Except we're not near that island anymore. I look outside to a different beach. We moved again as I slept.
How many islands have we visited? I've lost count. Ten? Fifteen? They blur together. One endless honeymoon because Ivan refuses to go back to Chicago.
Not that I'm complaining. This beats serving coffee at 3 a.m. by a significant margin.
He runs his empire from the yacht's office. Video calls with lieutenants. Deals over satellite internet. Orders given while wearing swim trunks and no shirt because he can.
I sometimes walk through the background during his meetings wearing lingerie just to watch him lose his train of thought mid-sentence. To watch his men get uncomfortable trying not to look.
Those meetings always end early.
My phone buzzes. I grab it off the nightstand and smile before I even read Pyotr's daily message.
Boss lady, Chicago boring without you psychopaths. Also I learn make coffee. Is terrible. Also new Starbucks open where your old place was. Is sacrilege.
I set the phone down and move back to the easel. The painting needs work. The light on the water looks wrong. Too flat. Too obvious.
Maybe I should start over with today's view. Except I liked yesterday's island.
The drawer under the easel is open slightly. Metal gleams inside.
My Glock.
Things change. Six months ago, I couldn't serve coffee without spilling it. Now I can field-strip a handgun in under a minute, hit targets at fifty yards, and carry a weapon like it's normal.
Ivan insisted. He taught me himself with the patience of someone teaching a child to ride a bike. Except instead of skinned knees, the stakes were my survival.
I still get nervous thinking about shooting someone, though Ivan makes sure I never have to. I’m so protected that I'd need to actively try to get into danger.
I pick up the brush and study the canvas. Should I fix this or start fresh?
"What are you painting?"
I don't turn yet. Just smile at my husband’s voice in the doorway.
"The sunrise."
"Boring." Footsteps sound behind me. "Paint me."
Now I turn. He's completely naked, still wet from his morning swim. Water droplets catch light on his shoulders.
"You're very confident in your artistic merit."
"I'm very confident in general." He moves closer. "Also, you've drawn me naked approximately a thousand times."
"That was different."
"How?"
"I was fantasizing. Now you're just... here. Available."
"Complaining?"
"Never."
He's behind me now, arms sliding around my waist, mouth finding that spot on my neck that short-circuits thought. The brush trembles in my hand.
"Six months," I say before I can stop myself.
