Painted Scars: Chapter 15

“Where is Leonid?” I ask Roman during breakfast. “I haven’t seen him for two weeks, and last evening, I saw the guys taking out his things.”

“He’s gone.” He reaches with his hand and takes his orange juice.

“Gone, like he doesn’t live here anymore?”

“You could say so.”

“Roman?”

“Yes, malysh?” He looks at me and stuffs the fork piled with scrambled eggs in his mouth.

“You killed him, didn’t you?”

“Of course, I did.”

I choke on the piece of bread I just put in my mouth and reach for the water. “You cannot tell me that kind of shit during breakfast, Roman.”

“You asked. And he tried to kill me first.”

“So that makes it ok?”

“He was planning round number two. Does that fact make it more bearable for you?”

“I guess.” I think about Leonid trying to kill Roman again, and conclude that I would probably kill him myself in that case. “Yes. Nobody tries to kill my husband and gets away with it. You made the right choice.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

“I do not approve of killing people. I just . . . I can live with it in this case.”

“You have really strange views, Nina.”

“Since I’m living in your strange world, I guess it’s fitting.” I look at the clock and jump up from the chair. “We’re going to be late for that wedding.”

“What are you wearing?”

I smile mischievously, take a fistful of his shirt, and pull him toward me. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

I kiss him and start to pull back, but he grabs me around my waist and drags me into his arms.

“If you play with fire, my little flower,” he says in my ear while his hands hook around the waistband of my jeans and start pulling them down, “you may get burned.”

“We will be late.”

“Do you think I care?”

Nope. And I don’t either. “How durable are those chairs?”

“Let’s find out.”

While he takes off his sweatpants, I remove the jeans and my underwear, and climb onto his lap.

My legs are too short and dangle in the air on either side. Even when I stretch, I can’t touch the ground with my toes. “I don’t think this will work, Roman.”

He looks down, failing to stifle his laugh. “Jesus, Nina. You are so tiny.”

“Should we move to the bed?”

Roman tilts his head to the side, and leaning back in the chair, he grabs my waist while his lips curl in a smug smile. “Nope.”

My eyes widen as he lifts me up and positions me above his hard cock then lowers me onto it. I gasp and clutch his shoulders, loving the way he fills me gradually. A moan escapes me when I feel him fully buried inside. Roman’s hands move lower, beneath my thighs, and he lifts me up then slides me down, impaling me again and again as I pant and hold tightly onto him. I’m not sure what turns me on more: the way his cock slides in and out of me, or the ease with which he handles my body as if I weigh nothing at all. He slams into me one last time and I come, hearing him groan, as his seed fills me.

“Everything okay?” he wraps his arms around me and presses me into his chest.

“Yeah.” I bury my nose into his neck, inhaling his scent. “I want random chairs to be put in every room. That bench-press machine you have can go.”

“You weigh half the weight I usually lift, malysh.”

“They say it’s more effective to work with less weight, but more often.”

“Do they?” His hands caress my back, gliding downward until they reach my ass. “I like that new workout plan. A lot,” he says and squeezes my butt cheeks.

The wedding is extremely boring. Tons of guests are milling around with glasses in their hands, chatting and fake smiling. I don’t know a single person here, so I spend most of the time people watching and commenting on the outfits to Roman. He always finds my babbling amusing. However, a few minutes ago he got stuck in a conversation about politics with some men, and I decide to leave him to it and go to sit at one of the tables.

I don’t have a problem with sitting alone, but it seems like some people think I do, because a couple of women sit with me and drag me into a tactless conversation about who bought what for the newlyweds.

“We couldn’t come with anything meaningless, you know,” a pretty blonde with pumped lips explains. “I’m sure they will enjoy the weekend at the spa. It’s a highly exclusive place. Please don’t ask how much we paid for the tickets; the amount was atrocious.”

“They will love it.” I smile.

“And what did you get them, dear?”

“An extremely ugly vase,” I say. “My husband insisted on it.”

“Oh, well, maybe your tastes differ. And which one is your husband?”

