Page 20 of Paved in Hate

“Anytime, you know that.”

“I know, brother. Thanks.”

I walk on legs that were a lot steadier a few hours ago, and once I see the couch in the living room, I shake my head with a groan. I’m not ready to lay down on that damn thing, and I can’t stop wondering about how Katya is doing. Convincing myself that I’ll just take a quick peek to make sure she’s okay, I start up the stairs. I’m probably not nearly as quiet or stealthy as I think I’m being as I open the door and slip into our bedroom. She doesn’t wake up, though.

She’s left the small lamp on the nightstand on, giving me a clear view of her. Her back is facing me, and she’s curled up into a tiny ball with the covers pulled up to her neck. Honey blonde hair fans across the pillow, and my fingers move at my sides. The memory of those silky strands sliding along my skin hits me hard, and the scent of her immediately fills my nose. The sweetness making me want to run my tongue over her to see if she tastes as good as she smells.

Walking around the bed, I stop when I see something peeking out from the covers. Grabbing the end of it, I pull out a large sketchpad as a couple of charcoal sticks and colored pencils fall to the floor. Surprised, I lift it closer, studying the large bird that fills the page. It’s not the black swan of the Lebedev Bratva, but a different bird that I immediately recognize. I used to see them all the time in Moscow. She’s managed to capture the Eurasian magpie perfectly, even down to the blue coloring she’s added to its otherwise black and white body. The sketch is beautiful, and I’m surprised by how talented she is. I’m not the kind of guy who spends days walking through art museums, but even I can see the beauty in this drawing. It’s so lifelike, and the mischievous glint she’s managed to capture in its dark eyes is stunning.

Before I can think better of it, I pull out my phone and take a picture of the drawing. I’m not sure why I do it except that I like it and might want to look at it again. I really doubt she’ll want to sit down with me and show me her drawings, so this may be the only chance I have. With that thought in mind, I start flipping through the sketchpad. It’s filled with birds. She has several different species, but it’s obvious the magpie is her favorite. I take a few more photos of my favorites before setting the pad back down on the bed. Katya lets out a soft moan and rolls over, stretching her arms above her head. Apparently, she’d fallen asleep while drawing because her right hand is covered in charcoal and now so are my sheets. She’s also managed to smudge her cheek with it, and my desire to wipe it clean is strong enough to have me taking a step back.

Shaking my head to clear it, I grab an extra blanket from the closet and sit down in the rocking chair. Propping my feet on the ottoman, I sink back into the soft cushion, already feeling my eyes drift closed. There, a wedding night in a rocking chair isn’t nearly as sad as a wedding night on the couch downstairs. Happy fucking marriage to me.

It doesn’t take long at all for me to pass out, and when I wake, it’s to an empty room. After several seconds of my sluggish brain remembering everything that happened last night, I slowly sit up and run a hand over my face. The sound of the shower lets me know where my significant other is, and a quick glance at the room shows me that she’s made the bed and her sketchpad is nowhere in sight.

Standing up, I notice that she’s unpacked. Her clothes hang in the closet like she’s tried very hard to take up as little space as possible and to ensure that none of our belongings touch. One side is my dark suits and shirts, and the other side is a wall of various shades of pink and other feminine-looking colors. I run my hands over her clothes, pushing them apart when I spot a short, light blue dress that I can’t help but imagine on her curvy body. I hadn’t been able to see much of her, first in the wedding dress and then in the robe, but I’d seen enough to know that I want to see more.

The sound of the bathroom door opening has me turning around. She steps out, and when she spots me, she brings a hand to her neck and quickly looks away. My eyes run over the pink sweater dress she’s wearing. It’s not skintight on her body, but it still makes my damn mouth water at the way it hugs her tits and accentuates the hips I’d very much like to dig my fingers into. I follow the line of her shapely legs, ending at her bare feet. I get another glimpse of her pink-painted toenails, and when she starts to fidget, shifting her weight from foot to foot, I realize I’m still staring like I’m trying to memorize every detail of her. Hell, maybe I am. I can’t figure out what I’m feeling about her, and it confuses the fuck out of me.

