Page 15 of His Prince

My heart clenches at the thought, sadness bubbling up inside of me. And at the same time, anger works its way through my system. I’m so sad about this entire situation, and yet I’m so fucking mad at him. How could I have been so stupid? How could someone be so cruel?

I’ll never understand it.

Making my way into the kitchen clad only in my silk pajama pants and t-shirt, I throw on an apron and get to work, pulling out pots and pans and finding a Russian breakfast recipe for syrniki on my phone. As I work on the Russian cottage cheese pancakes, I also cook up some eggs and bacon, wanting to make sure they’re well-fed, and I’m happy that my mind is, for once, not focused on my absent husband.

By the time the food is ready, the first wave of bodyguards meanders through the door. All of them look slightly unsure, but as soon as their eyes land on the food laid out before them on the island, theyrelax, scooping food onto their plates. As I watch the food slowly disappear, I start to become slightly nervous that I didn’t make enough.

I make notes on what to do differently for lunch as I grab a loaf of Russian black bread and start placing it in the toaster. When that finally lands on a serving plate, it’s scooped up almost immediately and shoveled into waiting mouths.

“Thanks, little husband,” one of them says, causing my cheeks to flush. “I haven’t had anything like this since my grandma passed.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, my voice a little watery at the appreciation they have for me.At least someone likes that I’m here, I think as I utter, “Come back for lunch.”

“We will,” the bodyguard near me says, nudging me with his arm and then ruffling my hair.

As they eat, they chat openly, growing louder with each second that passes, and I learn their names between chews and swallows.

The guy I saw smoking on the treadmill yesterday is Gael, a man who is half Irish and half Russian, hence the name. The one with the red hair and nose ring is Titus, or Titov, as his parents call him. The one who keeps nudging up against me and calling me little husband is Felix, or Feliks, from the guardhouse. There are others as well—Boris, Lev, and Benedikt. I plan on learning all their names, both their Russian and English counterparts and placing them at the forefront of my mind. I plan on endearing myself to them, making myself indispensable.

I won’t be thrown away by them like I was my husband.

Eventually Casey shows up, his eyes honing in on me, worry settling in his gaze as he takes me in. Unlike me though, he looks well-rested and happy, and my heart is full knowing he’s okay. But even still, in the depths of his eyes, I can see anxiety bubbling up just below the surface. He can tell something’s wrong. He knows me too well. We’ve been through too much together.

So I ignore the looks he’s giving me.

He knows. He fucking knows.

“So, little husband,” Felix says around a mouthful of bread and butter. “You look good in the kitchen, so very feminine. Where did you learn to cook? From your mama?”

“Well, no. She died when I was born, so I learned from our household cook, Aggie.”

“I see,” Felix says as Gael pulls out a cigarette and lights it up, holding a cup of tea in his hand.

“Does our little husband know how to bake as well?” Gael asks, puffing out a ring of smoke from his lips.

“He knows, you fool. He made us cookies yesterday,” Titus replies, winking at me. “Delicious cookies, just like a woman.”

“Yes, but Russian baked goods. I would kill for pirozhki.”

I pull out my phone and type that in, misspelling it several times until Felix leans over and gives me the correct spelling.

“I can do that,” I say and then look up and see all of them watching me intently.

“Why would you do this for us?” Boris asks, his shaved head glinting in the sunlight filtering in from the window. “Why cook and bake for us? We are nothing but soldiers.”

“Because I want to be useful,” I say as Casey moves up next to me and takes a seat silently at my other side. “And you deserve to be well-fed.”

“A man in the kitchen,” Gael snorts and then stubs his cigarette out on the edge of the plate. “The things we see here in America.”

Titus smacks him in the back of the head, and Gael frowns at him, the two of them conversing loudly in Russian. I can’t follow it, knowing only the basics of the language, so while they speak, Casey leans into me and whispers in my ear.

“You okay?”

“I’m great,” I lie, the first of many I’m sure.

He doesn’t look convinced, but I’m not ready to admit what a failure my marriage seems to be.

A cloud of smoke moves past my face, and I fan it away with my hand.

---