by Bethany-Kris
“I was in a fucking car accident that nearly killed me. How about that? Maybe I just need some time to recover from it. Huh?”
That good feeling was settling in, the coke really getting to his brain and shutting off those overworked, overactive nerves. He wasn’t heavy or light, just weightless. Just there. He wasn’t angry or sad, he felt nothing.
He was finally numb.
Couldn’t they let him be numb?
Best of all—he didn’t have to worry about Karine when he was like this. She was a distant memory, and he wanted to keep her that way for the moment because otherwise—well, that hurt.
“That is not what this is about. You’re getting fucked up because of your wife—pretty pathetic you’re willing to lie about it, man.”
“I’m getting fucked up because I can,” Roman retorted.
Too hotly.
Not able to stand the scrutiny of his friend, Roman jumped up and went looking for a beer. He could feel Marky’s eyes on him, following his every move. Like a bug that needed squashed.
“And you need to get the fuck out of here before I kick your ass out myself.”
He popped a can open—one of the ones he’d left on the coffee table; it was still warm. Gulping the beer down, he didn’t even mind. It did nothing to quench his thirst, but he didn’t care.
“I’m starting to think us being friends fucks with your head,” Roman added. “You forget your place. Who are you and who am I—can you tell me that?”
Marky’s cheek twitched as he glared right back, while Roman felt nothing.
He couldn’t even remember why they were still friends, in fact. Who gave this guy the liberty to break down his door, run his fucking mouth, and call Roman out on anything?
“Okay, yeah, I’ll leave. I don’t give a shit,” Marky replied, pointing his finger like a gun at Roman. “I shouldn’t give a shit. I just wanted to ask you when was the last time you called Karine?”
Roman didn’t like the way he asked that—or maybe it was the answer in his mind that made him shout, “She won’t talk to me—what do you want me to do?”
Marky nodded. “But you haven’t called in a long time, so you don’t know if that’s still the case, Roman. You’ve been doing this for days—you’ve been up for days. Don’t you realize it?”
Roman swayed a little where he stood. The alcohol made him tired, brought him down from the floating feeling the coke had given him. The beer was a bad decision because all of a sudden—Roman could feel things. He could actually hear what Marky was saying, not just what his coke-addled brain wanted to hear.
He returned to the couch, and sat down again. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he avoided looking at Marky.
“You need to go and speak to your father,” his friend said quietly. “The two agents were there to see him a few days ago. Some shit is going down. You’re gonna miss it because you’re too busy numbing yourself to the world around you.”
Roman dragged in harsh exhales, letting the air out slower than he took it in. From under his lashes, he kept a firm glare on Marky.
“The same agents who tried to interview me?”
Marky shrugged. “I guess so.”
“What the fuck is up now?”
“Dima wanted a sit down with your father, but he refused. He doesn’t want to meet anyone from the new organization in Chicago who is not the boss.”
“So where the fuck is Leonid?”
Roman heard the way his voice pitched darker. Marky had messed up his high. Big time.
“Nobody seems to know. I don’t think the agents knew, either. I wasn’t really told a lot, to be fair. Just enough to pass it on to you.”
Roman raked a hand through his hair wishing he could go back to the day before when he didn’t care that he needed a shave, a haircut, and a solid night’s worth of sleep. He liked being selfish—it was easier.
That was over, it seemed.
There was time—a period of over a week—that he had just wasted getting high when he could have worked towards finding Dima.
He didn’t know if Karine would ever speak to him again, or if their marriage would even work now—but he had to do something to make this world a little safer for her to survive in.
Roman owed her that.
At least.
*
His parents were eating when Roman barged into the dining room. At least, he’d taken a thirty-minute stop at his barber’s before showing up. He didn’t look as fucked up as he did when Marky walked in on him that morning. It was all that could be said for him, and even he knew it.
His mother stood behind his father’s chair with her hands on his shoulders. They were in the middle of having a light-hearted conversation if the laughter in the air was any indication.
Usually, a scene like that would have him turning away, making some internal comment about men being wrapped around their woman’s finger. He’d never admitted it to himself before, but that misguided pride had always made up for the emptiness he felt. He’d not known what romantic love really was—how vulnerable a person became once they were in love. Degrading it was just another way for him to deal with what he lacked.
But the sight of his parents together warmed Roman’s heart because it reminded him of how strong the bond was between them, and how well his family thrived from the roots they’d planted. And just as fast, it pissed him off.
It reminded him of what he didn’t have with Karine.
Not yet, anyway.
Too bad they were having a good time.
Just the sight of Roman ruined it.
“Where have you been?” Demyan demanded.
At least, his mother kept smiling. “Take a seat, Roman. I’ll get you a plate.”
Roman didn’t even pay her any mind. His gaze didn’t leave his father. “The agents came back to speak with you? And you didn’t think to let me know?”
