My wife is going to be the death of my restraint.
And God help me, I’m starting to look forward to it.
17
ANYA
I sleepfor most of the day. Not peacefully, but deeply enough that when I wake, the room is bright and unfamiliar, and for a few seconds I forget where I am.
Then I see the dark walls. The heavy curtains. The ring on my finger.
Yaromir’s room.
Our room.
I sit up too quickly, and the memories come back in pieces. Yaromir’s mouth between my thighs. My face burns before I can stop it. I press both hands over my eyes and groan into my palms.
Wonderful.
I’m married to a mafia boss, trapped in his house, and apparently my body has decided this is the perfect time to start becoming a traitor.
A knock comes at the door before I can drown myself in embarrassment.
I pull the blanket up to my chest. “Yes?”
A maid enters with a breakfast tray. She’s middle-aged, neat, and quiet, with her hair pinned back and a face trained not to react. She sets the tray on the small table near the window.
“Good afternoon, madam.”
Afternoon.
Of course. I slept through the morning.
“What time is it?”
“Nearly two.”
I stare at her.
She only adjusts the tray and steps back. There’s tea, black bread, soft cheese, boiled eggs, fruit, honey, and a bowl of warm porridge with berries on top. I don’t want to be impressed.
I am impressed.
“Thank you,” I say.
She inclines her head. “Would you like anything else?”
The correct answer is no.
The honest answer is freedom, my old life back, and maybe a full explanation of why my husband ate me like he hated the idea of me ever thinking about another man and then disappeared for the entire day.
I say, “No, thank you.”
She leaves.
I eat everything. That’s the first embarrassing thing.
The second is how much I enjoy it.
