Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
"He had his own way of dealing with us. He got physical."
"I didn't ask how he treated everyone," she says in that way of hers that cuts right to the heart of the matter. "I asked how he treated you."
There's no harm in telling her, so I don't know why I hesitated to begin with. "You know my brothers and Polina were adopted. My father did that on purpose, believing there were advantages to taking in people who were mistreated and then treating them well."
She nods, understanding. "It's one of the most basic rules of management," she says with a smile. “El perro es fiel a la mano que lo alimenta. A dog is loyal to the hand that feeds it.”
"I honestly don't remember much before being adopted. My family was poor, and I was orphaned. I had no siblings, just my mother. When she died of illness in Moscow, the Romanovs took me in. But I was the youngest, and much was expected of me, more than I could manage as a child. At least, that's what my mother tells me."
Her eyes soften as she listens, but thankfully, she offers no sympathy. She just takes another sip of wine in that elegant, beautiful way that makes my heart ache a little.
"As I grew older, nothing I did was good enough. He assigned ulterior motives to everything I did and took things personally."
She shakes her head. "What is it with these narcissistic parents?" she says.
I laugh, but she's spot on. There's nothing funny about it. "Yeah. I don't really like to label things, but I guess that's accurate."
I flip the chicken and move it around the pan, appreciating the aromas in the kitchen. My stomach growls. "Wine?" she asks.
"Yeah." I take a glass and sip it. "For a long time, my older brothers treated me the way my father taught them to. Viktor was the one to be feared—too big for my father to handle—so he gave him over to Kolya. Mikhail was the oldest, and we had to obey him." I don't know why I say "had to." We still do. “Mikhail was in charge. Ollie always kept to himself, and Nikko was older but an ally. When I was a teenager, Nikko taught me to shoot. At fifteen, I made my first kill."
She doesn't even flinch, just listens to me as if I'm talking about fishing. It's only then that I appreciate being with a woman who understands. She's not horrified by my reality because hers is so similar. The details differ, but the end result is the same.
"I felt like I had to prove myself for a very long time. Prove that I was loyal, that I was strong."
"How did that assault a few years back affect you?" she asks. Fuck. Of course she knows about the assault. She's done her homework. She knows I was overtaken, beaten, hospitalized. We long since got our revenge for that, but I still bear the scars.
"Honestly? This might be hard to understand, but I'm grateful it happened."
She shakes her head. “It's not hard to understand at all. For a man like you, it was a defining moment, no?”
God. She understands more than I gave her credit for.
I look at her and nod. Maybe it hasn't been that long since we've known each other, so why does it feel like we've known each other our whole lives? Maybe humans are more alike than I thought.
"Exactly. It was exactly that. I had two choices: nurse my wounds, let the trauma hold me back…” My voice is choked, and I'm uncharacteristically emotional.
She completes the sentence for me. "Or let it shape you into who you are today. Determined that no one will ever do that to anyone you love again."
The pan is smoking. I shut it off and pull it off the heat, scooping the chicken onto a plate. I toss the pan in the sink and run water on it, steam filling the room.
"Looks delicious," she says. "I've always wanted to try blackened chicken."
I snort.
I scoop the pasta onto a plate, add some butter and parmesan, and open the fridge to take out a premade salad.
We dig in.
"Why do you shove the greens down your throat like that?" she asks curiously, taking a delicate bite of pasta.
"Because I fucking hate them."
Her mouth drops open. "You don't like lettuce?"
I shake my head and chase the salad with a large swig of wine. "Fucking hate vegetables."
"What are you, ten?”
I smirk at her. “I just made your dinner. I don't have to like my vegetables; I just have to eat them."
“Why? You’re an adult.”
I flex my bicep and shrug. That’s why.
She leans forward, her voice growing low and seductive as she squeezes my bicep. "Because you like to get laid.”
"I do."
She grins, one of those smiles that lights up her whole face. "Fortunately for you, so do I."