Page 70 of Married to the Don (Kornilov Bratva Duet 1)

Molly

At some point we move into his bedroom, and when I wake up in the middle of the night, I’m not sure where I am.

I sit up, not bothering to cover my naked body. Viktor has seen every inch of me over the course of the last few hours. Besides, the blankets are in a pile on the floor. There is nothing to cover up with.

I remember pushing the tangled blankets over the side, throwing Viktor down, and gripping the wooden post of the bed for leverage as I rode him. Heat floods my face and tingles down my arms. Who needs blankets when your skin is literally on fire?

I push the thought from my mind and look around the room.

It’s darker than the rest of the house. The walls are a deep navy and the wood is all darkly stained and smooth. In the yellowish streetlight peeking through the curtains, I can make out that the room is lacking any real sense of décor. The rest of the house was clearly done professionally, but Viktor’s room is just a bed, a dresser, and a closet. No personality, no sense of who he is.

Maybe that’s why he only ever came to me in my room. Because he doesn’t like his very much.

Viktor shifts slightly next to me, and I hold my breath. If he wakes up, I won’t be able to help myself. Just like I couldn’t help myself in the hallway.

Something about him calls to me. It makes it impossible to resist his touch and his warmth, and I find refuge there even though he’s the person I most need refuge from. Him and his brother, anyway.

He settles back into his pillow, and his breathing evens out to a constant, deep slumber.

Like me, Viktor fell asleep without any blankets and naked. Entirely naked.

His chest is broad and muscles arch and dip down his midsection towards the deep cuts just above his hips. I let my eyes trail even lower and then wrench them up when a now familiar warmth sinks in my belly.

Viktor is sculpted. He is the embodiment of power and masculinity, and just the sight of his naked body next to mine makes me want to stay. It makes me want to lay my head on his chest and curl my body against his side and let him protect me.

Because that is what Viktor wants to do, right? Protect me and my son. That is what he has said.

My question, however, is: what does protection look like to Viktor?

I turn away from him and slide my feet off the side of the bed, stretching my arms over my head as my toes touch the floor. I fumble around for my T-shirt and jeans before I realize my shirt is shredded and my jeans are still lying in the hallway. So, I grab Viktor’s white undershirt and pull it on. The hem just barely scrapes the tops of my thighs, but it’s enough.

On my way out of the room, I notice a frame on the dresser. It’s the only true decoration in the entire room, and it’s a picture of Viktor.

Viktor is only four or five in the photo, but I recognize the blue of his eyes and the wide set of his jaw, noticeable even while wearing a childish grin with his arms wrapped around a chubby toddler sitting in his lap.

Fedor.

Viktor is grinning and squeezing his baby brother and there is true joy in his eyes. The same spark of joy I see whenever I look at Theo.

Innocence.

I look back towards the naked man on the bed, wondering how long it has been since he has smiled like that. Since he has been or felt innocent in the slightest.

The thought makes me want to crawl over him and kiss him awake. It makes me want to draw a smile out of him, to work and dig until I find the well of happiness he must keep buried deep inside.

It is that terrifying thought that eventually pulls me from the room.

I pad down to my own bedroom, lock the door behind me, and pull out my phone. It’s four in the morning. Far too early to be calling anyone, but I have to speak to someone who knows Viktor. Someone who can help me.

“The hell?” a voice grumbles on the other end of the line. Matilda sounds like she answered the phone before she actually knew what she was doing and I immediately feel stupid for calling her.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly, half to myself. “This is stupid. I’m sorry.”

“Molly?” she asks.

I’m surprised the designer even remembers my name this early in the morning. We barely know one another, after all. One design project and a few shared meals do not make us friends. But she’s the only person I can think of who knows Viktor but won’t be afraid to tell me the truth about him.

“Yes, hi. I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I shouldn’t have called.”

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