one of Sergei's men who's been assigned to babysit me this afternoon, is sitting in the back of the coffee shop where he can see both exits and me at the same time. Dimitri did the same yesterday and the man before him did as well. The baristas have already realized when I'm here, there will be some big Russian man sitting there.

"You are not broken," she says seriously. "You've just been with all the wrong guys."

"You're right." I can concede the point in that area. In high school I was too busy trying to get scholarships for college, and in college I was too busy trying to get good grades, and more scholarships to cover the next year. And then Mom got sick and anytime I wasn't studying I was going home to spend time with her, trying to make memories.

Memories that lasted for me, but not for her.

So, the guys I dated weren't serious.

"How is it having your mom there?" Krista's own mother passed away when we were in middle school, so Mom's practically hers as well.

"It's good. I go over in the morning for breakfast with her. I check in with her after dinner. She's sleeping a lot these days. Most days she's pretty quiet, just sort of lost in her own mind." I sigh. "She needs help with almost everything now."

"When I come over next time, we can go over for a visit. Unless you think it'll upset her?" The last time Krista popped into the nursing facility, Mom had a moment of paranoia that Krista was there to kidnap her. It didn't go well, and Krista's been afraid of going back for fear of triggering her again.

"I think it would be fine." I slide my finger over the pad on my laptop to wake my screen up. I've gotten a few paragraphs written, but nothing of real value.

"And work?" She changes the subject. "I thought you were supposed to have a shift at the country club this week."

"I was." I sigh again. "But Sergei doesn't want me working there. He doesn't like Jonathan and said that I don't need to work now. That my job is to work on school."

"Are you kidding me?"

"No." I silently wince. "I'm completely taking advantage of him, right? I mean, I can't accept all this. Taking care of Mom, and now this? I'm going to have to get a job soon, maybe something in an office."

"Cora. He's right about Jonathan; the guy's a complete prick. And now you can focus on finishing your degree. You get to live in that mansion, have your mom with you, and be well taken care of." She pauses to say something to someone on her end of the call. "I have to get back, but it sounds to me like he's taking care of you like he would a real wife, Cora."

"No. He's just being nice."

She bursts out laughing. "Sergei Petrov isn't nice. I've heard some horror stories of things he's done to people who deserved it, but still. The man is not nice. He's treating you like a mafia boss' wife, because you are a mafia boss' wife." She shouts something behind her. "And I'm not saying that's a bad thing. You deserve to be taken care of. I'm just saying, maybe he's not planning to ever let you go. Agreement or not."

"You're nuts," I scoff. Though I can't shake the fact that I couldn't get him to address the issue. If I so much as brush up against the topic that our marriage has a time stamp, he changes the topic or he just walks off.

"Well, I guess we'll see. I gotta run. Talk soon, byeeee!" And she's gone.

I sit back in my chair with my phone cradled in my hands staring at it.

He's not acting like this because he sees a future.

He's only doing it because, for the time being, he's taking his role in this pretend fantasy seriously.

"Hey, I was getting ready to leave. Figured you'd chickened out." A familiar voice pierces my thoughts. I swing my gaze around the shop until I find him.

John. The cop.

And he's not alone.

There's a man in a dark blue V-neck shirt and jeans sitting across from him at his table. His head is shaved, and his arms are covered in tattoos. They're only two tables away, in front of me and little to the right. I can't see his face from this angle.

I try to find Pieter, but his seat is empty.

"I had something to deal with," the man says with a thick Russian accent. He turns to the right and then the left, like he's making sure he's safe. There's a thick, raised scar running from his mouth to his ear. Like he was cut, and the wound wasn't treated properly and didn't heal right.

"You want a coffee?" John offers.

He shakes his head. "No. I want to get this over with. Why are you not moving in on him?"

"You've given me nothing I can use yet; you have something now?"

He looks around again, twisting more this time. His clear blue eyes meet mine. My face burns at being caught watching him, and my chest tightens as his eyes darken with suspicion.

