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He also murmurs a lot of Russian when we fuck, and I hate not knowing the language.
But learning it for him would make me think I’m finding a purpose in this godforsaken life, as if I’m hopeful.
He’s also highly intellectual, he’s into classics, he has a room full of classical literature, from Homer to Dostoevsky, and he’s read every single book.
He would tell me random facts, explaining them to me like I’m a child and while I don’t get it, I enjoy the sound of his voice.
The other day, he was drizzling some honey in my coffee and told me. “Did you know; honey never spoils, even after years it remains edible.”
To which I only chuckled, because he’s never like this with anyone else—talkative.
He also loves watching Outlander with me, but he’ll never admit it out loud.
The other day he tried to speak in a slight Scottish accent. “Dinna Fash, Elara.” And I might’ve melted into a puddle.
The entire university knows we’re together, and Sergei seems determined to make sure the rest of the city does too.
He’ll appear out of nowhere, steal me away from whatever I’m doing, and act as if it’s the most reasonable thing in the world.
Every time I look at him like he’s lost his mind, he just shrugs. “Too many people, baby. I needed you.”
What exactly is the appropriate response to that? Because I like it when he’s needy.
Alina is still unhappy, although she no longer dumps soda over my head whenever we’re in the same room.
I’d call that progress.
Roman hates me even more than Alina does, and Aleksandr isn’t far behind. Actually…it’s probably easier to say everyone hates me except Sergei.
For now. I know he’ll throw me out eventually.
But by then…I don’t think I’ll be around to deal with the heartbreak.
Roman loves calling me dollface just to rile Sergei up. It works every single time. Sergei doesn’t even try to hide how much he hates it.
Once, Roman called me dollface while Sergei was cooking and Sergei threw a frying pan at his head.
Thankfully, Roman ducked at the last second. The pan slammed into the cabinet behind him while he merely laughed, completely unfazed. “Moscow princess is salty.”
I might’ve snorted at that. I was happy.
Among a bunch of Bratva heirs, I was happy.
The other day, Roman stared into his mug like he was on the verge of a scientific breakthrough.
“If I add more milk to my coffee, technically I have more coffee, right?”
Sergei didn’t even look up from his phone. “No. You have less coffee.”
Roman frowned. “That makes no sense. The cup is fuller.” “With milk.”
“Still contains coffee.” “Barely.”
Roman gasped softly, offended. “So, if I pour water into vodka, it stops being vodka?”
“That’s called ruining vodka.”
Roman pointed at him triumphantly. “But you still called it vodka.”
