Page 44 of The Russian Pakhan's Forced Bride
Of course, it’s not just about her body—I could get that from anyone. But with Victoria, it’s something completely different. She’s in my bloodstream, and I know there isn’t anything I can do to get her out again.
While the sex was phenomenal and absolutely something I need to partake in again, she’s returned to that previous state of trying her best to ignore me. Of pretending like that night didn’t mean anything.
The way she moves around the house like nothing has changed between us irks me. In the way she barely holds my gaze as if she hadn’t been begging me to keep going…as if my presence alone disgusts her.
She’s fighting me, regardless of how badly I want the opposite.
Before, when I thought she was a Nikolaev, I had been prepared for nothing but trouble. I was ready to deal with an unruly Bratva woman. But knowing who she is and having been given the chance to feel the depth of her passion, trying to wrangle her has been far too taxing.
Getting a glimpse of that genuine side of her only makes me want to see it more, but with her resistance, it seems so far out of my reach.
Almost like a cruel joke, this all comes at a time in my life when I’m trying. When I’m genuinely taking steps to get her to like me and to realize I’m not working against her.
She wants to see me as a villain so badly that it’s completely clouding her judgment and opinion of me.
Things could be so much easier between us if she’d just take a moment to see the truth and sincerity in my actions.
I’m well aware that I can be cold and ruthless. Emotionless when the time calls for it. But I can also be tender when I want to be. I can be understanding and caring, regardless of how it might contrast with the version of myself I often show the world.
And with Victoria, I find myself wanting to be warmer. I want to be different, and I want to provide her with everything she needs…even if that requires being vulnerable for once.
But now, I’m finding myself running out of solutions and options to try and make her see something more in me. I want to connect, but she won’t meet me halfway. She’ll scarcely take a step in my direction.
Before, I assumed sleeping together would solve things, or at least open the door to finding common ground with one another. But it isn’t enough, and it’s only making me want her more.
So, in a polarizing gesture to my usual habits, I set the table myself. I pick the right silverware and utensils and have the prepared food warming in the oven while I make sure the table looks how I want it. I pay more attention to the details than I normally would, hoping Victoria might pick up on those minute things.
With candles and wine on ice sitting in the middle as the centerpiece, I already have our glasses poured, and much to my pleasure, it looks genuine. Almost like we’re a normal, domestic couple about to share a warm meal.
In all my years, I’ve never done this for anyone before. I’m not the one to dismiss the chef or any other staff for the night to prove I can do it.
But tonight, it’s all on me, and I’m determined to be better than she expects of me.
I want to show Victoria I’m not a common criminal who functions on cruelty. That I can provide so much more than just a roof over her head. It makes me feel at odds with myself, but I don’t care. I have to try to see if I want this thing to work for even a moment.
Eventually, Victoria walks into the room like she isn’t impressed or fazed by any of it. She casually grabs a glass from the cupboard and moves to the fridge, clicking the water dispenser on. She barely looks at me.
“Smells good.”
Even if her tone is less than thrilled, her even uttering a word brings me the slightest feeling of hope.
“Fingers crossed it tastes that way. I made it myself.”
Victoria hums absently to herself before sipping from her glass, not offering me much more to work with.
She doesn’t smile or tease…she just lingers.
I hate how her lack of enthusiasm makes me question myself. How it has me second-guessing the smallest things in ways I wouldn’t normally.
She holds more power than she knows.
“Take a seat, it’s ready,” I eventually say, keeping my tone light despite the subtle twist of uncertainty in my stomach.
I shouldn’t care…But I do.
I want her to like it, and I want her to just give mesomething.
Eventually, we make our way to the table, and I serve up our plates. I’m mostly satisfied with how the herb-encrusted chicken turned out, along with the seasoned potatoes and sautéed greens.
