The words settle between us. He says it so simply. Like what I've told him is just another fact about me, no different from my name or my age.
"It started with my aunt," I say.
His hand stills again.
"Aunt Yana raised us after my parents died. She was the best person I've ever known. When I was eighteen, a man attacked her outside a grocery store. Raped her. Killed her. The police had nothing. A grainy security camera and a description that fit half the men in the city."
I don't feel the usual tightness in my chest when I talk about Yana. Maybe it's the dark or the warmth of him behind me.
"I found him in three weeks. Tracked him through pawn shop records where he'd sold her ring. Broke into his apartment." I touch my thigh without thinking. The scar under my fingers. "Hegrabbed a knife. I didn't plan for that. He cut me and I thought I was going to die in that apartment, but I didn't. He did."
Yevgeny's arm tightens around me, pulling me closer.
"It was messy," I say. "Sloppy. I was eighteen and running on rage and I did everything wrong. But after it was over, I knew I was never going to be powerless again. So I got serious. I trained. I learned. And I started finding other men like him."
"Eleven of them so far," he says quietly.
"And there’s so many more I wanted to get to before I had to stop."
"Who said you have to stop? As long as your careful, and don’t put yourself in danger when you’re pregnant, I think this is something we could easily continue. Maybe even do together?"
My entire body begins to tingle as I roll over to face him.
"Seriously?"
He presses his lips to the tip of my nose. "I married you knowing there was a darker side to you. I told you that."
"I thought it was over," I say. "Getting married. Being watched. Living on the estate. I thought I'd never be able to do it again."
"You thought wrong." He kisses me again, pressing his pelvis forward, his hard length grinding against my hip.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying you don't have to stop. I'm saying I have resources and reach and a wife who's apparently better at disappearing than professionals I pay very well. You want to keep hunting?" His hand comes up and cups the side of my face. "Then hunt. I'll make sure you have what you need."
I stare at him. Six years I've carried this alone. Six years of hiding and lying and burying the truest part of myself undersilence, and this man is lying in bed with me on our wedding night telling me he'll help me keep doing it.
I kiss him. Hard and sudden and messy. He makes a surprised sound against my mouth and then he's kissing me back, his hand sliding into my hair and gripping.
When I pull back, we're both breathing harder.
"So," I say. "What about you? What should I know about being your wife?"
Something shifts in his expression. Warmer. Almost amused. "What do you want to know?"
"Expectations. Rules. Whatever this is going to look like day to day."
"No rules. You're not my prisoner, you're my partner." He traces his thumb along my cheekbone. "But I am possessive. I won't apologize for that. What's mine stays mine and I don't share."
"Noted."
"And I want children. When you're ready. That's important to me."
The word children warms me in a way I wasn't expecting.
"Okay," I say. "What else?"
He watches me for a moment. That careful, assessing look. "In bed," he says, his voice dropping lower, "I like telling you when you're doing something right. And I like hearing you respond to it."
