I watch with wide eyes and shock the entire time. What he does next brings tears to my eyes. He scoops up some eggs and holds the fork to my lips.
“Otkrytyy, katyonak,” he whispers, his eyes connected to mine.
I open my mouth, assuming that was his soft and gentle demand. Ziven slides the fork between my parted lips, and I close them around it.
He continues to feed me until most of my food is gone. Every bite is something different, never the same food twice in a row, allowing me to taste every item he prepared for me, all while his eyes stay pinned to mine. We don’t speak a single word.
“Thank you, Ziven,” I rasp when I’m so full that I can eat no more.
“I will heal you, Quinn. It is a vow that I make to you, a vow that I will not break. I will heal you.”
My eyes fill with tears at his words. I nod, unable to speak even a syllable. This man is so beautiful sitting in front of me. From the inside out, he is absolutely stunning, and I was absolutely horrendous to him for so long. I hate myself. I completely and totally hate myself.
“I called in a favor. I didn’t want you to leave, but the hair has to go,” he rumbles just as there is a knock at the door.
I watch him walk away, and a few moments later, a beautiful woman walks in. She’s a little older than me, probably in her mid-thirties, but with the body of a twenty-five-year-old—in a way that looks completely and totally natural. She’s a woman who takes care with herself, and of herself. It radiates from her.
“Let’s get taken care of,” she mutters, holding her hand out for me. I stand, taking her hand, and jump slightly when we start to walk and there’s a noise from behind her. She’s got a rolling suitcase that she’s pulling. “My supplies. We’re going to strip the color and then I’ll dye it. Eventually, we’ll get you back to your natural blonde.”
I nod and take her to Ziven’s room, where he instructs us to go before announcing that he’ll be in his office.
I pick up my phone, after closing my office door, and I call the only man I can confidently talk to. The only man that will understand my situation; or, should I say, one of the only men.
In reality, there are a handful of men that I know who have dealt with extremely broken women before. In this business, broken women are sometimes part of the deal. It is never pretty, but I’ve never had to deal with one on my own before, nor one that was mine.
“Ziven?” he asks.
“Maybe you can help me, maybe not,” I grunt.
“You won’t know if you don’t speak,” he murmurs.
“How did you fix your Ashley?” I ask, speaking of his wife.
Ashley was probably the most broken version of a woman there ever could be. More broken than my Quinn.
“What’s happened?” he asks, his voice full of concern.
“She ran from me again. I didn’t chase her. I let her go,” I begin as I tell him the story, the entire story.
“Ashley and me, we were different when she was hurt—and her story is so much different. I don’t know that I can be of much help,” he admits.
“I vowed to heal her, Yakov. I must do this.”
“Are you going to heal her to set her free, or heal her to be yours, your wife?” he asks.
“Does it matter?” I grunt.
“It matters. It always matters.”
“I don’t know. I want to keep her, but I’m fucking irate with her right now. It’s taking everything inside of me not to scream and yell at her, not to throw shit, and not to hold her down and fuck her because I missed her so goddamn much,” I admit, sounding like the desperate, idiotic, lovesick fool that I fucking am.
“You’re keeping her,” he chuckles. “Have patience, but don’t allow her to retreat into herself. She will try. Seduce her all day, every day. Don’t fuck her, but seduce her,” he offers. I sit and stare at the wall in confusion. “Touch her, hold her hand, skim your fingers over her body. Every move you make must be intentional, and it must keep her from retreating. Bring her pleasure when she’s ready, but don’t take your own until you feel like you’re ready; until your anger is gone and you can accept that this happened, it is over and done, and you can move on—together.”
“You should go into counseling,” I chuckle.
“Sergei, he’s the only way I got my Ashley back. His advice, it’s always been candid, yet truthful. I’m passing it to you. Although, Quinn hasn’t been my most favorite woman. I can see the potential in her, once she leaves her bitchy attitude at the door,” he admits.
“There is sweetness underneath that layer of bitterness.”
“If she is what you want, Ziven, and what she’s gone through is everything that you’ve described, it will take a bit of work,” he says.
“I know,” I agree.
I hang up the phone a few moments later, after asking about their new baby boy, Yurik’s, welfare. Yakov is a proud papa and gushes over the newborn.
Then he informs me that they’ve heard no murmurings from the Cartel since they retreated, but he’s not sleeping easy quite yet. Those fuckers always have something up their sleeve. He tells me to keep one ear to the ground and to inform him if I hear even the slightest bit of news on them.
Once I’m off the phone, I stare at my blank computer screen, wondering if I am truly the man to heal Quinn, or not. If she will be the woman I want once this is through? If I will be the man she desires after all? This is no small thing—this arrangement we have—this wanting her as badly as I do. I’ve never wanted a woman to be mine the way that I’ve always wanted her.
Is this all because I want what I can’t have?
I fucking hate not having control over this, over us. It pisses me off.
KRISTY RUNS A COMB through my now blonde hair, and I stare at it in the mirror. It’s pretty; still a little darker, because it’s damp, but I have a feeling that once it’s dry I’m going to love it. She hasn’t said much since she started, just a few things here and there, and I wonder exactly who she is and how Ziven knows her.
