MY EYES OPEN WITH a start, and I look around the room, careful not to move even an inch. There’s a heavy arm around my waist, holding my back to a warm body. I know it’s not Oswald, because he never held me so gently, and never did I feel this warm and safe with him.
I blink and look down at my stomach. The hand there is heavily tattooed with rings and markings, which I know for certain belong to Ziven. This hand has touched every inch of my body, sweetly, lovingly, desperately, and possessively. This hand I didn’t appreciate or accept when I should have. This hand should not be here.
I roll over in his arms, and his hand that was at my waist slowly slides up my back and gently fists my hair, so fucking gently that tears prick my eyes. Then his eyelids open and he stares at me. Silently, his eyes roam over my face, and he just watches me for a moment—watches me watch him.
“You come back to our place today,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“Ziven, I don’t think that’s a—.”
“Nyet, Quinn. You won’t live in another man’s home, sleep in his bed, or wear his clothes. Never again,” he rumbles, his voice low and deep.
“I’m in his spare room, Ziven,” I whisper.
His hand comes up, and I flinch as he cups my cheek. Then I lift my eyes back up and see pain radiating in his face from my obvious fear. His thumb caresses the apple of my cheek, and a frown tugs on his lips.
“I need to know you’re safe.”
I gulp at his statement. His need is obvious just by the inflection in his tone. I honestly don’t know if I can live with him, live with him and not have him as my own anymore.
I took him and his kindness for granted for so long, and now I want nothing more than to have him again. I know it’s a pointless desire, but I desire it, nonetheless.
“We aren’t the same people,” I whisper.
“No, we’re not, katyonak,” he whispers.
My body shivers at his use of the nickname he gave me so long ago. Kitten. He said that I had claws and that he liked them so very much.
“Just send me away somewhere, anywhere,” I whisper on a sigh.
“Never,” he vows, pulling me even closer to his big, warm, body.
“Ziven,” I say as my breath hitches.
“I’m livid—fucking furious, Quinn. I can’t promise you anything right now, except your safety. You’re safe in my home, and I’ll protect and take care of you. That’s all that I can vow to you today,” he murmurs as his thumb continues to gently stroke my cheek.
“It’s more than I deserve,” I say, whispering the truth.
Ziven doesn’t protest my statement. Instead, he shakes his head once, and his lips quirk up in the corner before he leans over and presses them to my forehead. It’s not a sexual kiss by any means. We’ve shared much more passionate ones, but it still sends a wave of heat throughout my body.
“Come,” he grunts as he releases me and stands.
I sit up, watching as he pulls his clothes on. Athletic shorts, only, leaving his chest bare. He looks so damn sexy, as he always has.
I’ve always been physically attracted to Ziven, which is probably one of the main reasons I was such a bitch to him. I had to try to despise him and to think of him like scum.
I knew the dealings of the Bratva, I knew that men like him cheated, murdered, stole, and tore families apart. But Ziven, at every turn, he’s shown me that he’s the exact opposite—I just didn’t realize it until it was too late.
Ziven walks over to me, his palm extended, and I slip my own hand inside of his. I’m not as groggy as I was when I first woke, but my body is sore and stiff, something I’m pretty used to by now. Nevertheless, it still takes me a few moments to get going.
“Do you need me to carry you?” he asks, his brow furrowed as he frowns and looks down at me.
“No, I’ll be okay. It just takes a few minutes, and my feet still hurt from yesterday,” I admit as I take a few steps away from the side of the bed.
Ziven keeps his hand wrapped around mine, not letting go of me for even the briefest of moments. I love it—much more than I should. Mika looks up from his place, leaning against the kitchen counter, and his eyes widen at the sight of us.
“I’m taking Quinn home,” Ziven announces. Mika’s eyes shift from him to me in question.
I smile at him, hoping that it’s convincing enough to assure him that I’m okay with this change.