Where the hell is Pieter?

"I don't like it here. Let's go somewhere else." He gets to his feet, nearly knocking down his chair.

John frowns.

"All right. Sure." With his cup in hand, they walk out of the coffee shop. The Russian looks back in my direction through the window as they pass by, and I duck my head.

Did he see me?

Does he know me?

I replay all the faces I've seen since I've met Sergei. He has men with him all the time. I don't recognize this one.

"Hey. You okay?" Pieter shows up at my table. "What happened?" He looks around the café ready to fight someone on my behalf.

"I'm fine. Did you see those two men just walk out?" I ask, already closing my laptop. I'm not getting anything done here. I might as well go home and spend the afternoon with Mom.

He looks at the exit.

"Yeah. The bald guy and the suit?"

"Did the bald guy look familiar?" I sling my bag over my shoulder and push my chair in.

"No, but I didn't see his face. What happened while I was in the bathroom?" he asks, pushing the glass door open for me.

"Nothing." I shake my head. I don't want to say anything until I talk to Sergei. I just need to figure out how to tell him about it, without him getting all overprotective. He's not going to like that I made Pieter drive to this café after he already told me he didn't like me here if the cop comes here. To add that I saw the guy and he saw me is going to blow up in my face.

This has to be handled delicately.

"You will tell me right now what happened at that coffee shop this afternoon or you will never leave this house again." Sergei's voice bursts into the library before the rest of him does.

I look up from the book I'm reading to find him barging through the door with Pieter right behind him. He at least has the decency to stay in the doorway looking slightly guilty.

I lean to the right and shoot Pieter a glare just as he steps back into the hall and pulls the door closed.

"I was going to talk to you about it tonight. I thought you were working." I close the book on my thumb to hold my place.

"I was, but Pieter told me something upset you at the coffee shop." He folds his arms over his chest.

Fuck, this man is distracting. He's got his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off the ink on his forearms. The way they flex with his arms folded over his chest like this only exacerbates his sex appeal.

"Cora." He snaps my name. "You're staring again." The left side of his mouth kicks up a bit. If he's not careful he may actually smile soon.

"I was not. I was thinking," I lie.

His dark eyebrow pitches upward, telling me he doesn't believe me.

"Nothing bad happened at the coffee shop. I was going to tell you about it later."

"Tell me now," he orders with a nod.

I roll my eyes, grab the bookmark from the side table, and close the book before putting it down. I'm halfway through one of my latest obsessions, a dark romantasy, and I don't want to lose my place.

"Can you promise not to threaten to keep me locked up here if I do?" It's unreasonable to think he's going to keep the promise, even if he makes it.

"No."

At least he's honest.

"Fine." I tuck my feet under me and press my elbows to my knees. "That cop was there again and this time he met someone."

"You were back at that same coffee shop? Didn't I tell you to stay away from there?"

"Do you want to hear this or do you want to get your panties in a bunch because of where I had coffee with my armed bodyguard present?" It's best to slide that part in, so he can't start using safety as an issue. I was safe.

"Go on." His jaw clicks. I think he might actually break his teeth if he clenches his jaws any tighter.

"The cop's name is John; I don't remember if I told you that before. But anyway, John was there and some other guy—a Russian guy—came in and sat with him. They had a quick conversation, then left together."

"How do you know he's Russian?"

"His accent was super thick. More than yours," I answer. "Why is yours so light anyway? It only comes out when you're really irritated." Or if he's being overwhelmingly sexy, but I'm not telling him that.

"I've lived here for a long time. Did you hear his name?"

"No. The cop never said it. But he has a big scar that goes from here to here." I trace my cheek from my mouth to my ear. "It's fat, like it didn't heal right."

His eyebrows rise.

"What did they say to each other?" he presses, dropping his hands to his sides.

"The Russian guy wanted to know why the cop hadn't moved on ‘him.' Which I assume he means you? Or maybe your cousin, I'm not sure. But the cop said it was because he hasn't given him anything useful yet, and asked if he had anything now."