I look over to the group of men in the middle of the hall and smile. “The sexiest one in the room,” I declare.

“You are biased.” The other one, with a short red dress and red hair, laughs.

“Nope. It’s a fact.” I shrug.

They both turn to look at the mass of people like they are trying to guess which one would that be.

“The one in a brown suit, yes? The one with the glasses?”

I follow her gaze and see a shortish guy who’s rather handsome, and has an accountant feel around him. I smile widely. This will be fun.

“Nope. Try again.”

Next, she points out a man in a tuxedo. He’s kind of cute and has longish hair, but is way too thin. However, before I have the opportunity to answer, the blonde interferes.

“Oh my God, Sandra, is that Roman Petrov?” she exclaims and grabs for the redhead’s forearm. Nodding toward the crowd, she asks, “What happened to him?”

“I think Rory mentioned he had an accident a few months back,” Sandra whispers and turns to her friend. “I heard he got married.”

“No! Where is his wife? What does she look like? Is she Russian?”

I raise the glass to my lips to hide my grin and continue listening.

“I haven’t seen her. Probably tall and platinum blonde. That’s his type,” Sandra says.

“Well, she must be some harpy if she had the balls to marry him.”

“Oh, she is a harpy, believe me,” I throw in.

Both women turn to stare at me with wide eyes.

“You know Petrov’s wife?” Sandra leans over the table, basically pushing her face into mine.

“Yup.” I nod and take a sip of my drink. “She is a little whacky in the head.”

“Well, she must be if she married him. No one in their right mind would marry the Russian Mafia’s pakhan.” She tosses another look at Roman. “I heard Dushku say he almost sliced Tanush’s neck during dinner last month.”

I’m quite enjoying the situation when Roman ruins my fun. He turns his head and looks directly at me, a barely visible tilt on his lips. I raise my hand and blow him a kiss. Roman sends me one really heated look, and then goes back to his conversation. I turn back to find both women watching me with horror on their faces.

“That one is mine.” I grin. “I’m Nina Petrova. The harpy.”

They both smile, quickly excuse themselves, and are gone in seconds. I reach for my glass, take another sip of the wine, and resume people watching.

A woman approaches Roman’s group and joins the conversation. I don’t pay much attention to her at first, but a few minutes later I notice her discreetly move to stand closer to Roman and asks him something, a smile on her face. She’s classically beautiful, brunette hair twisted in a bun at her nape. A long beige dress is plastered to her body. Her head reaches Roman’s shoulders, which puts her at least a head taller than me. She laughs at something and bats her eyelashes. I don’t like the way she looks at Roman. He doesn’t pay attention to her at all, but still . . . I wonder if I should go over there and send her packing. Maybe not.

I cross my legs, making sure the slit on my dress reveals them, and sit more comfortably in the chair. Roman looks in my direction, and I send him the secret little smile I like giving him before I drag him into bed. His eyes narrow. The woman is saying something to him, but I hold his gaze and lift my hand to run a finger across my lips. I cock my head to the side a little, let my finger slide down my chin and neck slowly, and stop at the neckline of my low-cut dress. Roman is following my finger’s path, and when his eyes snap back to mine, I smile widely.

He says something to the people around him and starts in my direction, never once breaking his gaze from mine.

“You called, Mrs. Petrov?” His lips lift at the corners.

I stand up, put my hand on his chest and look up at him. “You are not the only one who is territorial in this relationship, Pakhan.”

“Jealous? Of whom, malysh? You know there is only one woman my eyes see.”

“Is that so?” I hook my finger into his shirt between the two buttons, and pull on it until he bends his head and our noses touch.

“Staking your claim, Nina?”

“Of course, I am, Roman,” I say and kiss him.

“Home,” he whispers into my lips. “Now.”

“I made you something.”

I look up from my desk and find Nina’s head peeking around the door. “Did you burn it?”

“It’s morozhenoe.” She beams, comes to stand between my legs, and fills a spoon with the ice cream from the bowl she’s holding.

I watch her raise the spoon to my mouth, then lean in and let her feed it to me.