“Take these, boss,” Mika rumbles, tossing a couple of pill bottles to Ziven. “Doc says she can have one of each at bedtime.”
“Yeah,” Ziven murmurs as he catches them and continues walking.
“Thank you, Mika,” I call out, turning my neck so that I can see him.
“Anytime, mishka,” he shouts with a grin.
We walk the halls of the building together, and I inhale deeply, savoring the scent of the hallways that are much sweeter than they ever were before I left.
Once we’re at Ziven’s front door, I freeze, staring at it and trying to gain the courage to go inside, something I didn’t think would be so damn hard.
“C’mon, Quinn,” Ziven grunts as he unlocks the door and steps past the threshold.
“I—I—.”
Ziven scoops me up in his arms and carries me like a child. He doesn’t set me down after he’s slammed and locked the door behind him. He walks swiftly to the back hall, where I know the bedrooms are.
I close my eyes, knowing that he’s going to put me in my room, maybe even lock me in, but he doesn’t. He sets me down, my eyes open, and I look around. I’m in his room.
“Ziven,” I whisper.
He shakes his head before he crouches down in front of me.
“You cannot tell me what you want right now. You are not in a place to do so. I understand you need to heal from whatever hells you suffered. You’ll do that healing with me at your side and at your back. You’ll do that healing right here in my bed, and in my home. There are no more walls between us, Quinn. I expect all of you, no more barriers,” he grinds out. His voice is soothing and gentle, yet firm and unyielding.
“Why are you being so damn nice to me?” I practically cry.
“Don’t you know, Quinn?” he asks, cupping my cheeks. I shake my head, unable to use my voice. “Because you’ve been mine since the moment I laid eyes on you. You’re mine now, too. It could take me years to trust you, but that doesn’t make you any less mine, katyonak.”
“I’ll make you trust me, Ziven. I’ll try so hard to be perfect for you, to be everything you want me to be. I’m so sorry for everything,” I ramble. I’m quieted when his forehead presses against mine.
“We’ll see, katyonak. For now, we get you better physically. That starts with this fucking train wreck of hair you have,” he grunts.
“Ziven,” I whisper, touching the tips of my hair.
“It’s awful, Quinn. I prefer your blonde hair and green eyes looking back at me.”
I nod because I want to be everything he prefers me to be.
I want to be perfect for him.
I want to make him happy so that he’ll want to keep me, forever.
I want to be flawless for him, to make up for all of the times where I wasn’t at all perfect.
Also, I want the red gone because it reminds me of how much Oswald loved it. I want every single thing that could possibly remind me of him wiped away.
“I’ll get some breakfast started. Go ahead and take a shower. You can wear something of mine when you’re cleaned up,” he murmurs, his lips pressing against my forehead before he stands.
I watch him walk out of his bedroom and just stare after him. He’s confusing me. A contradiction. He’s angry with me, he wants to protect me, and he wants to heal me—all while living together, me in his space and in his bed. I shake my head, trying to understand his words as I make my way toward his bathroom.
When I lived here, I had my own room with my own bathroom. I’ve never actually stepped inside of Ziven’s before. I take a look around. Its marble flooring and countertops are masculine and stylish, like the rest of his entire condo. But there are pieces of him everywhere my eyes look. His cologne, his aftershave, his deodorant, and his comb.
I start the shower and step inside, once the water has turned warm. I lather with his body wash. I know I smell masculine, but I also smell like him, and it’s comforting.
I wash my hair with his shampoo and debate using his razor to shave my legs. I decide against it, knowing that unless he’s thrown everything of mine out, I still have razors in my bathroom.
Once I’ve showered, I make my way to his closet and look around, inhaling his scent and just being in his space. I find my way to his dresser and grab a t-shirt of his and a pair of sweat pants.
Making my way into the living room, my wet hair dripping down my back, my body sans undergarments, and I don’t even care. I’m free, or as free as I choose to be, which is everything for me right now.
