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He skims over what I’m wearing. “And that’s a problem for you because…?”
“Because I want to wear my clothes.”
“Why?”
Why? Because every time I smell your scent, my brain turns to pudding and my vagina feels like it’s about to jump off the nearest bridge. Because every time I think about this same fabric brushing your bare skin, I get jealous of it and want to throw IT off the nearest bridge. Because you drive me insane whether you’re near me or not.
Because I’m crazy.
Because you make me that way.
Because I’m falling in love with you.
What I settle on saying in the end is, “Because I can’t keep wearing your clothes all the time.”
He blinks slowly. “Are they not comfortable?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then for fuck’s sake, Wren, what is the point?” he snaps in exasperation.
“The point is that I’m not yours to control!” I cry out. “I’m not yours to command and I’m not yours to dress. I have to have a say in my own life, starting with what I wear.”
His eyebrows arrow together and his nostrils flare. “Very well. I’ll handle it.” He turns towards his room as though he’s already bored with this conversation. “Was there anything else?”
I move a little closer to the door and peek inside. It looks like a very comfortable setup in there. Almost too comfortable. “What do you mean, ‘You’ll handle it’?”
“I’ll have a couple of the boutiques bring their maternity lines over here and you can pick whatever you want.”
My jaw drops. “Seriously?”
“You have a need. I’m meeting it.”
“It’s completely unnecessary. I can just go upstairs to my old room and see what I can find up there. Half my clothes are still there anyway.”
“I’ll have Aleks bring them down.”
“It won’t kill me to take the elevator upstairs.”
He doesn’t even bother to look at me when he replies. “You’re not leaving this apartment, Wren. As I said, if you want something from upstairs, all you have to do is ask for it.”
Is it just me or is he being super shady about the upstairs apartment? Is there another reason he’s down here with me?
On second thought: whatever. I have to pick my battles and fighting over who gets to physically retrieve my wardrobe is not the hill I want to die on.
He nods in satisfaction when I don’t answer. “I have work to do, so I’ll be leaving soon. But Aleksandr will be here with you while I’m gone.”
I tilt my head to the side. “How is he?”
“He’s had worse bullet wounds. This one didn’t even crack the top five.”
“My God,” I breathe. It’s amazing how cavalier he can be about something as serious as a gunshot wound. Is this how my son’s going to talk in twenty years? Will he be comparing gunshot wounds with his father and uncle and chuckling about ‘the one that almost killed him’? I shudder at the thought.
And then I shudder again when Dmitri’s warm fingers stroke the curve of my jaw. “I’m sorry,” he says, which are two words I wasn’t aware he knew to string together. “I keep forgetting that you’re not used to all of this.”
“Can you really get used to casual violence?” I whisper hoarsely.
“It’s not a matter of getting used to it, Wren. You just accept what it is.”