“My husband, he’s a Kryshas for Ziven,” she murmurs as she takes her scissors out and starts to trim the bottom of my damp hair.
“I don’t know what that is,” I admit.
“Do you know much of the life?” she asks as she works.
“Not really, just that it’s an illegal, violent group,” I whisper.
“Kryshas are enforcers. These men, they can be extremely violent; you’re correct. I know my husband has done some bad shit and some illegal shit, however, when he’s home with me—he’s the most kind, gentle, loving man that I’ve ever known. How is your Ziven?” she asks.
“He’s been extremely patient and kind, no matter what,” I admit, feeling like the lowest form of human being on earth for the way that I’ve treated him.
“Not all of the men in the organization are perfect. Not all of them treat their families well—but don’t you think that it’s that case no matter the occupation?”
I close my eyes and think about Oswald. I think about how he looked so clean cut, and how his job was considered good, admirable, and legal. Then, I think about all of the things he did to me, and how evil his face would look when it would twist with anger or glee when he hurt me.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I nod.
Kristy grins as she takes out her blow dryer. I’m stuck inside of my own head as she dries my hair, thinking about good versus evil.
I think about how Ziven is supposed to be the bad guy, the evil one, but in reality, the good guy is evil. Oswald, the perfect man on the outside, is pure Satan on the inside. Ziven, the badman on the outside, is practically an archangel on the inside—he’s the only man that I have ever felt safe with.
“What do you think?” Kristy asks as she turns the blow dryer off.
“I think I’m a disaster and that I’ve screwed up,” I murmur.
“Well, that can be fixed. Although, I was asking about your hair,” she laughs lightly.
I look up and into the
bathroom mirror. My mouth gapes as I look at my hair. It’s lighter than my natural color, but it’s gorgeous. It looks healthy and shiny. I run my fingers through it, feeling how soft it is, and I smile.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
“Now that your hair is fixed, you can work on the other parts of your life, too,” she grins, pulling out a curling iron and plugging it in.
“I don’t know how to do that,” I say, chewing on my bottom lip.
“Be honest, be truthful, be vulnerable, and be open,” she nods.
“You speak like you know from experience.”
“I was not raised in this life. I’m not Russian. One look at my Edik, and I knew that he was bad news. I almost ran from him. I totally ignored his advances for long enough, until one day—one day I realized that I was ignoring something that could be so beautiful. So, I stopped. I decided to treat it like any other relationship. He was a man and I was a woman, nothing more, nothing less. It was the best decision I ever made. He’s given me the most wonderful life. Four children, a beautiful home, a career that I love, and he has been by my side the entire time.”
“I wouldn’t deserve any of that, not even a quarter of it,” I murmur as she starts to curl my hair.
“Do you think that they feel as though they deserve happiness and beauty?”
I think about her words. These men are scary. They’re ruthless. They’re badmen. Yet, I’ve seen how happy some of them are with their wives and children. How they dote on their wives, how they look at them as though they can’t believe it’s all real.
No, I don’t think that they feel as though they deserve the happiness they have; but they’re taking it, holding onto it with both hands.
“If he’s what you want, take him and show him as much.” She grins at me through the mirror as she teases my hair to make it look full and sexy.
“I’m a mess right now,” I say, letting out a breath as I look down at my skeletal frame.
“I don’t think that he cares as much about the outside as you think he does.”
Kristy winks before she packs up and starts to head out. I follow behind her, and she stops once she’s reached the front door of the condo. She turns and faces me before she releases her bag and wraps me in a hug. I freeze, unused to the show of affection, and then I wrap my arms around her back.
“Find your happiness, Quinn,” she whispers before she steps back. “I expect to see you in my shop in six weeks,” she announces, slipping a card in my palm. “If you need to talk, my number is on the front. Your next appointment time and date is on the back.”
Kristy walks out of the condo without another word, and I hold the card to my chest before I look at it. There is her cellphone number on the front; and just as she said there would be, a time and date on the back for six weeks from now.
I smile and think about the fact that I’ve just met a very nice woman, and she seemed to actually like me. Maybe I’ve found a friend. If nothing else, maybe I’ve found an ally in this new life of mine—this life that I’m going to jump into head first.
I lock the door behind Kristy and find myself slowly walking toward Ziven’s office. I’m still wearing his oversized shirt and pants, but it doesn’t take away the fact that I feel pretty. For the first time in months, I feel pretty, and I don’t care that I’m too skinny, that I’m bruised, or that I’m wearing a man’s clothes—my hair is done and I’m free. It’s beautiful.
I lift my hand to knock on Ziven’s office door. Taking a deep breath, I rap on the wood before I chicken out completely and run back to the bedroom.
“Come in,” he calls out, sounding almost distracted.
I open the door and take a step inside, keeping my eyes on the ground in front of me, afraid to look at him. Afraid that the feeling I have, of being pretty, will disappear. Not that I think he’ll find me ugly, because he’s never said anything of the sort, but his concerned gaze is scrutinizing and has been since he walked through Mika’s door.
“Kristy left,” I murmur.
