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“Well, I mean, I kinda am. I didn’t even realize you guys were that close until you told me she was hosting a baby shower for you.”
I eye the small tower of presents beside the coffee table that Bee had warned me against touching until she came back. “It took me by surprise, too. We’ve gotten close since I’ve been living here, but I didn’t expect… all this.”
Syrah eats the remaining cucumber. “Tell it to me straight: is she your number one now? Are you leaving me for her?”
I giggle. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll always be my work wife. Even if we’re not technically working together anymore.”
She sighs and settles back, only temporarily sated. “Honestly, I wouldn’t even blame you. I mean, look at all those gifts. I’ve never been great at math but even I can solve this equation. There are exactly two guests at this party and there are at least two dozen presents. And since I bought only one?—”
“It’s not a competition, Sy.”
“Of course not. She wiped the floor with my ass!”
I snort and reach for my glass of lemonade. “Stop it. I love you both. And since the two of you get along great, I see no reason why we can’t all?—”
“Have a three-way relationship?”
“Sure, that’s exactly what I was thinking.”
Syrah gives me a salacious little wink. “Great minds, huh?”
“Great. Dirty. Depraved. Whichever adjective you wanna use.”
Giggling, Syrah glances over her shoulder and then lowers her voice even further. “I’ll be honest. I thought this setup was hella weird. But seeing you here with Bee… I dunno. It works.”
That familiar sense of guilt creeps up all over again. I so desperately want to tell Syrah the truth about our little live-in arrangement—but every time I practice the conversation in my head, it sounds so outlandish that I scrap the idea altogether.
I fidget uncomfortably. “Thanks. We’re still figuring it out.”
“And how are you getting along with him?”
Ah. Him.
The answer to that question has been pretty simple of late. Because things with him have been great. And I’m talking capital G-R-E-A-T, great. Since our little paint sexcapade three weeks ago, life with Mr. Egorov has been the smoothest sailing.
More often than not, he spends the nights with me, sleeping and also lots and lots of not-sleeping. He usually comes home late, but I either wake up to him the next morning or I get a midnight, mid-dream interruption in the form of his tongue between my thighs.
It is so, so worth the broken sleep.
The best part—well, second-best after the mind-blowing sex—is that he hasn’t been as closed-off as he used to be. We don’t sit around, gossiping about our hopes and dreams or our deepest, darkest secrets or who has a crush on who, but he isn’t so averse to mentioning little tidbits about his past or his life anymore, either.
I knew that he had a lot of respect for his father, but “love” wasn’t really a word he associated with the old man. I knew that he had a fierce sense of obligation to his vors (another term that he has only recently introduced me to) and that his Bratva functioned like an extended family, albeit with a hierarchy and a specific set of rules, but I didn’t know just how far that sense of loyalty extended.
It feels like I’m putting together a collage, grabbing greedily at the little scraps he offers me and pasting them into a clearer, more complete picture of Dmitri Egorov.
And as it turns out, it’s much easier to forgive the possessive, stubborn side of his personality when you see how deeply he cares about the people in his life. Bee, for one example.
Elena, for another.
Some of his wife’s paintings are now hanging around the apartment. That was more my doing than his, though he didn’t stand in my way for a second. He helped me hang them himself, actually.
It isn’t that I’m not jealous of the love he had for her; I’m not quite that enlightened yet. I’m just mature enough to understand that a man who’s capable of that kind of loyalty and care has enough to go around.
Enough to give to a woman who’s maybe just a tad bit insecure, but very earnest. A woman who’s clumsy but well-intentioned, deeply romantic but terrified of being hurt. A woman who’s falling deeper and deeper in love with him with every passing day.
To a woman like me.
“Wren?”
