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Behind the closed door of the bedroom, I share with my husband, in this rustic mountain oasis so far from the horrors of our life together, I fall to the floor and sob. I sob for the man I’d loved, but never really known. I sob for the years Mama spent loving someone who never existed. For the years she’d been faithful to a faithless man. I cry for the horrors that seem to thrive in the shadows, and the shadows are everywhere.
As my tears run dry and my thoughts drift to the man on the other side of the door, my heart shatters again for the little boy who was broken by a cruel world, his pieces reconstructed into the man of polished sin cloaked in crime.
I ache for the young woman with shattered dreams, and a stolen heart that just can’t help but bleed for the man that keeps her.
And I ache, because even through it all, I’m not sure I want to flee anymore.
Twenty-Eight
Ruby
Kirill didn’t give me long before he came into the room, Simba in tow. He doesn’t reprimand me, as I’d expected, for the way I’d run. He doesn’t tell me the pain I bore was on me. That I’d asked for it. Even though, in a way, I had.
He says nothing at all as he crosses the floor with sure steps, his arms closing around me as he pulls me tight into his chest. And I shatter all over again, somehow feeling safe enough in his arms, against his chest, surrounded by the scent of cedar and flame, to spill every drop of grief I have. Until I have no more inside me to spill.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice gruff. “I am so fucking sorry.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to reply, and I’m grateful because I have none, before he lifts me into his arms. He sets me down on my feet at my side of the bed, Simba already curled close on the carpet. Then, his jaw set hard, he sets to undressing me. I don’t protest. Not a single refusal slips past my lips as he removes my pants, and then my sweater and shirt, my bra.
When I’m standing before him entirely exposed but for the simple blue panties I wear, a muscle in his jaw clenches. He drags his eyes over my skin before he drags his shirt over his head. Then he’s pulling it down over my own, covering me even though I suspect it’s the last thing he wants to do.
The material is warm on my skin, the heat of his body a memory clinging to black fabric. And suddenly, I want—no, I need—to be closer to him. It hits me like a punch, and I lurch forward a step, my body colliding with his as my arms lift around his broad, naked shoulders, to loop around his neck.
Surprise flashes in his eyes before he catches me against him, and then I’m crushing my mouth to his. The taste of my desperation mixes with his worry, and the brew is toxic. I no longer care. I just kiss him harder. He catches the back of my thigh as I lift my leg around his waist, pulling myself up against his body.
Desire spills into my despair as I feel his arousal between my legs, and I moan against his mouth as I press into him, rolling my lips, and savouring the low growl that rumbles into me through his kiss.
He lays me on the bed, and I’m already moving to tear his shirt from my body when he catches my wrists in his grip. He’s hovering above me, his knee in the bed, not giving me his weight as he searches my eyes with his own. Then he rejects me. “Not tonight, Ruby.”
“What?” I wheeze. This isn’t happening, is it? “Are you rejecting me?”
“No. Never.”
“You are.” I don’t think I’ve ever been so shocked in my life. I feel betrayed.
“I’m trying not to take advantage of you.”
I scoff. “That’s rich.”
A new burn of tears stings my eyes. I’m a mess of emotions. I’m seeking comfort from a monster—but he’s my monster—and if I don’t take comfort from him, then I have none at all.
“You’re hurting tonight,” he reminds me. “Here.” He presses his knee into my core. “And here.” He releases my wrists to tap my butchered heart.
Rolling onto my side, I try to hide the sting of rejection from him, the ache of an unfulfilled need. He climbs onto the bed behind me, tucking me quickly, and firmly, into his chest in that way he does. I grasp for sleep with the sting of his rejection nipping like hellhounds at my soul, his arousal notched into the crease of my butt.
He whispers, “I’m always here, my lovely wife. Always.”
Heartsore and turned on, I finally find sleep.
Something pulls me from the depths of a tear-heavy slumber, and I realize, as I listen, that Kirill isn’t behind me. His warm, hard body I’ve come to expect always in sleep, isn’t blanketing me.
Is that what woke me? Am I no longer capable of sleep without him? And what time is it?
Looking toward the window, I see a deeply dark night with a spackling of bright stars. There isn’t a hint of sunrise in sight.
It’s late.
Where is Kirill?
