Page 44 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

Because of it, I’ve developed a ritual of sorts; one I could only be compelled to admit under pain of death. I look at him without reservation. It’s my opportunity to home in on the granular details of his countenance, and by God, do I seize it. A body looks different when it’s in motion than when it’s at rest. Anton’s, especially.

Sleep must come to him at the cost of a vivid inner life. His pursuit of the elusive mole has gone nowhere so far, so it makes sense. Even unconscious, he hardly ever looks peaceful. The tension in his shoulders and jaw might eke out, but when he isn’t stiff with that tension, the ways in which time has weathered him grow more pronounced. As if the very act of taking a pause allows time to catch up with him. Just thinking about it makes my chest tighten in an inconvenient pinch.

There’s still nothing more magnificent than the silver that threads itself through all that gold: at his temple, in his stubble, even a few hairs in his thick, expressive brows.

The lines in his forehead remind me of trees, as if they are rings to count his years. They bracket his mouth, too—deepening when he smiles, which he sometimes does in his sleep. And the corners of his eyes.

I’ve been memorizing those lines.

There are mornings—closer and closer together, and just like this one—where I ache to touch him so badly. My fingertips itch with it. To reach across the distance I’ve added between our bodies and chart his features, not just with my gaze but with my touch. To shake him awake.

To bother him, as he bothers me.

Day by day, I’m growing to know his face better than I know my own. This face that I spitefully hitched my life to and now find myself reeling from the repercussions of—the face of Anton Zakharov. The man I’ve called my mortal enemy. The king of the formerly rival, and now ally, gang. My husband. My friend?

He’s begun to feel like a friend to me.

I don’t know if I can stomach a different word.

My chest aches to look at him, and aches to look away.

Is there no winning?

No, the universe answers. His eyes remain closed, but his voice rumbles through his chest, a husky vibration that warms me like hot chamomile tea before bed, “I can feel you watching. Don’t be creepy, wife.”

My eyes widen to saucers. My mouth gapes, and I make a high, indignant sound, deep in my throat. Obviously, it’s a sound of disagreement. It isn’t embarrassment. I refuse to be embarrassed.

“Maybe I want you to be disturbed,” I snip, recovering as quickly as possible.

“I’ll bet.”

I whip back around to appraise him, prepared with a scathing look—only to find that Anton has flipped onto his stomach. And a return of my attention is all he’d been waiting for. No sooner have I looked back over at him than he reaches across the mattress, hooking his hand at my rib-cage, and bodily hauling me towards him, until he has me half-pinned with his torso. His core temperature is too high. My skin tingles, and not just beneath the abrasive graze of his stubble as he nuzzles his face into the hollow of my throat. He noses at the underside of my jaw.

My heart tries to pound right out of my chest.

It stalls when his thumb grazes the slant of my cheekbone, and his mouth covers mine. Both of our mouths are sour from the morning, but I tolerate it for the sake of the pleased little sound Anton makes in my mouth.

And to think, a moment ago, I’d thought his beauty was the most trying aspect of his person. It’s a fucking cakewalk compared to this melting sweetness.

No part of this feels within my control when my mouth just moves against his, so softly, with his palm cradling my face, and his long lashes tickling my cheeks. What the hell am I supposed to do with this, the way he’s kissing me like he’s got nowhere to be? A kiss just for the sake of a kiss.

A kiss that’s not from a hot, hungry lover, but a timeless companion.

That’s not what we are.

That’s not what this is.

He makes it worse, just letting me escape when I squirm out from under him, simply relinquishing his hold on me with a parting squeeze. He says nothing of the way I swing my legs over the side of the bed like I’m running out of time. He isn’t even staring after me, condemning, when I helplessly dart a look over my shoulder on the way to the shower.

No, he’s already contentedly buried his face into his pillow. With a glimpse of just part of his face, I can see the lazy smile curling his lips as he dozes right back to sleep.

I don’t know what to do about it.

I don’t know how to handle any of this.

How the fuck is this my life now?

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