Ziven is standing at the stove, his bare back to me, covered in blue tattoos, the largest being a giant bear that spans his entire upper back. It’s detailed and so lifelike, it is almost frightening.
I’ve always wanted to touch it, always wanted to trace it with my tongue, along with the dozens of other tattoos that cover his lean body.
“Get some plates, yeah?” he murmurs without turning around.
I walk over to the cabinet and take out two plates just as he pulls a pan out of the oven. I take them over to him and set them down. Ziven reaches out and wraps his hand around my waist, squeezing gently, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. I let out a sigh. That’s exactly what I wish for it to be, for us to be, together and natural—organic in our relationship.
“Smells good,” I murmur.
“Eggs for protein, biscuits and that awful gravy you like for calories, bacon because I like it, and a banana for potassium,” he rumbles, listing off the things he’s made for breakfast.
I smirk at his explanation of the gravy. Creamy, white peppered gravy is not awful, couldn’t be awful if it tried to be. It’s good home style cooking. Not that I ever had anybody make homemade anything for me growing up, as I was raised by a single father who was worthless.
However, I used to go to this diner every Sunday, when I could afford it, and I ordered biscuits and gravy. I would go alone, but it was still the best biscuits and gravy I’d ever had in my life. Ziven showed up once and forced me to eat with him. He tasted my gravy and gagged, couldn’t understand how I ate it.
“You’re thinking of something good, no?” he asks, lifting his hand from my waist and letting the tips of his fingers skim my upturned lips.
“The diner in Cali, where I ordered biscuits and gravy every chance I could. I was remembering the time you came in there and just sat down, deciding to eat with me. Then you tasted my food,” I say with a smile.
“It’s like children’s art paste, katyonak, I don’t know how you eat it,” he grins, shaking his head and turning back to the stove. “Go and sit, hmm?”
“Okay, Ziven,” I murmur as I walk away from him.
A few minutes later, he walks into his small breakfast area carrying two plates. One is heaping with food, the other has normal portion sizes on it. Ziven sets down the one with heaping spoonful’s of food right in front of me, and I look from the plate to him with wide eyes.
“It’s so much,” I say in awe.
“Eat,” he grunts, setting his food down and then turning away to go back to the kitchen.
He returns only a few seconds later with a glass of milk for me and a coffee for himself.
“Thank you,” I say, offering him a smile as I pick up my fork.
My hand shakes when I reach for my food. It takes me three tries before I get any food on my fork, and then I’m shaking so hard that it falls off before I can get it to my mouth.
The combination of my own weakness, and the scrutinizing stare of Ziven from across the table is too much. It’s making me shake even harder.
Ziven drops his silverware to the table. It clatters around as he stands, and I suck in a nervous breath, afraid to move at all. Then he closes the distance between us and sits down right next to me, grabbing the fork from my hand and pulling my plate in front of him.
I watch with wide eyes and shock the entire time. What he does next brings tears to my eyes. He scoops up some eggs and holds the fork to my lips.
“Otkrytyy, katyonak,” he whispers, his eyes connected to mine.
I open my mouth, assuming that was his soft and gentle demand. Ziven slides the fork between my parted lips, and I close them around it.
He continues to feed me until most of my food is gone. Every bite is something different, never the same food twice in a row, allowing me to taste every item he prepared for me, all while his eyes stay pinned to mine. We don’t speak a single word.
“Thank you, Ziven,” I rasp when I’m so full that I can eat no more.
“I will heal you, Quinn. It is a vow that I make to you, a vow that I will not break. I will heal you.”
My eyes fill with tears at his words. I nod, unable to speak even a syllable. This man is so beautiful sitting in front of me. From the inside out, he is absolutely stunning, and I was absolutely horrendous to him for so long. I hate myself. I completely and totally hate myself.
“I called in a favor. I didn’t want you to leave, but the hair has to go,” he rumbles just as there is a knock at the door.
