by Lana Sky
“Tattletale.”
She swats me off, and I finally meet Vadim’s gaze from over her head. Only for him to turn away. “Let’s head inside,” he says.
I follow them into the house without complaint, and I’m relieved—yet unnerved—to find the lower level seemingly empty. Even Ena isn’t lurking in view. Neither is a breathtaking blond with more of a claim to this budding family than I have.
But as we cross the foyer, Magda stiffens, clinging to Vadim to the point that he has to adjust her grip around his neck to keep her from accidentally choking him.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his expression drawn with concern.
She doesn’t answer. Her eyes worriedly scan the corners of the foyer, her nostrils flaring. Out of fear of Maxim?
“No one’s here, sweetheart,” I say, stroking through her damp hair. As the words leave my mouth, however, I realize that I’m not even sure of that fact.
“That’s right,” Vadim insists, his tone hard. “No one.”
He forges onward upstairs and pauses only to grab a towel for me from a hall closet before carrying Magda straight into her room. As he ushers her into the bathtub, it’s as if his entire demeanor changes without him seeming to realize it. His voice deepens, soothing but stern as he urges her to wait while he runs the water until it’s warm enough.
While I slip into her closet and procure a nightgown, he scours her bedroom for anything out of place and then turns back her blankets. By the time she emerges from the bath, bundled in a robe, he descends on her with an army of towels and patiently dries every last curl.
I’m completely enthralled. Like a shameless voyeur, I find myself leaning against the doorway to the closet, as he grabs her brush and diligently tackles her hair, braiding it with a skill that leaves me both awed and seething with jealousy. To think that only a few days ago, he’d been worried about failing her. As it turns out, he’s damn good at this dad thing.
When Magda huddles beneath her blankets, freshly dressed and pampered, he starts to pull away.
“Wait!” She tugs at his hand until he stills. Then she scans her room with laser focus. Spotting her doll, Biphany, on the nightstand, she grabs it, tucking it under her arm. Vadim seems to read his cue and stoops to lift something else from the floor—two halves of a decapitated teddy bear.
Magda sighs with relief and eagerly grasps for the torn pieces.
“We should fix him, non?” Vadim suggests as he sits on the side of her bed.
Magda nods solemnly even as she crushes the deflated bear to her chest, damaged or not.
“He needs advanced surgery,” she decides, eyeing It’s head with a weary sigh. “Multiple stitches. A stuffing transfusion… You’ll do it?” She looks so wary as she phrases the question, almost as if she’s afraid he’ll refuse.
And Vadim, well aware of the gravity of the task, nods with the demeanor of a world-renowned surgeon. “Of course. It will be a grueling surgery,” he explains, stroking a bit of the bear’s ivory fur. “But I’m sure that if he is a good lad, he’ll come through. Maybe with a present to mark his bravery.”
“Good.” Magda closes her eyes, snuggling beneath her blankets. Within seconds, she’s already drifting off.
Quietly, Vadim and I escape her room, shutting off the light and closing the door behind us. Once we reach the bedroom, however, Mommy and Daddy lose the “E for everyone” rating.
My thoughts instantly shift to Irina, and a question about her is already on the tip of my tongue when I sense Vadim come up behind me.
“Merde.” He grabs me, wrenching up my sodden dress and cups me directly between my legs. The desperation with which he does so tempers the answering lust sparking to life inside my belly. He’s more possessive than sensual, yanking me around so swiftly I have to clutch his shoulders just to stay upright. His mouth finds my throat, lips parting, teeth latching with a searing nip that makes me gasp.
Lust ignites my blood like liquid fire—so potent that I almost forget the world-shattering event at the forefront. Almost.
“Irina,” I rasp as he strokes me, applying devious pressure to my clit, enhancing the placement of my piercing. Holy crap. I nearly lose my train of thought, and then I realize as his eyes hungrily watch me bite down a moan—that’s what he wants.
To distract me.