"And?" he pushes when I stop.

"And that's it. The Russian guy looked around the coffee shop and he seemed to get nervous, so they left to go talk somewhere else."

He cocks his head. "There's more you're not telling me."

"No." I slide my feet to the floor.

"Yes, there is." His eyes narrow with suspicion. "Not telling me is the same as lying to me, Cora, and when I find out what it is—and I will always find out—you'll wish you'd just told me to begin with."

I stare at him. A short game of interrogation might be fun.

"You won't like what I do to liars, Cora. I promise." He sounds sincere in this threat.

I sigh. "He saw me."

"What?" If tone could cut skin, I'd be bleeding all over this very expensive carpet beneath my bare feet.

I jump off the couch when he steps in my direction, but he's quick and is in front of me within a blink. Stepping back to give me space doesn't work because he comes with me. Though I try, step by step.

"He was looking around," I start explaining quickly. "And when he turned enough, he saw me."

"He saw you what?" He has me caged against the built-in bookcase.

"He just saw me. I was looking at him, and he saw me looking at him. That's all." I try to slide to the side, but he slaps his hands against the shelves on either side of me, locking me in.

"Did he say anything to you?" His nostrils flare.

"No," I answer immediately. "He didn't. But I think I was what made him nervous because they left right after."

He searches my eyes.

"I'm telling you everything, Sergei. I swear, he didn't say a word to me or about me, we locked eyes for a second and then they left."

"He recognized you."

I huff. "Recognized me from what? No one knows me. I'm a nobody. Just a college dropout." That comment might have been a smidge unnecessary, given how stormy his expression gets.

"I've just taken over Kustov Metals, making me one of the richest men in not only this country but Russia too. Do you think no one has taken notice that we're married?"

I swallow around the embarrassment balling up in my throat over not having figured that part out.

"But no one knows what I look like. Right?" My voice gets a little thin here, much like the ice I'm walking on with this whole conversation.

"You know that photograph we took right after our vows?" His voice lowers. "It was released to the media."

"Oh." It's barely a whisper at this point.

"You won't be going to that café again. Or any other café until we solve this."

"You're not being reasonable."

"I'm not being reasonable?" His voice hardens. "Would you prefer to be locked in the house instead? Maybe I should post guards at the front door."

"You already have guards at the doors," I point out, feeling a little braver.

"They are to keep people out. Maybe I should order them to keep you in." His threat isn't a threat at all, it's very much a vow and if I keep pushing, he'll make it happen.

"Can't we compromise? I'll agree to make sure you know when I'm leaving and I'll always have one of your guys with me, and you won't lock me up like Rapunzel."

"Compromise?" It sounds vulgar the way he says it.

"Yes, we both?—"

"I know what it is." He shoves off the bookshelves. "You won't go anywhere without talking to me first. And you will always have someone with you, always, Cora. If you even one time step onto the front yard without a man with you, I will have you strapped to my bed."

And we're back to threats that aren't working on me the way I'm sure he wants them to.

"All right. I can agree to that." I nod and take a soft breath. "Are you calm now?"

"I was always calm." He frowns.

"You looked a little tense," I point out.

He stares at me a long moment. "I have work to do. I'll be working late."

"Right. Of course." I clear my throat when my voice comes out all scratchy again.

After another long beat of silence, he turns on his booted heel and storms from the room as intensely as he barged in.

I let out a long breath, wait for my heart to get back to its normal beating habits, and pull out my phone to look up this photograph.

Great. I look like a fucking blueberry standing next to him. As I swipe through the comments on the article, my heart sinks lower and lower.

The consensus is a man as sexy and rich as Sergei could and should do a hell of a lot better than a roly-poly like me.

I wonder if he's seen this.

I press my hand to my stomach, soft and plump like always.

He's really getting the short end of the stick with this deal.

Does he know that? And if not, what will he do with me when he figures it out?