“Let’s see then,” he says softly. I finally look up and he smiles widely. “Better. Beautiful.”
I smile and give him a nod as my feet shuffle toward him, leading me behind his desk. He looks up at me with surprise as he turns and widens his legs. I fit myself between them and lean down, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. Without a word, he pulls me into his lap and I bury my face in his neck.
We don’t speak.
There are no words right now.
I inhale a shaky breath as one of his hands buries itself in the back of my hair, the other soothingly, gently, running up and down my spine. I feel his puff of air against my ear as he breathes. I move my hands to the back of his short hair, and play with the soft strands.
“Quinn,” he rasps.
“I—,” I snap my mouth shut as I lean back slightly and look at him. His eyes are dark, filled with lust, and it scares me.
“I won’t touch you until you want me to,” he mutters, sounding annoyed as he lifts his hand from my back and cups my cheek.
“Why do you still want anything to do with me?” I ask.
“You’re my Quinn,” he shrugs.
I don’t say anything. There’s nothing else to say. I lift one of my hands from his hair and cup his cheek, letting my thumb run across his bottom lip, my eyes tracing the slow movement. I jump when his tongue peeks out and touches my finger, my eyes flying to his.
“You’re my Quinn,” he rasps.
“Are you my Ziven?” I ask, my voice shaky and trembling.
“I never wasn’t, not for a goddamn minute, katyonak.”
“I hate myself,” I whisper.
“Don’t.”
“I do, because I had all of you. I had you, and I threw it all away,” I say as tears fill my eyes.
“You want me back? All of me?” he asks, unable to hide the sound of surprise in his voice.
I bite my bottom lip and nod, my eyes staying connected to his.
“I’m yours, Quinn. I swear to fuck, I am. When you’re ready for all of me, you can have me.”
I search his light brown eyes and see only truth in them. I remind myself to do what Kristy said, be truthful and be vulnerable. I’ve never been either with Ziven, not even once. I only let my body be vulnerable when he was inside of me. Even then, I held back from him.
Now, though, after everything I’ve been through with Oswald, after realizing how much Ziven cared for me and protected me—especially when he took me out of Los Angeles and brought me here, even though I fought him tooth and nail every single step of the way—he was always protecting me. Always.
But there is something holding me back. I want to be his, and I want to be vulnerable for him. I want all of him, and I know I don’t deserve even a piece of him. Not one ounce.
That is what is holding me back, the fact that I know, down to my bones, that I don’t deserve even the dream of all he can give me, not after I left him and ran to Oswald, not after I ruined myself.
“I’ll wait until you’re ready, katyonak, just don’t take too long,” he murmurs as he leans forward and runs his nose alongside mine.
Ziven’s fist in my hair tightens, but it doesn’t hurt, not even a tiny bit. He’s handling me with so much care, more than I ever thought possible. His mouth brushes against my cheek before I feel his breath against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine and causing goosebumps to break out on my flesh.
“I’ll wait for you, my Quinn—I. Will. Wait.”
“Okay,” I lamely whisper as my eyes roll in the back of my head.
“Time for lunch,” he grunts as he releases me.
I slip off of his lap, standing on shaky legs. I probably look like a newborn fawn, but I’m unable to do anything about it. Ziven looks me up and down before he grins as he stands.
“Come, Quinn,” he chuckles as he walks up to me, holding out his palm.
I shake my head at his offering, wanting to do it myself, needing to have some s
emblance of independence back. I will my legs to move, to follow behind him. It’s a struggle, but I finally get going and walk into the kitchen after him.
“I’m making you soup,” he grunts.
“Soup?” I scrunch my nose.
“Potato soup, full of fat,” he chuckles.
“That sounds—awesome,” I grin.
“Yeah?”
“Definitely,” I nod with a smile.
Ziven looks me over, then his lips quirk as he shakes his head. I watch him make me soup. He’s quick with the knife, and it surprises me. All those months I spent living with him, I spent so much time avoiding him that I didn’t get to know much about him.
“I can’t cook,” I blurt out.
“I know,” he smiles.
“How?”
“I’ve smelled some of the things you’ve made for yourself, katyonak.”
“I can bake,” I say with a shrug. I watch as he turns to me, lifting a brow.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I love to bake. I haven’t done it in forever,” I murmur.
“I would love to see this,” he rumbles, his voice husky and deep—sexy.
“What is your favorite treat?” I ask.
He turns to me with a wicked grin, and I almost regret asking the question. I don’t, though. The second I don’t regret it is when he bursts out laughing. I watch with rapt attention. It’s infinite beauty.
“Whatever you want to make me,” he says between his dying chuckles.
“I’ll make something, then,” I offer.
“I would like that very much, Quinn.”
His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, and we stay silent the rest of the time he cuts up ingredients. Something heavy has slipped over us, maybe it’s memories of the past, of how our relationship was nothing like this at all.
We couldn’t say two words to each other without fighting, and I blame myself for that. But now, it feels almost natural between us. It also feels strange at the same time. The animosity is gone, but me leaving and Oswald’s abuse still lingers above us.
Protected by the Badman (Russian Bratva Book 6) Page 5