“Da!”
“Yes,” she corrects, her own smile widening. “We say yes in English.”
My son vigorously bobs his head. “Yes, yes, yes!” He’s jumping up and down now, too excited to stand still, and I make a mental note to teach Chloe some more words in Russian. That way, she can surprise him randomly like that again, and I’ll enjoy listening to her cute, American-accented Russian.
Come to think of it, I should teach her some sex words as well, so I can hear her soft, husky voice crooning them to me when we’re in bed.
My body hardens at the image, and I have to take a deep breath to control myself. I’ve already had her once—or rather, several times in one night—and it’s nowhere near enough. I feel like a starving man who was allowed a single lick of ice cream.
I want more. I want to fuck her every night, to take her every hole and pleasure her in every way possible. I want to go to sleep holding her and wake up buried deep inside her. I want to do all sorts of dark, depraved things to her, and I want to cuddle her afterward as she comes down from the pleasure-pain high.
I want to possess her so completely she’ll forget all about wanting to leave me.
Soon, I promise myself, shutting the laptop as I get up. She’ll be better soon, and then I’ll have her.
In the meantime, I have to do whatever it takes to keep her safe.
10
Chloe
A few minutes before the official lunchtime of twelve-thirty, Lyudmila comes to take Slava downstairs.
“Nikolai come with food soon,” she says in her thickly accented English, correctly surmising that the growling sounds from my stomach indicate hunger. I smile at her bashfully, but she’s already hustling Slava out the door while speaking to him in rapid-fire Russian.
Sure enough, Nikolai appears with a tray at twelve-thirty on the dot.
“What’s with the military-style adherence to specific meal times?” I ask as he sits next to me and places the tray on the nightstand before uncovering the delicious-smelling dishes.
It’s something I’ve been wondering about for days but haven’t had a chance to ask—and I figure this question is a lot easier to answer than the other ones I have prepared.
A wry smile lifts one corner of Nikolai’s sensuous lips. “You said it: It’s a leftover from the military. More specifically, Pavel’s time in the military. He’s been running our household ever since he got out of the army some thirty years ago, and this is one of his rules. I don’t mind. I grew up this way, so I find it a comforting ritual.”
“What about the formal wear at dinner? Is that also Pavel’s thing?” That would be odd, given that I’ve never seen the bear-like Russian in anything resembling a suit or a tux, but there’s a lot of weirdness in this household.
The tiny muscles around Nikolai’s eyes tighten, though the smile remains on his lips. “Not exactly. That’s something my mother insisted on. She said we needed something beautiful in our lives to cover up all the ugliness.”
“Oh, I see.” My pulse speeds up with anticipation. This is the first time he’s spoken of his mother to me—of either of his parents, really. All I’d known before Alina’s terrifying revelations was that both of their parents were dead.
“Here,” Nikolai says, bringing a piece of French bread slathered with butter and caviar to my lips. “Open up.”
I obediently bite into the gourmet offering like the invalid we’re both pretending I am. My mind isn’t on our strange little game, though; it’s churning with all the questions. There’s still so much I don’t know about my dangerous protector, and I need to know.
I need to know everything, because some small, irrational part of me is still hoping that the darkness in him is not as pitch-black as it seems.
I let him feed me some of the other appetizers on the tray, as well as the flaky white fish with lemon sauce and scalloped potatoes that is the main dish, and when he switches over to dessert—poached pears with black currants and honeyed walnuts—I steel my spine and launch into my planned interrogation.
“So,” I say in as casual of a manner as I can, “are you guys mafia?”
I’m pretty sure I already know the answer to this, but might as well hear it from the horse’s gorgeous mouth.
To my surprise, instead of flattening in offense or anger, said mouth twitches with amusement. “No, zaychik. At least not the way you imagine it. We don’t do illegal drugs or weapons or anything along those lines—that’s more of the Leonovs’ province. The vast majority of our businesses are legal and above board, and the small portion that are not fall within Konstantin’s domain—dark web, hacking, social media bots, all that high-tech jazz.”