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My wife is going to be the death of my restraint.

And God help me, I’m starting to look forward to it.

17

ANYA

I sleepfor most of the day. Not peacefully, but deeply enough that when I wake, the room is bright and unfamiliar, and for a few seconds I forget where I am.

Then I see the dark walls. The heavy curtains. The ring on my finger.

Yaromir’s room.

Our room.

I sit up too quickly, and the memories come back in pieces. Yaromir’s mouth between my thighs. My face burns before I can stop it. I press both hands over my eyes and groan into my palms.

Wonderful.

I’m married to a mafia boss, trapped in his house, and apparently my body has decided this is the perfect time to start becoming a traitor.

A knock comes at the door before I can drown myself in embarrassment.

I pull the blanket up to my chest. “Yes?”

A maid enters with a breakfast tray. She’s middle-aged, neat, and quiet, with her hair pinned back and a face trained not to react. She sets the tray on the small table near the window.

“Good afternoon, madam.”

Afternoon.

Of course. I slept through the morning.

“What time is it?”

“Nearly two.”

I stare at her.

She only adjusts the tray and steps back. There’s tea, black bread, soft cheese, boiled eggs, fruit, honey, and a bowl of warm porridge with berries on top. I don’t want to be impressed.

I am impressed.

“Thank you,” I say.

She inclines her head. “Would you like anything else?”

The correct answer is no.

The honest answer is freedom, my old life back, and maybe a full explanation of why my husband ate me like he hated the idea of me ever thinking about another man and then disappeared for the entire day.

I say, “No, thank you.”

She leaves.

I eat everything. That’s the first embarrassing thing.

The second is how much I enjoy it.