Page 19 of Conquer
“Maybe,” Vadim says before I can form a reply. “But anything you do will be a lot easier if you have this, hmm?” He pulls yet another present from nowhere—a blue and white polka dot fanny pack. Magda snatches for it, her eyes bug-wide.
“You can keep your phone in it, as well as your insulin supplies,” Vadim explains while helping her strap the bag around her waist. “It is very important that you keep them safe. Especially when you play. No one else should ever take your medicine but you. Understood?”
She nods solemnly.
“And don’t worry about your pony.” He breaks his stern, fatherly character long enough to ruffle her braids, his smile strained. “Mr. Ena will take care of all of the horses while you’re gone.”
“Okay!” She climbs onto the bed, looking nothing like the sickly girl rushed to the hospital four days ago.
“Help me finish packing,” I say to her gently. “And then we can eat dinner. We have an early flight tomorrow.”
“Flight? We’re going on an airplane?” Judging from her tone, a plane ride seems almost as appealing as riding her pony.
“Yes,” Vadim cuts in before I can reply. “Your very own private plane, all to yourself.”
I stiffen, biting back a retort. So much for the two commercial flights I’d booked last night. I know without bothering to ask that the bastard took the “liberty” of canceling them. I want to be pissed. Furious, even—but in this case, logic counters my irritation. It’s probably not good for Magda to be squeezed onto a plane with hundreds of other people, anyway. So, I force a grin.
“You’ll love it, honey. Now, why don’t you go get washed up for dinner? Vadim and I will be downstairs.”
I push past him and enter the doorway before I can fully process his startled grunt. He’s on my heels, his breaths tainting the air, steps unsteady.
“Finally,” he rasps once we reach the first floor. “We can talk—”
“No talking,” I hiss, striding into the kitchen. “Just boundaries. You don’t come near my parent’s home without permission. You don’t come near me. If you want to see Magda, you make arrangements for somewhere else, and I will bring her to you. Understood?”
I whirl to face him and suck in a breath.Damn.His expression is too open, and I’d give anything for the shelter of his wall. In lieu of it, the full extent of his gaze renders me weak. He’s never looked so open as his dark eyes blaze with hurt. My knees buckle, throat hitches. I can’t face him like this—so I turn to the row of windows overlooking the bay instead.
“I mean it,” I whisper, my gaze on the churning waters in the distance. “You don’t follow me—us. You don’t pop up unannounced. If I didn’t already tell Magda you’d come, I’d request you stay away from California entirely—”
“So you think to ban me from your world?” he demands, his tone that stormy, grated cadence that makes me quiver. “Rather than talk to me? I am sorry that I—”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it!” My voice breaks, and I hate myself. Still, it’s too late now, blinking back tears, I soldier on. “You accused me of trying to kill your daughter through reckless intent. Then you barred me from her hospital room. You told me to leave. Well, this is me,leaving.”
“If you would just listen to reason, I wouldn’t be forced to such measures,” he growls—yet in a tone far too low for Magda to hear from upstairs. Regardless, his heavy footsteps resonate like gunshots, advancing toward me.
I scramble to a distant corner, but he’s right on my heels. Too fast. I’m defenseless as he seizes my wrist in an iron grip, his breath fire against my ear.
“All I wanted was for you to hear me out,” he growls, his chest hard against my back, his hips pressing against my ass. “But it seems you only want to take from me—”
“I’m hungry.”
We both whirl around to find Magda standing in the doorway, holding It crushed to her chest, her new fanny pack still slung around her waist. And it’s as if we both flip some internal switch. I slap on a fake grin while Vadim swallows his fearsome scowl in favor of a neutral smile. He heads for the freezer while I turn on the oven and usher Magda to the dining room table.
“What are you in the mood for, honey?” I ask, ruffling her hair.
She taps her chin with a tiny finger and then shrugs. “Pizza?”
“Pizza it is.” Vadim diligently sets about warming her a meal while I cajole her into a conversation that I pray distracts her from whatever she might have overheard.
When the food is finally ready, we eat in a terse, awkward silence broken only by Magda’s oblivious, innocent chatter.
And I realize that my divorce from Jim, as painful as it was, was a cakewalk compared to this.
This is torture.
Unbearable agony.
Because in this case, I can’t just walk away.
