Page 126 of Wicked Vows (Suvorov Bratva 2)

I hope things will come to an end soon.

Disgust makes me dig my fingers into my flesh.

How the hell can I hope for that?

Every time I’ve wished for something to end, something worse happens. Like when Jonas died. The hurt finally came to an end, but at what cost?

It merely catapulted me into the here and now—a brand new dilemma that refuses to be solved.

And so it will continue like a vicious cycle.

Forever.

When I squeeze my eyes shut, tears flood my face. They carve burning rivers into my skin and slide toward my breasts. After a second, the streams cool, and I’m left shivering. The bed creaks. I pull the blankets over my shoulders.

And then Pavel rolls over.

Frosted green gems peer curiously at me. He’s not quite awake yet, but his body is trying to get him up, eyelids fluttering to remain open. Once he registers that he’s looking at me, he sits up a bit.

“Rodnaya,” he whispers. “Good morning.”

“Morning.”

As he settles on his elbows, he cringes and drops back into the pillows. He holds his forehead. “What happened last night?”

You drank a lot. And then I fucked you.

I lick my lips nervously and look at the door. No one has bothered us yet. Nothing is happening. It’s so rare for nothing to be happening that it almost feels wrong.

When I look at my husband, I bite my lower lip. I can’t lie to him. Not for long at least. My tears won’t stay dried up for long.

Better out now than later. “We had sex.”

A troubled look passes over his face. “I don’t remember.”

My guilt doubles.

I’m trying to hide it. I’m trying to comfort myself at the same time. I’m trying to hope for better days while berating myself.

It’s such a mixed bag.

And I think I might break.

Until he touches my forearm. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” I whimper, taking his hand and pressing his palm to my cheek. “You didn’t hurt me at all.”

“You’re upset.”

It’s silly how angry it makes me that he can read my emotions so well. Then again, I’m not doing a great job of hiding it, am I? My heart lurches in my chest when I meet his gaze. Those pools can see right through me. I can feel how they penetrate my body, search every corner inside me, and seek an answer.

That’s Pavel. He wants to know everything. He wants to learn and shift and change.

And I think I want that, too.

The question leaves my lips before I’m ready to ask: “What are we doing to each other, Pavel?”

It must be on his mind, too, because his carefully curated mask snaps. Worry dances in his expression—then terror, then fear, then hope, and finally, affection. It’s the most I’ve ever seen him express. As soon as he’s done processing the emotions, he packs them up and puts them away.

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