Page 50 of Control: XXX Vadim 1
We return to the stables far too soon and change into our regular clothing. Night is just starting to darken the horizon by the time we approach the house.
“You head in,” Vadim says as he pulls into the garage. “I have some things to attend to. I’ll be back soon.”
His hand lingers over mine as I reluctantly leave the car, holding me until the last possible second.
“Where are you going?” I ask, suspicious.
He laughs. Such a sinful sound. “I think you enjoy it more when you can’t anticipate my actions,” he says smugly. “I’ll be back soon.”
He drives off, and I watch him go with a frown. The man is starting to know me too damn well. Enough for me to admit that he’s right—I enjoy the thrill of his mystery now more than ever.
Sighing, I enter the house, relieved to find the door unlocked. I can’t help but pout as I wander the spacious interior all alone. I could have begged him to take me, but even I can take a hint. He wanted to be alone.
Probably to head to some hotel bar and troll for another fake wife.
Knock it off, Tiffy,warns my inner bitch.You’re getting too involved with him. If anyone should be leaving, it’s you.
I should. I even linger near the staircase, toying with the idea of running upstairs, packing a few things, and then escaping into the dead of night with only a note left for him on a pillow or something equally as dramatic.
Instead, I keep moving, heading for the kitchen in a frantic search for wine. I round the bar counter and promptly scream as my eyes fall over a figure rummaging through the fridge.
He’s bulky, dressed in a scarred black leather jacket and jeans. A blunt mop of dark hair frames an angular, round face set with almond-shaped brown eyes. The man’s tan skin enhances their color to a piercing degree as he inclines his head to observe me. Unimpressed, he returns his attention to the fridge.
Assuming a thief would show more discretion in front of a potential witness, I try to think of another explanation for his appearance. Then I remember. “Are you Ena?” I ask as the man turns, closing the fridge door with his hip. In his arms is an array of more fresh fruit that he arranges onto the counter. My heart stutters as he snatches a knife from a nearby drawer and promptly halves an apple.
“You,” he says, his voice gruff and heavily accented with a dialect I can’t place. “Mr. Vadim eat—” He points to the fruit before lifting an orange and cutting it into slices. “Yes?”
“Y-Yes,” I croak, warily inching toward a stool. “You want us to eat—”
“No. No.” He faces me fully, his eyes narrowed. “Youmakehim eat—” Again, he points to the food. “Or his brain goes.” He adjusts his thumb and forefinger into a terrifying imitation of a gun. Then he presses the tip of it to his temple and mimes pulling the trigger. “You make him eat. Yes?”
“Yes,” I insist, my voice rasping.
“Good.” He marches to a nearby cupboard, surprisingly light on his feet despite his girth, which isn’t entirely composed of muscle. His build reminds me of a Sumo wrestler, and I realize why Vadim might use him as a bodyguard.
He opens a cupboard and withdraws a wooden bowl. As he neatly arranges the fruit inside it, I contemplate how rude it might seem if I escape upstairs. Not out of fear—mainly to hide. There’s a tension in his body that unsettles me in a way I can’t explain. I doubt he’d hurt me, but I get the sense that I am sorely not welcome here.
And not just in this house, but Vadim’s orbit in general.
“You go to brother dinner?” Ena grunts the second I start to shimmy in the direction of the hall.
“Um…yes,” I stammer. “With um, I think his name is Maxim and—”
“He should not go.” He slams his knife onto the counter and storms to the sink to wash his hands. “Brother makes Mr. Vadim go crazy,” he adds once he shuts off the water. “He goes for you.”
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
Hissing in disgust, Ena whirls to face me, and there’s no mistaking the raw anger lashing toward me like a whip. “You are toy in brothers’ game—” He jabs a finger in my direction. At the back of my mind, I register that he only has three remaining on his right hand. “You go. He stays. So go.” He points in the direction of the front door.
I’m too stunned to say anything. By the time I regain control over my mouth, Ena is already stomping through the kitchen, heading toward the exit himself. “You bad for Mr. Vadim,” he says coldly. “You go. He better.”
A second later, the front door slams behind him.
Overwhelmed, I reclaim my stool and bury my face in my hands. Maybe the disgruntled bodyguard is right? Playing this game with Vadim—no matter how fun it might be in the interim—is only going to end badly. His idea of a relationship seems to extend about as far as his credit card limit and as for me…
I’m not looking for anything serious. Because doing so would be a total betrayal to my new, improved independence freshly reclaimed after years stuck in my marriage with Jim. After nearly a decade, what do I have to show for it? A trail of broken dreams, wasted potential, and no survival skills to speak of, other than living off a mixture of my trust fund and alimony.
Jumping into another relationship—real or otherwise—could only be deemed as unhealthy at best. Pathetic at worst.