Demyan put down his spoon, and drew in a deep breath. “I would have told you if I knew what you were up to, but you keep fucking off—”
“Why don’t you eat something before fighting?” Claire tried interrupting with frankness, however, neither were interested in the food anymore. Even Demyan, who never turned down his wife’s food—seemed to have lost his appetite when he pushed his bowl of stew away.
“I don’t need to give you a report of all my actions, and my every move, Papa.”
He’d made sure to make the distinction with his father right then—he wasn’t interested in talking to his boss.
“You do need to check-in when you have a history of landing your ass in trouble.”
“Why don’t you just come out and say what you want to fucking say?” Roman asked, opening his hands wide. “Fuck her feelings—say it.”
Demyan stood up at that.
Claire stepped back, clasping her hands together. He could count the number of times he’d gone to blows with his father in his lifetime—once when he was eighteen. Because if he could walk and talk like a man, then he could get hit like one, too. Or that’s how his father justified it. After spending two or three years, completely wild, on the streets, rarely at home, finding all kinds of trouble, he thought he could do this once with his dad.
Back him up against a wall.
Let lingering anger spill between them.
Forget who they were.
He’d been too young. Threw the first punch, too. Demyan kicked his ass that day—rightfully so. On the wet grass, he’d beat a lesson into Roman with three punches to the mouth that left him swollen and bloody.
Roman had been high that day, too.
He didn’t like who coke made him be.
He also wished he wasn’t aware.
“Get out of my sight before I get Pavel to drag you out,” Demyan demanded, jerking a pointed finger at the door. “That is the last time you speak like that in front of your mother.”
Roman didn’t move a muscle, but his gaze darted to his mother. Claire had turned her face to the side, but he didn’t mis
s the swipe of her sleeve under her eyes to wipe away tears she didn’t want him to see.
Just like that, the tunnel vision his rage had created vanished, leaving him loosening his stance and glancing away.
He shouldn’t be doing this here.
“Sorry, Ma. I didn’t mean to just—”
“Why don’t you tell him what you know?” she said, offering the words to his father like Demyan would know exactly what she was talking about.
The change of topic didn’t give him a chance to breathe.
Roman searched his father’s face for a clue. Demyan gritted his teeth and shook his head. In that moment, Roman realized he still hadn’t become a better son to his father. He had tried to—in the months that he spent in Chicago.
It didn’t last.
Demyan sat down again, picking up his napkin to tap the corners of his mouth before tossing it to the table. Something he would never do carelessly, yet didn’t think twice.
“Maxim is still alive.”
Roman thought the ground was shaking under his feet until he realized it was just his fast-tapping foot, and he had to cross his arms over his chest to stop the nervous tic. His parents could clearly see the effect this news had on him, as much as he tried to hide it.
“The body they found in the fire wasn’t him. Leonid is missing. Dima is pretending to be the boss and keeping his father’s absence hush-hush. I don’t have proof. Nobody has proof. But that is the only explanation.”
Roman could feel his feet moving. He was headed to the door before his brain had even arrived at the decision to leave.
“Don’t go anywhere, Roman. Don’t do anything that’ll jeopardize the bratva or the girl’s safety. You need to be here. Little Odessa is the safest place for you. And you know she’s where she needs to be.”
His father was right.
But she had to know.
Not even the devil would keep him from Karine now.
*
When Roman got there it was the middle of the night.
They made a big show about how it was unauthorized access, and it didn’t matter if he was her husband.
Blah fucking blah.
He was ready to shoot up the place if they kept him from her a minute longer—in fact, it did take him showing his gun, on top of Sylvia and another floor manager getting on the phone, to get him through the first set of doors.
He had to see Karine.
He had to tell her everything he knew about her father and hadn’t had the balls so far to come clean about.
One of the women at the front desk was there the day Roman checked her in—she was the one who agreed to show him to Karine’s room herself after the initial uproar.
That solved the problem because he really didn’t want to have to kill anybody tonight. Probably wouldn’t be very conducive to his purpose in being there.
He didn’t ask anything about Karine or if she’d made any progress as the young woman led him through the bottom floor to a rear wing where Karine was housed. He wanted to witness it for himself.
There was a part of him that expected the worst—that nothing had changed and, in fact, had deteriorated. That his parents were right when they warned him of the consequences of admitting Karine to this facility without her consent. That he was destined to have a wife who would hate him forever.
He didn’t expect her to even want to speak to him, but he wanted her to see that he came for her. Just like he promised he would.
The woman showed him to the door, and he knocked before stepping in after she had swiped the badge the security guard had given her earlier to unlock it.
It was the middle of the night, but the light was switched on. Karine wasn’t in bed, but the sheets left spilled half on, and half off the mattress said she had been there. At some point.
He might have panicked had he not noticed the bathroom door was open. There she stood at the sink, staring at herself in the mirror. Angling his body toward her, taking that first step, he hadn’t been ready for the tears he saw falling on her cheeks or how she stared so hatefully at her reflection, disgusted at what she was seeing.
