And I do. I do, because this is when I finally realize my body stopped being mine.
It’s his body now. His rules. His playground.
And somehow, giving it to him feels easier than holding on.
As I stand here,in a room full of Russians at a private Bratva gathering in New York, my husband sips on a glass of whiskey, surrounded by Wolfgang and a few other men. He looks as if thethree hours of sleep he had last night revitalized him instead of tiring him out.
His charcoal suit is perfectly tailored, a stark contrast to the few locks of rebellious hair that sway across his forehead. Someone says something, and he laughs—not the dark chuckle he usually offers me, but a louder, more rounded sound I wish I knew how to draw out when we’re alone.
I’ve never watched him from the sidelines without the tang of anxiety coating my tongue. This evening, however, the only taste I can remember is the one from when he kissed me with my arousal still smeared on his lips. My limbs weaken at the memory, a tingling sensation fluttering in my core.
I take a sip of my wine, glancing away from him toward the rest of the crowd.
The party is a little different from the ones my father hosted at thepalazzo, but not that different, I suppose. Everyone here wears dark-colored clothing, the women’s dresses long-sleeved for warmth. But instead of the vibrant chaos the Italians like to bring to every gathering, the Russians seem more composed.
I can tell there’s a lot of darkness beneath that mask of calm, though, which is why being in the same room with them should terrify me. But it doesn’t, not with my husband a few feet away.
Maybe I’m a fool for trusting him, but the truth is, these past few weeks have helped me see him in a completely different light. In his cruel, twisted way, I think he might actually…care about me—if only because I gave him what he wanted. My body.
Accidentally, we lock eyes from a distance, and the look on his face tells me he remembers every filthy detail of the night before and this morning. And that he wants us to do it again.
“What do you think?” Victoria’s voice sounds next to me as she wraps her arm around my elbow. “Too grim?”
I swallow, turning to her. “The party? No, I mean…maybe a little. Who are all these people?”
“Mostlyavtoritetsand other high-ranking members of the Bratva. Wolf still hasn’t picked an advisor since he becamePakhan, and I think some people are a little on edge.”
“Why hasn’t he?”
Her lips press into a tight smile. “Because the person he wants to appoint isn’t ready.”
I nod, noting the vague answer and deciding not to fish for details. I don’t want her to think I’m prying.
“You look different,” she says after a moment of silence.
“Me? How so? It must be the dress.”
“No. You have a certain glow. Either you’re beginning to enjoy your time here or…maybe…” She throws me a knowing look, and then her lips part as she realizes what happened. “Oh my God!” she squeals. “He came to his senses, didn’t he? I was beginning to suspect something was seriously wrong with him.”
“Shhh.” I squirm, my lips pursing as I try to suppress my smile. “Everyone’s going to hear you.”
“I bet they already know just by seeing you two together!”
“Know what?” Mikhail asks, getting our attention when he approaches. His arm slowly coils around my waist, his warmth solidly beside me. It’s an effort not to melt in his hold.
Victoria clears her voice. “That the…um…music sucks. Has Wolf said how much longer we need to be here?”
“I take it you don’t like attending these social engagements much?” I ask, my voice a little breathy as Mikhail’s thumb brushes my hip.
Victoria offers a faint shrug. If she has noticed my husband’s touches, she doesn’t show it. “Not if I can help it—they wear me down quickly,” she says.
Mikhail sighs. “Knowing him, we’ve probably got another hour or so to kill.”
“Hmm. Well, maybe if a certain someone sat down at the piano across the room, she could turn things around.” Victoria’s brows wiggle.
My lips part, and I freeze, glancing up at Mikhail. “Oh—I…”
He merely looks at me, calm and delighted, and I know he won’t be the one to tell me if I should or shouldn’t do it. As always, he leaves the choice to me.