I watch him walk away, and a few moments later, a beautiful woman walks in. She’s a little older than me, probably in her mid-thirties, but with the body of a twenty-five-year-old—in a way that looks completely and totally natural. She’s a woman who takes care with herself, and of herself. It radiates from her.
“Let’s get taken care of,” she mutters, holding her hand out for me. I stand, taking her hand, and jump slightly when we start to walk and there’s a noise from behind her. She’s got a rolling suitcase that she’s pulling. “My supplies. We’re going to strip the color and then I’ll dye it. Eventually, we’ll get you back to your natural blonde.”
I nod and take her to Ziven’s room, where he instructs us to go before announcing that he’ll be in his office.
I pick up my phone, after closing my office door, and I call the only man I can confidently talk to. The only man that will understand my situation; or, should I say, one of the only men.
In reality, there are a handful of men that I know who have dealt with extremely broken women before. In this business, broken women are sometimes part of the deal. It is never pretty, but I’ve never had to deal with one on my own before, nor one that was mine.
“Ziven?” he asks.
“Maybe you can help me, maybe not,” I grunt.
“You won’t know if you don’t speak,” he murmurs.
“How did you fix your Ashley?” I ask, speaking of his wife.
Ashley was probably the most broken version of a woman there ever could be. More broken than my Quinn.
“What’s happened?” he asks, his voice full of concern.
“She ran from me again. I didn’t chase her. I let her go,” I begin as I tell him the story, the entire story.
“Ashley and me, we were different when she was hurt—and her story is so much different. I don’t know that I can be of much help,” he admits.
“I vowed to heal her, Yakov. I must do this.”
“Are you going to heal her to set her free, or heal her to be yours, your wife?” he asks.
“Does it matter?” I grunt.
“It matters. It always matters.”
“I don’t know. I want to keep her, but I’m fucking irate with her right now. It’s taking everything inside of me not to scream and yell at her, not to throw shit, and not to hold her down and fuck her because I missed her so goddamn much,” I admit, sounding like the desperate, idiotic, lovesick fool that I fucking am.
“You’re keeping her,” he chuckles. “Have patience, but don’t allow her to retreat into herself. She will try. Seduce her all day, every day. Don’t fuck her, but seduce her,” he offers. I sit and stare at the wall in confusion. “Touch her, hold her hand, skim your fingers over her body. Every move you make must be intentional, and it must keep her from retreating. Bring her pleasure when she’s ready, but don’t take your own until you feel like you’re ready; until your anger is gone and you can accept that this happened, it is over and done, and you can move on—together.”
“You should go into counseling,” I chuckle.
“Sergei, he’s the only way I got my Ashley back. His advice, it’s always been candid, yet truthful. I’m passing it to you. Although, Quinn hasn’t been my most favorite woman. I can see the potential in her, once she leaves her bitchy attitude at the door,” he admits.
“There is sweetness underneath that layer of bitterness.”
“If she is what you want, Ziven, and what she’s gone through is everything that you’ve described, it will take a bit of work,” he says.
“I know,” I agree.
I hang up the phone a few moments later, after asking about their new baby boy, Yurik’s, welfare. Yakov is a proud papa and gushes over the newborn.
Then he informs me that they’ve heard no murmurings from the Cartel since they retreated, but he’s not sleeping easy quite yet. Those fuckers always have something up their sleeve. He tells me to keep one ear to the ground and to inform him if I hear even the slightest bit of news on them.
Once I’m off the phone, I stare at my blank computer screen, wondering if I am truly the man to heal Quinn, or not. If she will be the woman I want once this is through? If I will be the man she desires after all? This is no small thing—this arrangement we have—this wanting her as badly as I do. I’ve never wanted a woman to be mine the way that I’ve always wanted her.
Is this all because I want what I can’t have?
I fucking hate not having control over this, over us. It pisses me off.