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3
Manya
My plans, like all the best laid, had been doomed to fail from the start.
I’d just barely finished my toast and started on my second cup of coffee when Dmitry showed up. He’d burst through the entryway, his blue eyes wild, their green flecks almost yellow in his fervor. I’d considered questioning him in his manic state; I’d even considered asking about the blood that was flecked over his front. But just like my plans to figure out how I felt, he’d bulldozed right through them. His lips had been insistent, with his voice at its most growly. . .
This was how I’d entirely missed what he’d said before taking me upstairs.
His hands had been almost tender as he’d worked me over, under the warm spray of the shower. At the same time, his lips had pressed into my skin, groaning in Russian. It was several hours later when he finally pulled away from me, standing up from the soaked bed sheets and heading over to the closet on the other side of the room. He seemed completely unaffected since he had gotten it out of his system.
Meanwhile, I had been left laying across the bed with still-quaking thighs, completely and blissfully aware that if I tried to stand, I would fall flat on my face. It had been a nice bubble to exist inside of, freshly fucked and still humming from the attention of it all.
Of course, he had burst that bubble as well.
We were in the car, the music set to a low, classical number, and my shoulders feeling like they could splinter wood from how tightly they were held. God, I just wanted to go back to how I had been after all the shower sex. I wanted to go back to that version of myself that he’d released, as if he had fucked all the worry straight out of me. Instead, I was a mass of nerves and anxiety, my fingers picking at the hem of my overly expensive dress.
I loved dresses. It was a secret I’d held close to my heart through all of my jean-wearing college years and one that I had only been indulging in since marrying Dmitry. The indulgence made me sick though. Not because the dress wasn’t nice, it assuredly was. Rather, it was theamountof nice . . . and the reason that I was wearing it.
Meeting Papa Koalitsia, Dmitry’s father and my now father-in-law, filled me with dread. I hadn’t had a chance to meet him after the wedding, when I’d ran as quickly and as far from Dmitry as I possibly could.
I was being escorted to his home by his son, for who knew what possible reason, with who knew what possible consequences. I knew nothing about the man, not personally. I wasn’t even overly familiar with his reputation. I knew that he was a Koalitsia,theKoalitsia as the Pakhan. I knew that he was richer than God and stern enough to have even Dmitry, who I had yet to see anxious over anything, white knuckling the steering wheel as he drove.
God, I didn’t want to be here.
My stomach lurched as Dmitry pulled in front of an expansive mansion, and acid climbed the back of my throat as he got out without a word to come round and open my door. I wanted to slide into the driver’s seat and take off, or possibly just lock my door and tell him I’d wait for him there. I had yet to figure out where I stood on anything and being so harshly thrust out of the removed world, we had been living in for the past three days was like ice water being dumped over my head.
Dmitry opened the door. “Don’t make an elephant out of a fly, Manya,” he murmured, his voice low and even and his eyes moving over me as if assessing the very way that I held my head. “He is just a man, another Koalitsia for you to sneer at,” he teased, his smirk dropping from his face almost as quickly as it had appeared. “But don’t do that, da?”
I snorted, biting back my sudden, uncomfortable laughter. “Yes, because I would be stupid enough to insult the Pakhan,” I muttered sarcastically, taking his hand and allowing him to help me from the vehicle. As we walked up the drive, I smoothed down the front of my dress with my other hand, keeping one eye on the byki standing at either side of the large, double doors that served as an entrance to the expansive mansion beyond.
Dmitry didn’t stop to talk to anyone as we moved past several large, marble rooms and headed to the back of the house. The only communication was the sure grip of his fingers over mine. We entered through three large sets of doors, only stopping when we came into what looked to be a rec room, at least what would have served as one back at college.
There was a pool table at the far end of the room with three stout men gathered around it,
playing in an odd sort of silence. The rest of the room was painted in dark reds, with dark brown leather furniture placed strategically throughout. The seating area off to the side was occupied by three other men, the only one I recognized being Shura.
Shura stood about a half foot back from a seated old man, his eyes lifting to Dmitry and I without greeting or comment before switching back to the younger man sitting in front of the large leather chair. The young man seemed to be pleading some case, and by the look on the older man’s face, he wasn’t getting very far with it.
If anything, it seemed the more he spoke, the more those bushy white eyebrows furrowed. Papa Koalitsia. I didn’t need to be introduced to know it was him. He was huge, with a good deal of what had obviously once been bulky muscle now turned soft, but he still resembled Dmitry enough for me to know. That, coupled with the importance and prestige that he reeked of, made it all too obvious.
Those blue eyes, so like his son’s but darker, suddenly lifted up to where Dmitry and I stood. Something flashed over his features, gone more quickly than my attempt to identify what it was. He lifted his hand, his heavily bejeweled fingers waving as if to dismiss the man before him.
The room emptied all at once, every single body that had been in it when we walked in, filed out without so much as a word or sideways glance. All but Shura. Shura stopped just inside of the doors, closing them slowly before standing in front of them with his arms crossed, as if that was what kept them closed.
“Dmitry,” Papa Koalitsia greeted, his voice deep and scratchy. “You are late, da? You come here, hours after you said you would be, days after being shot, and what? Expect me not to call you out on it because you brought along a pretty face?” His words were harsh, but the tone in which it was delivered sounded almost fond.
I shifted, especially being brought up as I had been, unsure of how or whether I was supposed to respond at all.
“Nyet, I expect you to not call me out on it because of the news I sent Shura back with. You aren’t old enough, nor do you have enough ear hair, to pretend that you did not hear it,” Dmitry scoffed back, his voice that same strange cross between irritated and fond as he pulled me along behind him towards the heavy leather loveseat across from his father’s chair.
“Hmpf.” His father shifted his girth, coughing as he did so. The sound was even more scratchy than his voice and full of what sounded like phlegm. “Sit, sit, Manya. I was sorry not to greet you after the wedding.” He said it in a lilting voice, but the way he stared at me made me all too aware that he was layering his commentary.
“I wasn’t expecting the wedding,” I answered honestly, afraid to even try lying with how closely he seemed to be watching me. I didn’t know how much my father, or Dmitry, had told him. “At least not so soon,” I amended quickly. “My papa—” My words died out as I saw the shifting emotion on the old man’s face.
His dark eyes flashed, and a grimace twisted his features with such vitriol that I resolved not to mention him again.
“You’d begrudge us our wedding night to suffer congratulations in its place?” Dmitry cut in smoothly, redirecting the conversation as easily as if I hadn’t fumbled at all. His fingers tightened somewhat around mine, making me feel like my faux pas had been one that should have been obvious.
