7
LEKS
The girl is a fucking headache. One that I need something stronger than Advil to deal with.
I don’t think she believed me when I said I wouldn’t hurt her. When that door clicked shut and she looked up at me on our wedding night, I saw nothing but fear in her wide green eyes.
To make matters worse, she opened those lips and exhaled. The same way she’d exhaled on the altar before she said I do, like she was pushing a thought out of her mind, shutting down her own instincts. Her face went blank, docile, and she asked me to touch her like she thought it was what she had to do.
Like she thought I was the kind of man who would hurt her if she didn’t offer me what I wanted.
That was when I decided I couldn’t touch Natalia Bryusova, no matter how pretty she might be to look at. I’d liked teasing her in that room, before our wedding, before sheknew who I was. Everything is different now. I’m nothing but a threat, the husband she couldn’t get rid of before the wedding.
Not to mention the fact that she’s ten years younger than me and apparently has no idea how to exist in the real world.
Mostly, I’ve avoided spending too much time with my new wife. I can hardly ignore the fact that she’s filled my kitchen with bubbles.
My barking laugh makes her flinch. “What’s going on here?”
Natalia appears to be cleaning dishes in a sink full of nothing but bubbles. So many that they’re drifting through the air. There’s a mountain of white foam in the sink, and the faucet is still running, producing more.
When she whirls around to meet my evaluating gaze, it’s with that fire in her eyes. She gestures at the sink as if it’s a complex piece of machinery.
I’ve never seen someone so dressed up to wash dishes, but I can’t say I resent her wardrobe choices. Not when the heart-shaped cut-out in her dress reveals cleavage for miles.
“You need soapy water to clean the dishes,” she explains to me, gesturing at her phone, like it’s not something every child in the world knows.
“Oh, really?” I deadpan. She nods, missing the joke in her concentration.
I step closer, watching as she gently pushes the soapy water around a plate, holding the end of the scrubbing brush and not applying any real pressure.She seems concerned about getting her fingernails in the water, which are painted an iridescent blue and decorated with tiny hearts.
It’s ridiculous, that someone can reach the age of 21 without learning to wash dishes.That said, I do find watching her kind of hypnotic.
When she reaches for the dish soap again, I step in.
“How much dish soap did you already use?”
She tilts her head to the side, her sunshine-colored curls hanging over one shoulder. “If I’m doing it wrong, you can just tell me. I wanted to make sure everything was clean.”
I lean over her and let the water out of the sink. “You’re doing it wrong.”
She lets out a huff. “You do it, then. Since you’re the dishes expert.” She shoves the dish brush against my chest.
I catch her wrist and pluck the brush out of her grasp. She freezes, eyes widening like a deer in the headlights.
“You know, they call this weaponized incompetence,” I drawl.
“What?” She lets a puff of air out of her nose.
“Being so bad at something that other people have to do the work for you.”
She pulls her wrist out of my grip and I let it slip through. Her hands come to her hips, which I think is an attempt at defiance, but really just gives me a better view of her breasts.
“You could just hire someone to clean, you know. It’s not like you’re short on money, now that you’re marrying into our family.”
That would be the Bryusov solution. “I don’t want any extra eyes around this place.”
She flounces over to the couch to take a seat. She presses her lips together for a beat before responding.“Paranoid,” shemutters. “If your servants are well-paid enough they won’t talk.”
