“This is your home.” Ana frowns, and I can’t help but linger with my fingers on her cheek, my thumb brushing over the high angle of her cheekbone.
“It hasn’t always felt like one,” I tell her softly. “It’s been mine, a place to sleep, to eat, all of that—but not a home. I’m not sure that I’ve ever felt that I had one if I’m being honest. Not—not like this.”
“Why?” Ana turns back to the oven, cracking it open and peering inside. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she adds. “You don’t push me to talk about things.”
“My mother died giving birth to me,” I tell her before I can stop myself. I’d tried not to tell her much about the things I’ve dealt with, not to talk about myself until she’s had a chance to work through the things weighing on her. But at some point, I have to tell her more. She needs to know me, too.
“My father wasn’t exactly a warm person, and he blamed me.” I lean against the side of the counter, watching her as she turns to face me. “He focused on my brother and largely ignored me growing up. My childhood home wasn’t a cozy, domestic place. It was lonely.”
“I’m sorry.” Ana looks at me, her mouth curving sadly. “My father died when I was young. It’s why my mother brought me here, from Russia. To New York. She tried her best to make a good home for us there. But it’s hard, being alone like that.” She shrugs, giving me a small smile. “I’m sure a lot of people born into the Bratva and the mafia, and these crime families have similar stories. I know Caterina does, and Sofia. We all do, I think, to some extent.”
I push away from the counter, coming to stand in front of her again as I reach for her, my hands sliding down her upper arms. “I didn’t tell you so that you’d feel sorry for me, but because I wanted you to understand what this means to me. What you mean to me.”
“I know,” Ana whispers softly. “I wanted to do something for you. You’ve done so much for me.”
She smiles then, taking a step back. “Go change if you want,” she tells me, turning towards the counter. “Dinner’s almost ready. You can tell me about your day.”
Ana says the last teasingly, and I smile back at her, most of my day forgotten in the sheer peace of being back here with her.
She has the table set by the time I come back out, with small votive candles in the center, a decanter of red wine, and a pan of lasagna waiting to be served. A loaf of Italian bread cut up with a small bowl of olive oil and herbs, and another of butter sitting next to it, and a huge glass bowl with a tossed salad.
“I hope you like it. Sofia taught me how to make this when we lived together in college. It was her dad’s family recipe. I could never eat much of it then, just a couple of bites, but now I can. So I thought I’d make it for us.”
“Thank you.” I bend down, kissing her lightly. I want to pull her into my arms and kiss her thoroughly, but if I do, I doubt we’ll be eating before it’s cold this time instead of burned.
“How was your appointment?” I ask her once we’re seated, dinner served, and a glass of wine in front of each of us.
“It was okay,” Ana says hesitantly. “They’re setting me up with physical therapy, of course. And I’ll go,” she adds quickly before I can say anything. “I promise, even though I hated it when I went before. I know I need to.”
“You do.” I take a bite of the salad. It’s delicious, like everything else that she’s made, and I can feel myself falling a little more in love with her, just like I have every single day since I brought her home with me.
“A lot of it wasn’t a shock.” Ana pushes at her lasagna, taking a bite under my watchful eye. “I won’t dance again, but I knew that. It’s just—it’s hard to hear, over and over again.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
She shrugs lightly, forcing a smile. “I have to get used to it, right? If I’m going to move forward with my life, instead of just mourning it constantly.”
“He agreed with you that swimming would be good.” Ana toys with her salad, finally taking a bite and then a sip of her wine. “He gave me some other recommendations for exercise, but mostly I need to eat.” She gives me a wry smile. “They did tests and bloodwork and things. Looked at my old injuries from Franco, looked at the ones from Alexei. I’ve healed—as well as could be expected. I think those were his exact words. As well as could be expected.”
“That’s good news, then.”
“It’s—as good as it could have been, I guess.” Ana pokes at her lasagna, taking another bite. “It’s just a reminder that I’m not the same person I used to be, inside or out. I have all these scars, and they’ll stay with me. I can’t ever forget, not entirely.”
She looks at me then, pressing her lips together as she sets down her fork. “I was able to forget, sometimes, in Paris. That was why—why I felt the way I did. But here—sometimes I can forget with you, too. And with you—I can choose.”
Ana holds my gaze, her blue eyes liquid with mingled sadness and hope and desire all mixed together. The words I’d meant to say at some point, the news about Alexandre’s call, die on my tongue.
Not tonight. Later. At the right time.
When we’re finished eating, I clear off the table, and Ana starts to get up. But before she can step away from the table, I turn back towards her, reaching for her upper arms and pulling her against me.
“You were very good today,” I murmur, reaching up and loosening her hair, pulling the tie out so that it falls around her shoulders, so that I can run my fingers through it. “I think you deserve a reward, don’t you?”
She looks up at me with those wide blue eyes, and I can feel the shift in her, the way she softens under my touch, her expression turning shy and submissive. “If that’s what you think I deserve,” she whispers, but I can feel her arch against me ever so slightly, feel the way her breath catches in her throat.
Slowly, she reaches down, her fingers caressing my hip and sliding towards my already-stiffening cock, but I push her hand away. “This is about you,” I tell her, leaning to one side and blowing out the votive candles on the table as I push them aside. “This is your reward, Ana.”
“What if I want my reward to be you inside of me?” Her lips part as she looks up at me, and I can see the naked desire in her eyes. She means it. It’s what she wants—but I’m not ready for us to go there again yet.