The only difference between us and every other newlywed couple is our conversations aren’t based on how his day at “work” went or what china we’d like to purchase for our new house. The entirety of our discussion is on if any of my hidden memories were unearthed and if I’ve had any more nightmares. Unfortunately, other than the flurry of memories that were unleashed on me my first twenty-four hours here, I’ve not had any fresh memories revealed since.
I’ll be honest; even being held captive in a mansion full of gun-toting men, I'll happily pledge that the man I see in my flashbacks is the same man I wake up curled around every morning. Away from others, Rico is attentive and sweet. A man I could wholeheartedly marry on sight. It's just the air of danger surrounding him that causes my greatest worry.
While I'm being totally forthright, I’ll disclose another powerful point separating us from other newlywed couples: our lack of sexual contact. Don’t construe my statement the wrong way; I’m not at all expecting the band on my finger to come with the agreed stipulation of sexy time. I’m just surprised I've spent the past five nights in bed with a man who appears sexually ambitious but have not once been propositioned. The sparks of lust are no doubt firing between us, but nothing more than an affectionate cuddle has been shared the last five nights. I’m not going to lie; my ego is suffering the brutal sting of rejection.
My grip on Rico’s hand tightens when our brisk stride down the corridor has us reaching two burly-looking men standing at the end. Just like last week, their conversation ends the instant they catch sight of me. They don’t speak; they just eye us with caution as we saunter by.
I lean deeper into Rico's side when a group of suit-clad men at the end of the stairwell rake their sullied eyes down the length of my body. Considering they are several years older than me and have their partners attached to their hip, I find their gaze demoralizing and nauseating.
“Po’shyol ‘na hui,” Rico growls at them, his words vibrating right through my body.
Their eyes snap to Rico in sync. “Zashchishchat' shlyukhu?”
Rico’s pulse pulverizes my hand. “Nyet. Moya zhena.”His words come out gravelly and abrupt.
The men’s eyes widen before their gazes drop to their shoes.
“What was that about?” I ask Rico as he guides me across the opulent entranceway of his home.
“Nothing.” He nudges his head to a set of double doors on my right.
With every step I take, my legs quake, but I play my part of wife accordingly. I smile greetings at the curious stares of women eyeing me with wonder, and I redirect my eyes from the men whose avid gazes make my skin crawl.
“Who are all these people?” I query, shocked by the vast gathering of people mingling throughout the residence.
“Most are family members. Brothers, sisters, cousins.” Rico gestures his head to the group associated with each title. “The rest areassociatesof the Popov entity.”
Just from the way he says “associates” indicates they’re the group of people I should avoid.
“What about the cluster of women in the den?” I nudge my head to the sunken lounge we are gliding by that's filled to the brim with attractive ladies.
Rico stiffens for the quickest second before he mutters, “They are. . .mistresses?”From the unsureness of his voice, his statement comes out sounding like a question.
My heart falls out of my ribcage. “Mistresses? Whose mistresses?” I grimace when my voice comes out louder than I intend.
He releases my hand from his grasp and places it on the curve of my lower back. “Once Vladimir is finished with them, anyone who wants them.”
My first reaction is disgust. A majority of the women sitting in the den would be mid-twenties to early thirties, way too young to sleep with a man Vladimir's age. My second reaction is jealousy. Sick, twisted jealousy.
My eyes rocket to Rico. “Do you have mistresses?” This time, my voice comes out level and calm, even though I'm anything but.
After dipping his chin to a man standing guard near a concealed door, Rico guides me down an incredibly long dining table. Just like our room, this space is adeptly decorated with priceless paintings and opulent antique furnishings, but it isn’t enough to dampen the queasiness passing through me.
Even with no knowledge of mob-related activities, I know he's moving us to the higher ranked seating. It isn't just the fact that the hum of conversation dulled the instant we entered the room, it's the fact that every set of eyes in the room are rapt on Rico and me—even with them sneakily peering up from the floor. But even being eyed like I'm a circus act and having a queasy stomach, I can’t harbor the vehement jealousy heating my blood.
“Do you?” I ask again, ensuring I keep my tone as low as possible.
Rico drops his eyes to me. “Do I what?”
I snarl, bearing teeth. I can tell from the gleam in his eyes he knows what I'm referring to; he's just choosing to be ignorant. My scowl deepens, leaving a heavy set of wrinkles in my forehead.
Spotting my angry snarl, his lips curl into a panty-wetting smirk. “Are you jealous, Kitten?” He leans in close to my side, gaining us the curious glance of a dozen people surrounding us. “Does my little kitty have her claws out, ready to pounce on any woman who dares get close to her man?”
His words jolt right through me like I’ve sustained a physical blow, while also adding to my worry that there has been no sexual contact between us since my first morning waking up in this compound. It's inanely ridiculous for me to be jealous, but I can’t help it. Drugged mistake or not, Rico is still my husband, and just thinking of him with another woman triggers merciless jealously to sear through me.
Feeling my usually carefree composure slipping, Rico murmurs, “You have nothing to be jealous of, Kitten.”
His words don't offer me any reassurance. If anything, they make me even more irate. If he has nothing to hide, why skirt my question? Why not just be honest?
