I chuckle.
“I don’t want any pain killers. I can handle a little stab wound.” I won’t have my judgment impaired, not even for an injury. There’s no one I fully trust enough to make sure everything remains well.
“Listen here, boy. I will go to your father and tell him something’s amiss in your home if you don’t open up.” His threat holds levity. My dad may not be the boss anymore, buthe’s still my father. And the last thing I need is my family prying into my marriage.
“My wife stabbed me in the leg. But it was my fault.” I’m quick to defend her actions because I can’t have anyone questioning her. She didn’t stab me because she’s Bratva, she stabbed me because she’s a woman, and I commented on her weight.
“Why?” Dr. Anderson’s mouth purses.
“Because I said some things about her and eating and getting fat and being too skinny. You know…” I don’t have an ending to that sentence because I’m pretty sure he does know that’s the last thing you should tell a woman.
“I know that you’re a fool! What’s wrong with you? You’re lucky she only hit fat and muscle.” He doesn’t seem upset on my behalf at all.
I scoff, offended that he called me fat. There isn’t an ounce of fat on these thighs.
“I know I fucked up,” I grit out at him.
“Yeah, you did.” He stares at me for a hard moment, then packs his things. Right before he leaves, he looks me over, and sighs. “A word of advice. Find her and apologize. It’s not her fault her husband’s a jackass.”
I scoff, but mull over his advice.
Maybe I should apologize.
…
I limp my way to my bedroom, only to pause when I find Katerina and that fucking cat on our bed. She’s teasing him with a stuffed mouse on a string. She keeps moving it around and the dummy mindlessly chases it.
“Why is it in here?” I growl out, not wanting the pisser anywhere near where I sleep.
“Heis the only reason I’m in here. He snuck out of my bedroom and came here. He likes playing on the bed.” She doesn’t take her attention away from the cat, and it annoys me.
I huff, but instead of taking the cue, she starts humming.
I throw my hands on my hips and glare at them.
“Well?” I almost shout at her.
“Well, what?” She finally turns to me, looking as exasperated as I feel. No. She doesn’t get to be annoyed. I’m the one who was stabbed!
“Aren’t you going to ask how my leg is?” I grit my teeth and raise a brow.
“Oh, that. Pfft, no.” She turns back to the cat and waves me off dismissively.
I stalk towards her. She’s in the middle of the bed, so I grab her ankle and pull her to the edge.
“You stabbed me. Then I told you to stay, and you left. And now, hours later, you don’t even check on me!” I don’t know why I’m so hung up on it. I don’t know why her indifference bothers me. She wasn’t indifferent hours ago when she stabbed me. Why is she now?
“You’re clearly fine seeing as you just walked your happy ass in here. Your little boo-boo is not my problem.” She rolls her eyes and tries to kick my hand off her ankle. I just squeeze tighter, not freeing her.
“Not your problem? You fucking stabbed me! If anyone else had done it, they’d be getting tortured right now!” I shake her leg, trying to knock some sense into her.
“What do you want me to do? Apologize? Thank you for your mercy?” She rolls her eyes. “It’s not going to happen. I’m not sorry, and it’s your choice not to punish me.”
Thoughts of punishing her in a different way come to mind, and I have to concentrate on keeping my expression neutral.
“You’d do well to keep me happy. Pissing me off, injuring me, isn’t smart.” The threat’s clearly empty seeing as I’m not retaliating after she stabbed me. But maybe she’ll buy it.
Her eyes widen, then soften. Her lips tremble, and for a moment, I think she’ll cry. Disgusting. She’s too strong to cry over my stern voice.
