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She sniffs but says nothing, still pushing her food around her plate.
“You need to eat. If you’re unhealthy, you won’t be able to become pregnant and carry my child.”
Caterina’s jaw tenses at that, and she slowly sets down her fork. “So,” she says carefully. “I’m not just your wife. I’m a broodmare.”
A surge of anger rises up in me, but I carefully tamp it down, chewing my food methodically as I count to ten in my head in an effort not to shout at my new wife. I swallow, looking up to meet her defiant gaze.
“You can think whatever you like,” I say calmly. “I’ve married you for a purpose, Caterina. I need a son. You have the ability to give that to me, and you will. Or you will bear the consequences, instead of a child.”
Her eyes narrow. “Luca won’t let you hurt me—”
“Luca knows the conditions of our marriage. I wouldn’t lean too hard on his protection if I were you.” And with that, I turn my attention back to my breakfast, ignoring the way her cheeks turn pale, her eyes widening.
I don’t actually have any intention of hurting Caterina. But a little fear, at this point, seems as if it might go a long way. I’d hoped to be kind to her, to make our life together as pleasant as possible. But I won’t sacrifice my own peace to make that happen.
She will bend, or she will break.
I’m capable of finding pleasure in either option.
She remains silent throughout the rest of breakfast, all the way until we get into the car to head back to my estate. Even then, she looks out of the window as we drive, ignoring the door I hold open for her and remaining stubbornly quiet until the car pulls up in the circular driveway in front of my house, the driver killing the engine and stepping out to open our doors. It’s only then, as I see her eyes widen slightly at the sight of my home, that I remember I haven’t actually told her about my children.
I open my mouth to tell her as we step out, but true to form, I can see them running towards us before I can even speak, always alert to the sound of their papa coming home. They both tear down the path to the driveway in a flurry of dresses and blonde curls—until they see Caterina standing next to me, and both skid to a halt a few feet away, looking suddenly shocked and shy. Olga is coming down the path behind them, out of breath and glaring.
When I glance over at Caterina, her face has gone pale again. She’s staring at my daughters, as shocked as they are, her mouth slightly open.
“Viktor—” she says quietly, swallowing hard, and I reach for her hand. I feel her flinch at the touch, but I don’t let go. Instead, I curl my fingers around hers possessively and lead her forward, towards the two girls who have now been corralled by Olga and are looking suspiciously at Caterina.
“Caterina, these are my daughters,” I say slowly, looking at them and then back at her. “Anika and Yelena. Girls, this is Caterina. She will be living with us now, and I expect you to be very welcoming to her.”
Yelena looks as if she wants to cry, but Anika’s eyes narrow as she looks up at Caterina. “Is she going to be our new mother?” she asks accusingly.
I can see from the stubborn look on my daughter’s face that she’s not going to take this well.Perhaps I should have introduced them to the idea before I brought her home,I think tiredly, seeing in hindsight already where I’ve made mistakes. Olga, no doubt, will outline them thoroughly for me later. I have the sudden urge to kneel down and take my daughter in my arms, to soothe her and promise that Caterina is not a replacement for their mother, but I know that won’t help matters. The girls need to accept her if there is to be peace in the household. And I know no other way than to be stern about it.
“We were married yesterday,” I tell my daughters firmly. “Caterina is my new wife, and so yes, she will be your new mother. I expect you to respect her as such, listen to her, and not give her trouble. Just like you behave with Olga, I expect you to behave with Caterina.”
“We don’twanta new mother!” Anika says sharply, her small voice rising. She fumbles for her sister’s hand, likely looking for solidarity. However, Yelena is still staring at Caterina as if she’s not entirely certain she’s real. Yelena has always been the quieter of the two, but now with Anika fuming next to her, she speaks up in a tearful voice.
“She doesn’tlooklike our mother,” she whispers, her blue eyes starting to well up. “Not atall.”
Yelena is right about that. Caterina looks nothing like Vera. My first wife was curvy and blonde, with large, full hips that she was self-conscious of and breasts that filled my hands to overflowing. She’d been far from plump, with a narrow waist even after our children. Still, she’d spent thousands of dollars and endless hours trying to slim herself far beyond what her natural body was meant to look like, desperate to emulate the waifish, ballerina types that so many of the other Bratva men sought to wed.
I had found her devastatingly beautiful just as she was, but as in so many other things, she never listened. And Caterina, tall and dark and slender, is the opposite of my late wife in so many ways. Only her elegance is the same, but it too is understated, whereas Vera loved glamour and jewels. Sometimes I’d wondered if she loved the trappings of our life and my position more than she’d loved me.
In the end, though, I know the truth of it. She desired those things because they temporarily filled what I could never give her. And I’ve paid for that many times over since.
“She’s not, Yelena,” I say as patiently as I can. “But she will be a mother to you now. You and Anika both, and if we’re very fortunate, you’ll have a little brother soon. Would you like that?”
Yelena appears to be considering it, but Anika shakes her head stubbornly. “We don’tneeda little brother,” she says firmly. “We just need you. And Olga,” she adds as an afterthought, and I hear the old woman sniff.
“Well, girls,” Olga cuts in, kneeling down to their level the way I wish I could. “This woman here is going to live with us now. Your father has married her, so there’s no going back. The best you can do is be kind to her. Don’t you think that’s what your mother in heaven would want?”
Yelena starts to sniffle, and Anika grips her hand tighter, shooting a death glare among the three of us. “Momma in heaven would want tobehere, with us!” she yells, her voice reaching a high pitch that makes me grit my teeth.
If she wanted to be here, she would be,I want to snap angrily, but I bite the words back. I’ve been careful never to let my anger with my dead wife bleed into my daughters’ memories of their mother. And the last thing I want to do is yell at my children. But yesterday was taxing, last night and this morning more still, and my patience is wearing thin.
“Girls.” I inject more sternness than usual into my tone, and I see both girls go quiet, although, Anika is still looking up at me with defiance in her eyes. She got her temper and stubbornness from me, I know. Yelena is more like her mother, prone to going quiet or crying when she’s sad, but Anika lashes out. Caterina will have her hands full with them both. “Girls, listen to me. I’ve chosen Caterina very carefully because I know she’ll be good to you.”
“Olga is good to us,” Anika mutters, and I frown at her.
