GHOST (Boston Underworld Book 3) (14 page)

“
T
alia has made
breakfast this morning,” Magda announces cheerfully.

“She has?” I question, my lack of excitement clearly deflating hers.

She nods. “She is getting better.”

“It always gets better before it gets worse,” is my answer.

Magda frowns and then moves her attention to the reports I’m working on.

“You will eat together this morning,” she tells me.

I cock my head to the side, and she smiles.

“You must, Alexei. You must reward her progress. It is the only way.”

“My time and attention is not a reward.”

“I think Talia would disagree.”

I shift uncomfortably in my chair and glance out the window. The seasons have changed so quickly now that she’s here. Tonight is the Christmas party. Which she will attend with me. And do her duties as my wife. And for this reason, I tell myself, I will go downstairs and indulge her this once.

I can’t have her moods changing when I need her to play her part.

When I tell Magda this, she frowns.

I ignore it and file my papers away before going downstairs.

Talia is in the kitchen, just as Magda said. And in a good mood, just as Magda said. I turn to Magda, who is trailing behind me.

“You should not have left her alone in there,” I warn.

Again, she frowns.

“It is not an act, Alyoshka.” She shakes her head. “She is getting better.”

“Until she finds a knife to set herself free.”

I do not wait for Magda’s response. Instead, I take a seat at the table, unsure what else to do. I usually dine in my office unless there is company. Magda delivers my meals, and I rarely give it any thought. But now, I feel uncomfortable. Out of place. Watching her move around the kitchen.

When she turns around and looks my way, there is flour on her nose and shirt. And some sort of batter tangled in her hair.

But also, a smile on her face.

I clear my throat to hide my own.

“Good, they are all ready now,” Talia says. And then she delivers a heaping plate of fresh waffles to the table, followed by a bowl of Strawberries.

I reach for one waffle, and she stares at me. So I take another. Magda does the same, and we all eat in silence.

During the meal, I watch Talia carefully. Her good mood dissipates quickly. Magda glances at me, silently telling me to do something. But I don’t know the answer. So we wait in stillness.

And eventually, Talia speaks. Trapped by old memories. Locked inside the darkness in her head.

“She made waffles that day,” she says, as though she is just remembering.

She blinks up at me with glassy eyes. “I should have known, because she made waffles.”

“Your mother?” I ask.

“Yes,” she answers, her fork clattering to the plate. “She never cooked. She barely let us out of the room. I should have seen it.”

“You couldn’t have,” I tell her from experience. “When someone is that far gone, they make you believe what they want. They fool everyone.”

Both Magda and Talia are staring at me now, and I look away. Pushing my chair back, I reach for Talia’s hand. She does not hesitate to give it to me. But the despondency has set in again, so she cannot walk. I lift her into my arms and rest her head on my shoulder while I carry her up the stairs.

I don’t know what to do with her. How to help her. And it weighs on me.

I can’t leave her alone, so I simply sit down with her and cradle her in my arms. She rests her face against my chest and relaxes. Her fingers move over the soft material of my sweater, sliding the material between her thumb and forefinger.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she says.

Live.

That’s what she means by those whispered words.

“You can, and you will,” I tell her.

She is quiet. Thinking dark thoughts. And I know that I need to coax them from her. I know that helping her means facing my own fears. That she will not recover. That I can’t ever help her.

I reach for her fingers and place them over the star on her hand. And without further insistence, she moves them of her own accord. Into a rhythmic pattern. Tracing the lines and my name, over and over again.

“Tell me about your mother,” I insist.

She meets my eyes, and hers are violent with emotion. More than I’ve ever seen in her before. It wants to break free, but she doesn’t know how.

“Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear,” I encourage. “You have only ever been honest with me, Solynshko. So be honest now.”

It takes her some time. Time to decide she trusts me. But that’s exactly what it is when she looks up at me. And I know it is not easily given.

“I hardly knew her,” she tells me. “She was a storm. And we just tried to survive the bad days until the sunlight broke through.”

“You took care of your siblings,” I reply.

“I was the oldest,” is her answer. “She kept us locked away. During the bad times. In a room, together. We only had each other.”

