Page 44 of Velvet Chains
Since when do I give a shit about how a woman smells?
But with her, it’s different. Everything is different.
Our moment is broken by Misha running up to us.
Misha and my eyes meet, and he awkwardly says, “Oops, sorry, boss.” His lips tilt upwards as he retreats downstairs. “I’m going to wait in the car.”
I hear the bell at the wooden door ding, and the door closes downstairs.
I find myself awkwardly patting her on the head and shoulder. Trying to offer some sort of comfort. It feels foreign but not entirely unpleasant.
“It’s not such a big deal,” I say gruffly, pushing the emotional woman back slightly and pulling a handkerchief from my pocket to wipe her tears and any fluids from her beautiful face.
Fuck, how is she looking so stunning when she’s crying?
Her eyes are glistening, her nose slightly red, lips trembling. I can’t tear my gaze away.
“It is!” Laura insists, her voice thick with emotion. “Victor, you don’t understand. This means everything to me. No one has ever done anything like this for me before. I can never repay you for this.”
I shrug my shoulders, feeling oddly uncomfortable with her gratitude. “Well, like I said, money is power.”
“This… this is about more than just money,” she sniffles.
I shrug off the confusion, trying to mask the unfamiliar churn of my stomach as Laura looks up at me, her eyes still shimmering with tears.
“Seriously, Victor, thank you. This… this is more than just bricks and mortar to me.”
“It’s just a building, Laura. A place to sell fucking books,” I grumble, feeling the urge to deflect the heavy emotional weight of her gratitude. My discomfort must be showing because she lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
She shakes her head, her earlier sobs transitioning into chuckles. “You’re terrible at accepting thanks, aren’t you?”
“Listen, wife,” I say, feeling a strange tightness in my chest. “This is all new to me, alright? I don’t usually do… this. Any of this.”
Laura pulls back slightly, her eyes still wet but a hint of a smile on her lips. “What? Show kindness? Generosity?”
I scowl at her. “Don’t push it.”
She actually has the audacity to laugh, a tinkling sound that does something funny to my insides.
“The big bad Victor Morozov, undone by a simple ‘thank you.’ Who would have thought?”
“Watch it,” I growl, but there’s no real heat behind it.
Truth is, she’s not wrong. I’m not used to this—being thanked, appreciated. Fucking hell, I’m not used to doing anything for anyone without an ulterior motive. But with her…
I think back to all the women who’ve cried because of me. Because I’ve hurt them, used them, discarded them. It’s never bothered me before. But the thought of being the reason for Laura’s tears, even happy ones… It doesn’t sit right.
Fuck. When did I start going soft?
This is dangerous territory.
Laura’s still looking at me with that big, olive-tinged eyes. Like I’m some kind of fucking hero instead of the bastard I know I am. It makes me squirm.
“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” I mutter, looking away.“It’s just a bookstore.”
“It’s not just a bookstore,” she insists softly. “To me, it’s everything—my dreams, my hopes, and all my joy. It’s the legacy of my family, wrapped up in these walls.”
An uncomfortable memory surfaces.