“Igor has been teaching me some Russian,” she declares.

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear what you’ve learned.”

“We covered govno, chort vozmi, and skotina so far. Those are his favorites.”

“I don’t doubt it.” I reach for my phone and dial Varya, who answers after the second ring. “Igor has been teaching Nina to curse. Does he have a death wish again?”

“Roman!” Nina grabs my shirt and reaches for the phone, but I move my hand away and kiss her instead.

“No one will be teaching you Russian, but me. Got that?”

“Got it, kotik.”

I close my eyes and shake my head. “You do not call a Russian pakhan “kitten”, Nina. I have an image to uphold here.”

She narrows her eyes at me, schools her features to embody seriousness, and touches my nose with her finger.

“My deadly kotik. Better?”

“Nope.”

“You are no fun.” She winds her hands around my neck. “Let’s go somewhere for dinner, hmm?”

“I’m sorry, malysh, I have some business crap to deal with tonight. We leave in twenty minutes, and I don’t know how long it’ll take, but I should probably be back by ten or eleven.”

“Be careful, Roman.”

I watch her leave, and think how strange it is to have someone waiting for me to come back from work or worry about my well-being.

Roman still hasn’t come back. I clutch my sweater tighter around me and look at the clock again, probably for the hundredth time in the past hour. It’s half past three, and he hasn’t called or texted. I didn’t want to call him and intrude on his business deal, so I checked with Maxim—who stayed at the house—around one, then again around three. He didn’t know anything.

“Damn it, Roman,” I murmur to myself, eyes glued to the gate visible on the other side of the lawn. “Don’t you dare get yourself killed.”

Sometime around four, the gate slides to the side and two cars park in front of the house. Men start exiting the cars, and I plaster my palms onto the window, looking for Roman. He exits last, and the way he gets out of the car—painfully, slowly—tells me he pushed his knee way too far this time.

“Stubborn, stubborn idiot,” I mumble. A distance he usually covers in seconds now takes him almost five minutes.

What the hell was he thinking? Warren told him he wasn’t allowed to walk long distances for at least a few more weeks, and he goes and pulls an all-nighter not even a week later.

In the bedroom, I take out the wheelchair from where he stowed it in the wardrobe, and park it just next to the door. He has this moronic idea that he won’t let his men see him in the chair ever again, so I cross my arms in front of me and wait for him.

Ten minutes later, the door opens and he hobbles inside. He looks at the chair, then at me. I guess the expression on my face shows how furious I am, because he slowly sits down and passes me the crutches.

“I am so mad at you,” I sneer through my teeth, lean the crutches on the wall, then turn to take his face in my hands. “How bad is the pain?”

He meets my eyes, but doesn’t say anything, just grinds his teeth.

“Shit, baby.” I lean in and kiss his forehead. “I’m going to get your painkillers. Two?”

“Make it three.”

“Okay. Do you need help getting on the bed?”

“If you take off your clothes and wait for me there, it would be a nice incentive.”

“Not tonight, so don’t get your hopes up.” I brush his cheek and head into the kitchen.

When I climb into bed with Roman thirty minutes later, he’s already knocked out with the triple dose of painkillers. I take the opportunity to watch him. He’s usually up before me so I don’t get the chance to catch him unguarded. I move a few strands of hair that have fallen over his forehead, and trace the line of his eyebrows, nose, and chin with my finger, admiring his harsh features. God, I was scared shitless tonight. Without a word from him, I was afraid something bad happened.

We will need to have a serious discussion on that subject tomorrow. I don’t think he did it on purpose; I have a feeling Roman simply isn’t accustomed to having people being concerned for his wellbeing. He never talks about his childhood, and I suspect it wasn’t an easy one. There is so much I still don’t know about him. He rarely shares details regarding his business, and I think he’s trying to shield me from that side of his life. But I’m not stupid. In the eyes of the world, my husband is a bad guy. In my eyes, however, he’s just Roman. I don’t give a fuck about the rest, and that fact scares me a bit, too.