Her eyes drift up to the ceiling, and she finishes. “And now, it is just me.”

I know what I need to tell her. The thing that is true, but I cannot bring myself to admit. That she has me. The words don’t come. So I comfort her in the way that I can. With my hands. Combing through her hair. Clearing away the tangles from her face.

She likes this. She will never admit it. Just as I will not admit I enjoy doing it.

“Tell me what you think you should feel about your mother,” I say.

This time, she answers without delay. “Sorry. I should feel sorry for her. Because she was sick.”

“But what you really feel is anger,” I reply.

She moves her gaze back to me. Examining me. Picking me apart. “Tell me about the woman in the bathtub.”

“This is not about her,” I deflect.

“It never is,” she replies.

“You need to allow yourself to be angry, Solnyshko. Release that anger. On me, if you want. But you have to accept that it’s there.”

“But you don’t,” she says. “That’s always the way it works with you.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“By lying to me and yourself?” she sits up and stares at me, the anger I asked for rising to the surface. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite. A selfish asshole.”

She tries to get up. To leave me. But I hold her in place. My own anger coming out to play.

“Yes, and you are a psychotic bitch.”

She tries to yank herself away, but again I don’t let her. I grip her chin in my hands and force her to kiss me.

“But you’re my psychotic bitch,” I murmur against her. “And I am your selfish asshole.”

Her resistance flees, and she places her hands on my face. Kissing me back. Stroking through my hair. But then she pulls away again, angry and hurt.

“They are just words, Solnyshko.”

And then she says the thing I don’t expect. The thing that guts me. Because it is the most vulnerable thing she’s ever said.

“Not when they come from you. Not then they aren’t.”

W
hen Magda
and I reach the bottom of the stairs, Alexei is waiting for me.

He is dressed as he always is. Gray trousers, black oxfords and a charcoal sweater stretched across his muscular frame. He is in the process of shrugging into his black coat and flat cap when he pauses to look up at me.

He takes a breath. And I feel a sense of relief pulsing through me.

The dress is one that he picked, Magda informed me. Not something I’d ever worn before. Black embroidered tulle with an exposed back. It’s expensive and flashy. Alexei wants to show me off tonight. As his wife.

A part of me questioned if it was because Katya would be there. But the response from him now tells me otherwise.

He moves towards me as if he can’t help himself. Magda smiles and steps to the side as his fingers find my cheek and skate down over my neck.

“You are so lovely, Solnyshko,” he tells me.

I reach for his waist and touch him too. My hands against his warmth. And for a moment, we just look at each other. I want to believe that I’m not the only one who feels this pull between us, but I’ve been wrong before.

I’ve been so wrong.

My heart is beating too hard. Too fast. And I need to think of something else.

“What does it mean?” I ask.

“What?”

“Solnyshko?”

He pulls me closer still, his lips hovering over my ear. “It means little sun.”

He kisses my ear and pulls away, resuming his activities of dressing for the outdoors. Once he has finished, he takes me by the hand and leads me from the door.

Franco is already outside where two separate cars are parked and waiting. He’s examining one of them, checking underneath and all around it. I swallow and glance up at Alexei, who is already staring at me.

“It is okay,” he tells me. “Just a routine safety check.”

I nod, and he leads me to the car and deposits me in the passenger side. Then he kneels down beside me and captures my leg in his hand.

“Give me your foot,” he tells me.

It is a strange request from him, but I don’t argue. I stretch out my leg over his muscular thigh, my heel dangling in the cool evening air. He removes the shoe and does the unexpected. Dragging his fingers down the center, the most sensitive part, before he removes a switchblade from his pocket.

“You will want this tonight,” he tells me. “But only a little bit.”

How he can know this about me is unnerving. But he does. He sees my anxiety at the prospect of leaving this sanctuary.

“Only a little bit,” he tells me as he drags the knife to the ball of my foot. “And only the first time, Solnyshko.”

I nod, and he scratches the sensitive flesh with the blade. Not even to draw blood. But enough to sting. And then he leans down and presses his lips to the curve at the top of my foot.