Didn’t she know?
She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
His next breath ached.
In the best way.
“You’re always beautiful, babe. Even when you cry.”
Karine’s gaze darted to where she could see him standing behind her in the mirror. Just as fast, she closed her eyes. Those seconds crawled by. One too many.
“It’s just in my head. This is not real,” she said in a mutter.
That was a knife in his heart.
“It’s not just in your head, Karine,” he replied. “Turn around and look at me.”
She did look at him then, the very moment he opened his mouth and told her to do so. That didn’t make her move, though. She didn’t turn around, only stared at the reflection of him in the mirror.
He went for her, then, grabbing her shoulder to turn her around like he wanted and sliding a finger under her chin. Tipping her head up as he leaned down, he felt her breath kiss his lips while those big, clear eyes of hers watched back.
“I’m sorry,” he said fast, wanting that to be first, “for everything. You really thought I could stay away from you?”
It took her more than a few seconds to register the truth staring back. That he was really there with her. Her mind wasn’t just playing tricks on her like it used to in the past.
Then, she fell into his arms—sank right into him all at once—and he would have been happy to melt and fuse together forever in that moment with her.
Roman weaved his fingers into her silky dark hair, molding himself to her soft supple body.
This was where he belonged. She was his home.
He’d found that in her.
She was his.
“I’m so sorry,” she mumbled into his chest, her fingers tangling into his shirt and jacket. “I’m sorry I pushed you away, Roman. I don’t see anything when I’m scared. I’m just scared.”
He didn’t want to hear it.
Slipping his hands in around her chin, he forced her to look up at him again, saying only, “You don’t ever have to apologize to me for anything. Ever.”
She was who she was.
He’d loved her more for it.
Because she loved him crazy, too.
When he kissed her, it was soft and slow. He took his time while their tongues met and grazed, and her hands explored. She tasted just the same. Her sweetness soaked from her to him with every touch.
When they pulled away, she rested her head on his chest, and he rocked her slowly back and forth.
“I’m not okay without you, Karine,” he whispered hoarsely into her hair. “I don’t like who I am without you.”
“You’re mine—you promised.”
Her soft proclamation had him nodding. “For as long as you want me.”
It was when the door clicked shut that Roman realized the woman had left them alone. He didn’t really consider that it was probably locked again, or even the cameras he knew were overhead, peering into the darkness.
Karine wrapped herself around him, her legs trapping his waist as he lifted her up and carried her to the bed. Neither of them spoke, their lips talking for them with fast kisses that turned hungry in a flash.
It didn’t matter how much time they had together—or what the next day was going to look like—they had something else that needed to be done first. She touched him, and it set him on fire.
The teasing drag of her fingernails along the column of his neck had him groaning into her next harsh kiss.
He laid her down on the bed, and she reached for him, so he stretched himself over her, covering her completely with his larger, stronger body. He could feel the smallness of her underneath him. She widened her legs, telling him with her body what he needed to know.
Nothing had changed between them.
Not like this.
She still wan
ted him the same way she did the first night they were together. Only now, she was his wife. Her pleasure belonged to him.
Roman undid his pants, and she helped him pull them down his legs. The shorts she wore—slipped off easily with a hard tug of his hands.
They were still clothed on top, but naked from the waist down. Their heavy pants of breath matched the other. Everything happened so fast, and in total silence.
When her hand fisted into his shirt, popping a button, he asked, “What do you want, babe?”
“Just love me.”
He would.
He did.
Roman watched the way Karine’s hand skirted under her nightshirt to squeeze her breasts while he pumped his cock until it was achingly hard. Her greedy little whines urged him on when he slid the head of his dick along her slit, finding her wet and hot already. He thrust himself inside her, and she sighed so softly.
It was like wet silk had wrapped around him in an instant, and the punch to the chest took his breath away.
Karine rolled her hips, arching her back so she lifted herself up towards him, meeting his body in desperation. She wanted him deeper—fuck, he’d already seated himself right to the root. He stayed higher above her, his hands splaying out along the curves of her stomach where her shirt had ridden up so he could hold her tight.
Squeezed her in every flex of his hips.
He could consume her completely—lose himself in the way she felt milking his cock, and he became happily drunk on every sound she made.
Karine bit down on her plump bottom lip, opening her eyes wide when his fingers dug in hard enough to leave behind red marks.
“Watch this—watch me,” he told her.
He pinned her down to the bed by her hands when she’d grabbed his wrists. The pillows at her back gave her enough incline to see the way his cock looked stretching her open. Every stroke found his length wetter than the last. He loved being coated in her, knowing soon she was going to be full of him.
The first time she came, she did it with a whisper of his name. Unable to move under his hands, she went still with eyes blown wide as he fucked her through it.