Page 10 of Conquer
Chapter Three
“Igot married young,” I blurt out once Francesca and I are settled into lounge chairs, positioned halfway between the house and the stable. From this position, we have a clear view of our charges, but are far enough back to let the girls play in peace.
In my hand is a glass of wine, while hers rests untouched, balanced on the arm of her chair. Lacking her restraint, I drink deeply as my eyes trace the contours of Vadim’s silhouette, visible from here.
“I was too young,” I add, lowering my voice for my audience of one. “So young, I had no idea who I was or what I even wanted out of life. I let the thrill of belonging to someone completely shape me. In the end, it almost destroyed me. But, you don’t want to hear about that,” I add with a forced, hollow laugh. “Listen to me, babble on about nothing. How are things on your end?”
“Good,” she says. But her brown eyes trace mine, too damn alert. Aware. There’s something in her expression that makes me squirm until, helpless, I find myself desperate to spill more.
“You’re not afraid?” I ask. “Of marrying Maxim?”
She averts her gaze from me and lifts her glass, taking a sip. “I was,” she confesses after swallowing. “I was terrified as hell.”
“But?” I prod, already halfway through my glass. Thankfully, I brought the bottle, leaving it perched against my calf.
She frowns. “He gets me better than anyone. And I may be young, but I’ve been through a lot. He gets me.”
I’m instantly drawn to the unapologetic nature in her tone. No bullshit, I suspect. No love-blind sugar coating. Just raw honesty.
He gets me.
“Does Maxim know you’re here? I have to say that I’m surprised you came over.”
A hint of unease slips into her weary grin. “He’s out of town,” she says. I remember the conversation I’d overhead a few days ago between Vadim and Milton—Maxim was in Russia apparently, dealing with some kind of business disruption. “I told him Ainsley, and I were going out today—but I didn’t say to where. Ainsley’s been begging me for the past two days, and Lucius promised to cover for me. We have about an hour before we need to head back, though.”
Lucius, I suspect, is the kind, older man who allowed Magda and I onto their property the other day. And his sudden leniency most likely has everything to do with the former’s charms. I look over to find her relishing in the attention from both her father and her new friend—a different girl from the surly, brooding figure who came here just over a week ago.
“Is there a reason you’re thinking about marriage?” Francesca asks, her tone gently probing.
With another sip of wine and a sigh, I relent. “Yes. There is a reason. A twenty-four-carat reason.” I’m eyeing the fake engagement ring on my finger, but who knows what Vadim would spring for as the real deal. Something obscenely expensive, I suspect, and the thought of it terrifies me. Denying him terrifies me. As afraid as I am of the potential downfalls, I’m quickly realizing that I don’t want to lose him. Not like this.
Because as volatile as his mood has been these past twenty-four hours, something tells me that one culprit is behind the shift.Irina.She said something to set him on edge, making him jump to a hasty marriage as his only solution.
“But I’m not ready,” I admit out loud. “I’m not.”
“And if Dima is anything like Maxim, you feel like you don’t have a choice,” Francesca says softly.
There’s lingering pain in her voice, alluding to a wound that I suspect is every bit as deep as the one festering in my heart at the moment. Sadly, I tilt my glass as my gaze finds the sole cause of my torment. “I’ll drink to that—”
“But,” Francesca adds without lifting her glass to her mouth, “You can’t have a relationship built on just one person’s rules. There has to be a give and take…” She trails off, her gaze fixated somewhere in the distance. After a few seconds, she shakes her head and sighs. “I don’t think you should let anyone pressure you if you aren’t ready. You’ll only lose yourself in the end.”
“It’s not that,” I say, feeling some need to defend Vadim from the picture my dancing around the subject is creating. “It’s just…”
I’m not sure just what point I’m trying to make. To avoid the subject entirely, I down the rest of my glass as the girls scamper around the paddock.
But the niggling, defensive feeling won’t leave. Finally, with a sigh, I’m forced to confront it. “I lost myself once,” I admit. “I swore to myself I’d never let it happen again.”
Francesca eyes me simply, her gaze conveying more maturity than her age should allow her to. “Then don’t,” she says, as if it’s that easy.
But in the realm of Vadim Gorgoshev, I’m not sure that anything truly is.
* * *
The second,Francesca and Ainsley leave, Vadim helps Magda cool down and stable Dasha while I watch from the safety of my lounge chair. Together, we finally return to the house, and I sense an even firmer boundary settling between us.
An ocean of emotional distance separates me from Vadim as we file into the kitchen, and he heads to the fridge, presumably to make dinner. He doesn’t look my way once, his shoulders rigid, his warm tone solely reserved for his daughter.
“Spaghetti?” he suggests to her while rummaging through various cupboards.