“Tell me what happened.” With difficultly, I break away from him, backing up to put distance between us. My body hums, craving him, but I force myself to deny the desire and meet his gaze with what I hope passes for a stern expression. “Tell me. What did she want? Is she still holding up the adoption?”
He turns away, putting his back to me. A heavy sigh betrays the exhaustion he hid so well in front of Magda—and the alarming instability that has become his hallmark. How he rakes his hands through his hair. Trembles with emotion. Gets that hard, low note in his voice I’ve come to associate with some impulsive gesture—like tying me up. Twice.
“I will tell you everything,” he swears, his shoulders hunched, body radiating tension. “If, you tell me something first…”
My breath catches as I advance a step toward him. “Anything.”
“Tell me that you’ll marry me.” He whirls around, fixing me with the full intensity of his gaze, and I stagger backward. His eyes are so damn dark, so fucking earnest and determined all at once. My throat dampens, my body pulsating even as alarm bells go off at the back of my mind.
Only as he starts to advance do I fully register what he said. “Vadim—”
“Tomorrow,” he interjects as he continues to approach, backing me into a corner. Within a heartbeat, I’m trapped, forced to crane my neck just to take him in. “I already have the paperwork drawn up. Together, we will file for joint custody over Magdalene—”
“Slow down!” I place my hand on his chest, my voice breaking.
“You will adopt her,” he continues as if I’d never spoken. “My lawyer has already set plans in motion to expedite the request. All I need is your signature. I have a judge on my payroll, ready to validate them—”
“Wait!” I feel like I’m spinning, forced to brace myself against the wall just to gain some semblance of stability. “Tell me what happened. What did Irina—”
“Fuck Irina!” His voice booms, startling me with the ferocity. The vitriol. The…fear. Too late, he seems to realize his mistake. His eyes dart to the door, his head cocked to listen for any hint of Magda stirring.
While he’s distracted, I take my chance and escape to the opposite end of the bed.
“Tell me what happened,” I plead, making my voice as soothing as I can. “Talk to me—”
“She is irrelevant,” he says coldly. “You tell me. Say yes.”
“Vadim…” I lean against the wall, my face in my hands. “This is a lot to take in. Maybe if you explain what happened—”
“It doesn’t matter what happened. You claimed you wanted a relationship with me. Or will you let a woman you’ve never even met be your excuse to run?”
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
He barks out a harsh laugh, pacing the length of the windows. “Sorry,” he echoes, eyeing his hands as they curl and uncurl into fists. “You spend my money. Mother my daughter though you tease the idea of leaving when it suits you. Fuck me senseless. And yet, you won’t marry me. You refuse to.”
I gasp, stunned. “That’s a bit of a low blow,” I croak. A surprisingly painful one too. I place my hand over the center of my chest, startled by a real actual ache throbbing there. “Demanding a woman marry you after barely a month is a bit unprecedented. Especially when you won’t tell me why—”
“You know I would do anything for you.” He makes it sound like a crime on my part. Something awful and corrupting that I did to him. This. I made him break down his wall. I forced him to let me in. Let me see those dark, twisted parts of himself no one else ever has.
But from where I’m standing, he’s not the one clutching at his literal heart, feeling it swell too big
to fit in his chest.
“Tell me what you want, and you will have it,” he demands. His voice, though softer, still resonates like thunder, radiating more conviction than I think I’ve heard from him until now. In so many ways, he reminds me of his brother. Where they lack in physical similarities, this is what they must share—a ruthless intensity when it comes to what they want.
No matter who stands in their way.
Something in me breaks in the face of this emotion, and I sway, forced to slump onto the end of the bed, too drained to stay standing.
“My money?” he prods, stepping forward. “You have it. My home? You have it. My—”
“I don’t want anything from you,” I confess in a whisper. As his expression falls, I race to add, “I mean, not physically. I don’t want a transactional relationship with you. I want… Time. I just need time.”
More time to heal from Jim. Time to think. Time to feel like being with him is my decision and not a product of hastiness or desperation—it shocks me to realize how much I truly want that—a natural progression with him. Nothing forced or faked.
