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“No, thank you,” I say with a shudder, but Nikolai laughs and says that he’ll have me try out the extreme regimen this winter.
“We’ll get you addicted to it, I promise,” he adds with a smile as I process the startling realization that I’ll be with him this winter—and every other winter in the foreseeable future.
Because that’s what marriage means.
We’re together for the rest of our lives.
An echo of my earlier panic returns, but I suppress it. I’m not letting my irrational fears cast a shadow over what promises to be a beautiful day together—hopefully, the first of many.
After all, happiness is a choice, and I’d much rather be happy in this forced marriage.
37
Chloe
The next few days pass in a similarly idyllic manner. Though we haven’t gone anywhere, it feels like we’re on our honeymoon. We make love multiple times a night (and oftentimes day), sleep in late, eat breakfast in bed, and go on long walks and hikes, both by ourselves and with Slava. One time, Alina joins us as well, and the four of us end up swimming in a nearby lake, where all three Russians make fun of my reluctance to get into the chilly, spring-fed water.
It turns out Slava is as comfortable being cold as the adults, making me the only wimp.
I do end up swimming, though, and as I’m shivering afterward, Nikolai warms me by rubbing me all over with his big, rough palms. If we were alone, he would’ve undoubtedly done more, but alas, even he draws the line at making love in front of his young son and sister.
That’s about the only act where he does draw the line, though. We engage in PDA all the time. My husband has zero shame when it comes to kissing me, massaging my neck and shoulders, and pulling me onto his lap whenever the mood strikes. It’s like I’m a pet he likes to cuddle. I can’t say I hate it; in fact, I not-so-secretly revel in his attention.
It would be different if anyone in the household made fun of it or otherwise made me feel embarrassed. But no one does. Even Alina, with her occasional gentle teasing, takes it for granted that her brother can’t keep his hands off me, so much so that I have to wonder if it’s one of those legendary “Molotov men” traits.
I’d ask, but I’m afraid it might be too close to the topic I’m skirting, the answers I’ve been telling myself I want, yet can’t bring myself to demand. It just feels so good not to think about the darkness in Nikolai and the terrifying things he’s capable of. I haven’t even inquired about Masha and the new plan to take down Bransford; each time I think about my biological father, my pulse shoots up and my stomach contracts into a hard, tight knot.
Tomorrow morning, I tell myself each evening. I’ll talk to Nikolai about this first thing in the morning. But then in the morning, I wake up in his embrace, feeling warm and secure, worshipped and adored, and I can’t bring myself to risk the peace, so I tell myself we’ll talk in the evening.
I know something is bound to happen to puncture our happy bubble, but I’m reluctant for that something to be me.
* * *
We go on like that for three more weeks, during which I bask in the attention he lavishes on me, reveling in both his tenderness and his roughness. Both versions of Nikolai—the gentle lover and the fierce savage—thrill me, which is a good thing, because when it comes to my husband, I can never predict what I’m going to get. In the same night, he might worship my body as if I were made of crystal, and fuck me until I can barely walk the next day. At times, I get the sense that he wants even more, that one day, he might push me further, try to possess me even more completely, but that like me, he’s reluctant to do anything to bring any strife and tension back into our life, ending this honeymoon of ours.
Instead, he showers me with gifts, everything from expensive jewelry to accessories and clothing. It seems as if a new dress, or pair of shoes, or scarf, or something appears in my closet daily. It’s almost too much for me—many of the earrings and bracelets I now own cost more than some people’s houses—but he insists that it gives him pleasure to buy me things, so I eventually stop objecting… because having those things gives me pleasure too.
I’ve never known true poverty, thanks to my mom working nonstop to support us, but I also can’t recall a time in my life when I didn’t have to count every penny and carefully budget for every expense. Most of my childhood clothes were bought second-hand, and the only jewelry I owned was of the cheap costume kind. Now, my closet is like Saks Fifth Avenue on steroids, and though it may be shallow of me, I love it. Rich people know what they’re doing when they buy all those luxuries—they really can enhance one’s life.