“If you give me a few minutes to shower, we can go down and get some breakfast.”

“Sure,” she says, still avoiding my eyes. Before I can shut the door, she adds a quick, “Sorry you had to sleep in the chair last night.”

“I chose to sleep in the chair. There was a perfectly good couch downstairs I could’ve used.”

She surprises me by asking, “Why didn’t you?”

I’m not sure what to say to that. “I knew you were upset. I didn’t want you to wake up alone and in a strange place.”

Before she can say anything, I step into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. Apparently our marriage, short as it may be, is going to be filled with awkward questions and quick escapes into the bathroom when those awkward questions can’t be answered. Marital bliss, here we come.

Standing under the hot water, I will my headache to go away. I’ve got to stop drinking so damn much. Vodka is not going to solve my problems. I need to face this head-on and with a clear mind. Washing up quickly, I don’t even bother to jerk off or shave. An orgasm would probably make me feel better, but I can’t muster up the enthusiasm to put in the work required to get one. I try not to think about how goddamn depressing that is.

Noticing the new bottles lining the built-in shelf on the tiled wall, I can’t resist reaching out and snooping. Shampoo, conditioner, and some sort of body wash. Opening the lid, I take a whiff and immediately wish I hadn’t when my cock starts to harden. Goddamn vanilla and underneath that is some sort of wildflower-type smell that I can only describe as fucking delicious.

Jesus Christ.

It doesn’t matter that she smells good. I mean, most people do. It means nothing that the scent she chooses to wear makes me hard. Big fucking deal. Ignoring my obnoxious dick, I get my ass out of the shower and towel off. Throwing on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved black tee, I step out, determined to not start caring about the woman standing in front of me who smells like a freshly baked cookie and looks just as fucking delicious.

“Ready to eat?” I ask her, and when she gives a small nod and gets out of the rocker I’d slept in, we both head downstairs. I’m not at all surprised to see everyone lingering around the kitchen island, no doubt waiting to see if I’ve survived the night.

“Morning,” Roman says, pouring himself another cup of coffee before handing the pot to me. He lowers his voice so only I can hear and asks, “How’s it going?”

“Don’t ask,” I groan, filling my mug and then pouring another for Katya.

Roman gives a soft laugh and goes to stand next to Emily, who’s smiling up at Katya. “There’s plenty of breakfast left if you want some. We did pancakes and bacon this morning.”

“Thank you,” Katya says, speaking English again because she knows my brothers’ wives don’t speak Russian. Katya walks around to get some sugar for her coffee and when she goes for the milk, she stops when she sees the house rules on the fridge. It’s a very short list—no historical romances on movie nights and a vetoed rule that makes it clear blowjobs in the kitchen are allowed and quite possibly encouraged. The corner of her mouth curls up the tiniest bit before she mutters, “Good to know,” and then opens the door to get the milk.

When I look over, Lev lifts a pierced brow at me in ahey, maybe you’ll get lucky and get one of those late-night kitchen blowjobs.I discreetly flip him the bird and ignore the soft laugh he gives. Grabbing two plates, I hand one to Katya and help her fix a plate. We take two stools at the end of the island and pretend that everyone isn’t staring at us.

I look over and notice that Katya keeps looking over at my brothers, watching the way Roman keeps a protective hand on Emily’s belly, the way Lev kisses Jolene’s forehead, and the way Danil keeps smiling at Simona. Matvey’s at the end, eating a giant bowl of sugary cereal, but she shoots him a few curious looks too.

“Do you want any more?” I ask when her plate is empty.

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

I grab our plates and start to clean up as she scoots off the stool and follows me. One minute I’m rinsing off plates, and the next I look up just in time to see Simona accidentally knock a mug over. As soon as it shatters on the hard floor, Katya steps forward in a panic, not seeming to notice or care that her feet are getting cut.

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