I told myself it would be enough. That just being near her would quiet the monster inside me. But it hasn’t. It’s only made me want her more.
I don’t think she knows. Or maybe she does and pretends not to. I wouldn’t blame her. She should hate me. If anyone deserves it, it’s me.
“You’re going to kill that bag, brother,” Kirill drawls from the bench, where he’s slipping into his own pair of gloves. “Should we be worried?”
I grunt and land another jab. “You talk too much, like nasha babushka.”Like our grandma.
He chuckles and gets to his feet. “And you are running from your wife too much. We all have our problems.”
My eyes glare hard. “She’s nothing.”
The taste of that one word burns.
“Do you actually believe your own lies?”
“Maybe I should divorce her,” I mutter.
But the thought hits like violence every time I consider it.
“Then why don’t you?”
Because the thought of her not being mine—of her being with some other svolich, laughing with him, touching him—would split me open like a goddamn grenade.
“You don’t want her gone,” Kirill says, reading me too easily. “You wanted her in chains. To own her, control her. And you thought you wouldn’t feel anything. But it didn’t work out that way, did it?”
My teeth grind. “You tell me. How’s it going for you and the homeless girl?”
His expression twists, that flicker of rage flashing in his eyes.
“Ah,” I sneer. “You think you can push and I won’t push back.”
“That’s different,” he spits out. “She’s not my wife.”
“Maybe not yet. But it’s only a matter of time, right?”
“Wrong.”
Yeah, that’s what I once said about Fiona. Now here we are.
I throw another punch, harder this time. Anton steps in to hold the bag, while Kirill stalks to the other end of the gym and starts taking his frustration out on a different target.
We all bleed. Some of us just hide it better.
“I don’t get it,” Anton says, his voice distant. “What is it about these women that makes you all give a shit?” He stares like he’s studying a language he will never speak. “I want to understand.”
My mouth dries. Because how could he understand?
I’ve wondered what it’s like to be him. Incapable of guilt, rage, remorse. It must be freeing. Maybe confusing too.
“It is weakness,” I say. “You’re not missing anything.”
“Then kill her.” He shrugs.
I can’t. Because a week without touching her is already too fucking long. Because I watch her every day through security feeds at her office, stalking her with cameras, knowing it’s the only way I can see her all day.
And what kills me is that I want her to want me, even though I swore I’d never need that from anyone.
“Want me to do it?” he asks casually.