I want this to be real.
“Just give me time.” I gather the nerve to meet his expression and suck in a hopeful breath. His eyes are still narrowed, his jaw clenched—but that awful, bitter suspicion is gone, replaced by a hunger I’m too tired to deny. I raise my hands to the straps of my dress, guiding them down my shoulders as he tracks every bared bit of flesh with an expression that makes my toes curl. “Can you do that for me? Just give me time.”
He doesn’t answer. With one monstrous lunge on his part, I’m in his arms, swept toward the center of the bed. He strips my sodden clothing, groping the flesh underneath. I react to him wantonly, letting him drown my logical brain in friction and touching and heat.
But even as our lips meet, I sense that unspoken figure looming between us, growing harder to ignore with every surging beat of my pulse. Irina.
Irina. Irina. Irina!
Though I seem to be the only one in this bed haunted by her.
Vadim groans, sinking his fingers into my hair as he manipulates me beneath him—legs splayed, hips pinned against his. Gone is his usual restraint—he enters me with a commanding thrust, going so deep we both cry out. Holy hell. There isn’t even time for my body to adjust to him before he rocks his hips, taking me whether I’m ready or not. Hungrily.
Recklessly.
His piercing batters my inner walls, his size straining my limits. It’s a sensation almost verging on uncomfortable—and he moves in a way that makes me suspect, with a hint of alarm, that’s just what he wants. To force me to focus on him, taking him fully. Lulled by his rhythm, my thoughts dissipate. Then reform, still fixated on that beautiful, mysterious blond.
But it’s as if he knows the second my attention shifts from him. Growling, he reaches between us, his thumb grazing my clit, teasing me with the weight of my piercing.
I feel my head tip back, my eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure builds with every stroke.
More. More. More.
A burst of wetness eases his next stroke. The next… But that’s where all similarities to carefree, normal sex end. The second he shifts, gripping my chin, his eyes boring into mine with more ferocity than his cock, I know…
This is something more.
Claiming.
Owning.
Dominating.
He slows his pace, making me arch into him, my eyes rolling, breaths feathering. I almost can’t bear to meet his gaze like this, head-on. He looks at me so hauntingly. It’s…insane.
Like I’m a lifeline he’s clinging to, strengthening his grip with every thrust. Every startled moan he wrenches from my chest. Helpless, my knees curl around his waist, dragging him in despite the urgings of my brain to stop this. Resist. Fight.
But I can’t.
He has me. All I can do is hold on, groaning as the pleasure builds and builds, and he times his movements with calculated, piercing thrusts. My orgasm is punishing—a wave that hits like a freight train, slamming into me before I realize it.
To savor his victory, his lips capture my startled cry, his body bucking against me as he strives toward his own release. All the while, he strokes me, cradles me to him. Cherishes me.
It’s an intimacy I’ve never known. Not with any other man. Not even within myself during my deepest moments of self-reflection.
It’s torture in its truest, rawest, most debasing form.
A pain I can’t deny or escape.
A pleasure that will undo me.
Chapter Two
He lets me rest, panting for air as he shifts to sit on the end of the bed, his back to me. Despite everything, I reach for him, sensing the bricks of his wall reforming too quickly to batter down.
What the hell happened in the space of time I was in the pool? Something vital. Something that’s shaken him so thoroughly even sex can’t clear his head.
Much like he did when Irina first inserted her presence into his life again, he’s spiraling.
“Don’t shut me out,” I whisper, my voice rasping and broken. “This isn’t a rejection. I promise. I promise—”
“Every time you look at me, I can see you plotting your escape.” His voice. It’s ice-cold, such a contrast to how he spoke to me just mere seconds ago. I go rigid, the air trapped in my chest, my hand frozen inches from him.
“You take what you can from me, but it is never enough, is it?” He stands, striding for the bathroom. His stiffened posture warns me not to follow. Regardless, his voice reaches back like the snap of a whip. “I prefer for you to spend my money.”
