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A storm is coming.
10
Lilyana
When I step out of the bedroom, Arman has changed into navy sweatpants and a black singlet, and he’s barefoot, leaning against the fridge. It’s a stark contrast; I’ve never seen him in casual attire. He’s usually all business when he’s around me. Now, he appears softer, less imposing, yet still undeniably impressive. I have a good view of his tattooed arms and lean muscles, and seeing him this way makes me want to stare at him forever.
He’s tall. Really tall. I’m five foot four, but he must be at least six-three. He used to have a buzz cut, but it’s grown out in the last few months, his dark hair settling into short but unruly waves. As he brushes it back from his forehead, the low light catches the shiny skin of the scar on his face. It’s prominent, carving his face from his eyebrow to the top of his cheekbone. Vlad told me Arman put it down to a brawl that got out of hand.
He points to a saucepan. “Hot chocolate,” he says. “It’s a warm night, but I thought you might like some anyway. I know you drink it year-round.”
“Thank you.”
I no longer resemble the bratva glamourpuss I pretended to be; now, I’m just myself. A girl in shortie pajamas, damp waves framing my freshly scrubbed face, and with no idea what to do in the presence of a man like Arman Nechayev.
I wish so much I was someone else.
Rain begins to pour outside, transitioning from a drizzle to a torrential downpour. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and I shudder involuntarily.
“Are you cold?” Arman hands me a cup. “Don’t worry, tsvetok. You’ll be in my room. I have all the blankets you’ll need.”
“No, it’s not that,” I say. “I just hate thunder and lightning. I hope it doesn’t move any closer.”
Arman furrows his brow. “I’ll be right out here if you’re scared during the night. Don’t suffer alone. I never sleep much anyway, so you won’t disturb me.”
“Okay. I suppose it must be a relief not to pretend to be the doting lover now that you’re home. Time to relax, right?”
Arman clenches his jaw. It’s no more than a twitch, but I’ve seen it before—it means he’s tense. He’s many things, but relaxed isn’t one of them.
Outside, the sky splits, a fork of white lightning cleaving the clouds, and I freeze like a frightened deer.
“Easy,” Arman says, his voice steady. He retrieves some pillar candles from a cupboard. “We’ll be fine. It’s just a power outage.”
It’s always been the same for me. I don’t run or fight; I remain rooted to the spot, waiting for the kill. It all goes back to the first time in my life I was truly terrified, and on that night, the weather was just the same as it is now.
My father had hurt me emotionally throughout my life, using his words as his weapon of choice. He would hurl insults, leaving my self-esteem battered, but he didn’t usually resort to physical violence—until one day when I was six. It was less than a year after my fall and extended hospital stay, and Papa was disappointed in what he saw as my shortcomings. He couldn’t accept the difficulties I faced after my brain injury.
I had mild aphasia, which meant I could read fine in my head but struggled to speak the words aloud, often substituting incorrect ones. Stress and fear worsened it, and my father knew how to generate both. On that day, I suspect he was upset about something unrelated and took it out on me because I couldn’t fight back.
He stood over me, his anger scorching my face. I tried to do what he asked, but he snatched the picture book from my little hands and tore it apart. I burst into tears, and my cheek exploded in pain as he slapped me across the face. I fell out of my chair and onto the rug, blood dripping from my lip. The thunder was so loud—
“Lili!” Arman is before me, shaking a match to extinguish the flame. He tosses it aside and holds my shoulders. “Look, tsvetok. We have some light. Take deep breaths.” His thumb wipes away a tear from my cheek. “Come sit and have your drink. You can stay here with me until the storm passes.”
I sit on the couch and finish my hot chocolate. Arman keeps his distance, settling into a chair near the balcony door. The flickering candlelight and warm feeling in my stomach help to calm me, and exhaustion loosens my muscles until I’m a dozing heap.
I’m vaguely aware of movement around me and open one eye. Arman is arranging his mattress nearby, setting up a bed. He thinks I’m asleep, and rather than waking me, he’s staying in the living room to make me feel safe.
He blows out the candles one by one. The moonlight peeks through the clouds, revealing Arman’s broad back as he lies down, shirtless. His muscles ripple beneath his skin as he shifts into a comfortable position.
As sleep claims me, I dream of Arman’s lips on mine, wondering if any real marriage could evoke as much passion as we did in that perfect, blissful kiss.
I’m jolted awake by a high-pitched scream—my own. My body takes orders from some primal place inside me, propelling me across the room toward Arman. I leap over him and pull the duvet around me, curling up in the space between him and the wall. Lightning illuminates the room like an atomic bomb, followed by thunder so loud it sounds like it might smash the sky to pieces.
Arman says nothing. Instead, he enfolds me in his arms, pulling me close. His hand rests on the small of my back while the other is on my ribcage. He doesn’t seem to be fully awake, but he shifts his thigh over mine, keeping me securely in place.
The proximity sends me into a tailspin. I’m frightened, I’m panicking, but if he rolled on top of me now, he could fuck all the terror right out of me.
I can’t help but notice his dick is swelling. I’ve never been this close to a hard-on before, apart from when Seb attacked me, and he didn’t have anything to boast about. Arman’s cock is another matter. It grows against my core, getting thicker and firmer, and my pussy responds with a needy pulse, wetness dampening my shorts.
