She stares at me, and I can see her calculating. "And if I need things? If I want to go somewhere, do something?"
"Tell me. I'll get it for you."
"Anything?"
The word hangs between us. It’s a test, and we both know it.
"Anything," I confirm, and I mean it. Whatever she wants, whatever she needs, I’ll find a way to get it for her.
This is my penance. I’ll grovel until I’ve proven that I was wrong. Until she believes that one mistake doesn’t mean I should be punished forever, when all I want is to make it right.
A slow, dangerous smile twitches at the corners of her mouth. "We'll see about that."
Then she shuts the door in my face.
She doesn’t ask me for anything right away. She doesn’t come out of her room except to get some food and take it back into the guest room. I bring her toiletries and new clothes, and she accepts them without a word. I can hear the television playing in her room, hear her showering, hear her moving around the apartment whenever I’m in a different room, but she avoids me as much as she possibly can.
For the first couple of days, I try to give her some space. I can understand that this is difficult and that she needs to acclimate. And I need to keep Ilya from realizing that anything has changed.
I keep the house stocked with the best groceries I can buy, things I wouldn’t normally bother buying for myself, and precook meals I think Svetlana might eat when I’m not busy working on something for Ilya. I bring fresh bread from the Russian bakery, the best cuts of meat, produce that’s in season. I make her soups, stews, pasta, anything I can think of that might whet her appetite.
She eats sparingly, which I have a feeling has more to do with stress and the pregnancy than her trying to get back at me for what I’ve done. One afternoon, a few days later, I catch her staring into the refrigerator, her mouth pursed as if she’s looking for something she can’t find.
“Do you need something?”
She jumps, her hand on her chest as she turns to look at me. Her expression is hard, like it always is when she sees me, but I don’t care. Or rather… I do care, but the proof that this is worth it is right in front of me. Her face has filled out, and there’s more color in her cheeks. She looks more like the Svetlana I remember, from the days before everything fell apart.
“It’s nothing.” Her voice is clipped as she shuts the refrigerator.
"Svetlana." I can hear the irritation in mine. “I told you, if you need something?—”
"I said it's fine."
"Are you feeling sick?" Worry strikes a chord in my chest. “If I need to call a doctor…”
"I'mfine.” Her voice sharpens, and I let out a sharp breath.
“Alright.” I shrug. “But I’ll remind you again, if you need anything, I’ll find it for you. I don’t care what it is.”
“And if I want someone’s head on a platter?” She smiles thinly, and my mouth twitches.
“I’ll start sharpening my knives.”
“What if it’s yours?” Her smile is as fine and sharp as a blade, and I can feel it between my shoulders as I walk away, back into my own room.
Later that evening, I hear a light, firm rap on the door.
I try not to think about Svetlana coming into my bedroom as I get up to open it. That’s thelastthing that needs to be on my mind right now. But it’s difficult when I open the door and see her standing there, wearing a pair of loose dark blue lounge pants and a camisole with a cardigan over it. The sweater shifts slightly, and I swear I can see the outline of her nipple through the fabric.
My cock twitches, and I suck in a breath through my teeth.
“I need something,” she says without preamble. “You said anything, right?”
I tense. I can only imagine what this is going to be, but I’m determined to follow through on my promise. I want her to trust me, to understand that whatever’s happened in the past, I’m trying to make it right now. “What is it?”
“I want strawberries.”
I blink at her. “Strawberries?”