“V-Vadim!” I watch him go, blinking frantically. It isn’t until a searing warmth runs down my cheeks that I realize I’m crying, hurt by that implication way more than I want to be. It sounds so dirty. So vicious—using him. Maybe I have. Maybe I am.
But sometimes, manipulation is a two-way street.
I hear the water run, used as a barrier to disguise the sounds of what he’s doing. Splashing water onto his face? Showering? The former, I suspect when he returns, dry save for his damp hair, mussed as if torn through by raking, ruthless fingers.
“What did she say to you?” I demand, alarmed by this shift in him. He isn’t like this—driven by emotion. Wild.
Callous.
His eyes meet mine, so cold I gasp, shrinking in my seat. “What will it take?” he demands, stopping short just beyond the bed, utterly naked. When I sputter wordlessly, he crosses his arms, his chin cocked in that cruel, calculating way he does when only one thing is on his mind. Business. “Name your price. More money? Clothing? Shoes?”
“Don’t do this.” I shut my eyes just to get a reprieve from his icy exterior. “Don’t hurt me. I am not rejecting you—”
“What do you call it then?” he counters. “When a man offers you the world, and you not only spit on his hand. You demand his thoughts. His secrets. You always ask for more.”
I flinch. “I call it one thing—”
“What?”
“I’m scared!” My voice breaks, echoing so violently I’m sure Magda can hear it. We both wait, straining through the silence, but no other sound stirs. Just his frantic, furious—gosh, he’s so angry—breaths, and my shallow whimpers as I fight back the tears I feel brewing.
“I’m scared, okay? I marry you in the heat of the moment when your thoughts are on your daughter—as they should be. But what happens in six months when the danger wears off?”
I draw my knees beneath my chin, hunched against the mattress as tears spill down my cheeks, wetting the sheets beneath me. “I’ll tell you what. You realize that you’re shackled to a…” My voice breaks. I’m channeling my ex-husband in this moment. What were the words he said to me on the eve of our divorce? “A lazy, selfish, self-centered, spoiled bitch who can’t even run a home, let alone fend for herself. That’s fine in a one-night stand,” I add, laughing bitterly. “I know my limits. But do you? Do you want more children? I told y
ou about my miscarriage, but I never told you why. It’s not easy for me to get pregnant. Most doctors I consulted recommended IVF. Painful, expensive, grueling treatments that may or may not work. Are you willing to sign up for that? Are you willing to sign up for supporting someone who can’t even hold a fucking job outside of one handed to her because her husband is prominent in a church? You claim I’m after your money? Money can only get you so far.”
It can get you a life, beautiful on the outside, but jagged and agonizing within. A world wherein people only see your worth in a resume or who put a ring on your finger. A world I went on a wild, sexual goose chase just to escape.
“I’m not holding back out of fear for myself. I’m fearful for you! I don’t… I don’t want to disappoint you. I don’t want you to wake up one day, bored, and go looking for another model. I don’t want to be broken again. I want a relationship with you.”
The mattress shifts. Warmth engulfs me, drawing me into a body that conforms to mine, strong and welcoming. He holds me so tightly I couldn’t pull away, even if I wanted to. His voice bathes me in reassurance, so gentle that I relax instantly, my fear drained. He says something in French, too grated to decipher.
In this moment, I don’t need to. I don’t need anything from him but this. Silence. Nearness. Understanding.
I hide my face against his chest, seeking out any comfort in his embrace I can find. The real world can wait—because this conversation isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
But for now, he relents.
And I have a fraction of more time.
I wake up before he does and escape into a robe, throwing on a nightgown underneath. Entering the hallway, I stop by Magda’s room and peek in to find her still sleeping.
Thank God.
Craving silence, I steal into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea.
I’ve barely taken a sip before my opponent appears across from me, dressed in a shirt and slacks that look as though he just tugged them on without any forethought. As he claims the seat at the end of the table, I sense the war horns being blown.