I watch in fascination as he puts the heel back into place and directs me to press down onto the ball of my foot. Until I feel the pain that I will need at some point tonight.

“Good?” he asks.

I nod, and he puts the knife away before buckling me in and closing the door. He speaks with Franco for a few moments, and then climbs inside with me, the scent of him mixing with the rich leather interior. The headlights of the car behind us follows as we leave the house, and I know that Franco is coming too. Though why he is driving separately, I’m not entirely sure.

“I thought it would be more comfortable this way,” Alexei answers my unspoken thought. “It is a long drive.”

I nod and sink back in the seat, turning my attention towards him.

“It’s not a good name for me,” I tell him. “Solnyshko. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense to me.”

That’s the only answer I get before his hand is on my thigh. He glances at me, his eyes moving over me as his hand slides up. Further and further until it’s between my legs.

“Pull your dress up,” he instructs me. “I want to look at you.”

I do as he asks because I always do with Alexei. I lift my hips and bring the dress up so the material falls around my waist, giving him full access to me.

He isn’t shy about what he wants. He just takes. But with Alexei, it never feels like he is taking anything from me. But rather, giving instead.

His hand cups the matching lace thong and his thumb pushes the material against me. I don’t make a sound, but my hips jerk and inside I’m begging him for more.

I like it when he touches me.

When he makes me forget. And makes me feel alive too. His hand on me is large. And I feel safe with him. He doesn’t let me get away with anything. But he doesn’t hurt me either.

“You are wet for me already,” he says, his voice husky.

I don’t reply, and he doesn’t say anything else either. His fingers move the thong aside and slip inside of me. Casually playing with me while he drives. His eyes on the road, his forearm flexing as his hand moves inside of me.

My head falls back against the seat and my legs splay wider. The wife he dressed to look so classy right now looks anything but.

“Take your tits out,” he says. “I want to see them.”

I pull the material of the dress down over my shoulders, trapping my arms and forcing my breasts out. They are hard and aching when he reaches up to squeeze one in his palm, leaving me cold down below.

“Play with yourself while I watch,” he tells me.

I try, but swiftly give up.

“It’s better when you do it.”

He smiles at me and returns his palm between my thighs, giving me exactly what I need.

“Your foot,” he reminds me. “To give yourself the pain if you want.”

I do. And it only takes a couple minutes before I’m feeling on edge. Unable to tear my eyes away from Alexei. The way his wedding ring gleams against the steering wheel on his left hand. He wears it proudly.

Sometimes it’s still hard to accept that this man is my husband.

He’s more than that.

He’s my savior. My unwilling hero. And the thing that is most dangerous of all.

My hope.

“Be a good girl and come for me, yes?”

I do.

I come hard for him. And he pulls his fingers from me and sucks them into his mouth before placing his hand back on the steering wheel.

The car is quiet, except for my loud breathing as I come down from the high. He doesn’t speak. Or say anything else. Ask for anything else.

But I want to give it to him regardless.

I unbuckle and balance my knees on my seat, leaning over into his space. I kiss his throat and jaw, and then briefly, his lips when he turns into me.

My hand is fumbling with his zipper. His belt. I get them undone, and lower my head towards his groin. When I pull his cock free and get him into my mouth, Alexei grips the back of my head with his right hand, pushing me down further.

He drives, and I suck him off. My head bobbing up and down in his lap with the guidance of his hand. The insistence. He groans and then comes in my mouth.

“Swallow it all, Solnyshko,” he tells me.

My throat works around his cock, doing exactly as he orders. And only then does he release his hold on me, his fingers stroking over my face.

“Good girl.”

I put him back together, zipping him up and buckling his belt. And then linger in his space to kiss him on his throat once more. It’s a stupid thing to do. And it’s too much.

“Buckle yourself in,” he orders.

I move back to my side of the car, putting myself back together and buckling the seat belt. When I stare out the window, my throat is clogged, and I don’t know why.

Alexei’s hand finds mine, his warmth enveloping and surprising me.

“You are the perfect wife,” he tells me. “Perfect for me, Solnyshko.”

I look at him and nod.

I don’t know if it’s an insult or a compliment.