I spend the next two weeks at home, recovering.
Or more accurately, trying to survive my mind.
Every day, I wake from a nightmare replaying the moment I fell, the exact moment the haunting sound of my leg breaking echoing in the air.
And every time, soothing hands wrap around me, pulling me close to a strong chest. A chest that I’ve grown so used to along with the compassion that comes with it.
A compassion I never believed Adrian to be capable of.
He didn’t leave my side during the first couple of days, but then he had to go back to his work. I don’t want to think about the fact that he’s going back to torture and kill people, that after caring for me, he went back to destruction.
But it’s not like I could stop him. Adrian made it clear that he enjoys what he does, and there’s nothing I can do or say that will change his mind.
Not having him around is hard. It’s even harder than I would like to admit.
Since I took Adrian’s hand and cried into his chest, something between us changed. The bridge I thought was ruined has been slowly building since that day. It might have something to do with his attentiveness or silent support, but he’s become a pillar in my life. He distracts me from my head and every vile emotion that comes with it.
But when he’s gone, all those emotions barge back in.
The walls close in on me as if intending to trap me in the confines of the dark box from my childhood. I keep stealing peeks at my ballet clothes, at the shoes and the leotards, and try not to break down all over again.
I deleted my Instagram account and all of my socials to get a reprieve from the outside world and the press.
Stephanie and Philippe have been calling and tried to visit, but I avoided their advances and changed my number. They’re associated with the world I can’t go back to. Seeing them and talking to them would only bring that fact to the forefront of my head.
Besides, after my injury, the entire crew had to start anew and delay the opening. I bet Hannah is ecstatic to play Giselle instead of me.
I lean against my crutch, facing the closet, looking at all of my leotards, tutus, tights, and ballet shoes. I don’t know how long I stand here, staring at the evidence of my ended career, but it’s long enough that my injury under the cast tingles.
Then I charge inside and bring every last piece of clothing down, tossing the hangers and the shoes. I try ripping the leotards with my hands and lose my balance, falling to the floor. I crawl to a drawer, yank it open, and grab the scissors. Then I cut through every piece of ballet clothing, destroying the muslin and tulle and everything I once considered beautiful.
I kill the remainder of the dream that was murdered for me.
Maybe this will help me get free. Maybe the walls of my apartment will stop closing in on me as if they’re monsters. Every corner of this place reminds me of ballet, of dancing, of rehearsing on my own until I exhausted myself.
When I first got this place with my extravagant salary, I felt proud to have a place of my own, to have accomplished this with my skills. But now, it feels like my custom-made hell. One I can’t escape.
I need to kill all the memories associated with ballet so I can live. So I can find another path for myself.
Even if the idea brings burning tears to my eyes.
Due to my injury, my contract was terminated with the New York City Ballet, and although I got a generous compensation wired to my bank account, I couldn’t care less about it.
I have a small fortune that’s able to sustain me for a long time, but it was never about the money for me.
Ballet was my defense mechanism against my screwed-up head. Now that I don’t have it anymore, how am I going to stay sane?
The front door clicks open, but I don’t stop ripping through the clothes. It isn’t until a shadow falls over me that I finally look up. I figure it’s Adrian, but it’s daytime and he never shows up before nightfall.
Yan stares down at me with a softened expression. It’s not exactly pity, but it’s something more subtle. I don’t ask why he has the code to my apartment since Adrian must’ve given it to him in case of an emergency.
“Don’t even try to stop me.” My voice is brittle. “I need to do this to get it out of my system.”
“Want me to help?”
My lips part. “Would you?”
“If you’d like.”
“Can you bring them all down?”
He gives a curt nod and methodically knocks down every hanger, skirt, leotard, tutu, and shoe. He even pulls out the drawers with my glitter makeup and jewelry, surrounding me with them.
As he does that, I cut through everything in sight, slicing it all to shreds. Yan stands there watching me with his eternal cool.
By the time I’ve cut through most everything, I grow lethargic, my anger and grief slowly subsiding. Yan is still in his usual position, hands crossed in front of him.
“Do you think I’m insane?” I murmur.
“I think you’re just in pain.”
I sniffle, even though there are no tears. I cried enough for a lifetime the day Adrian saved me from my own mind and hugged me. He held me like he wanted to protect me, like protecting me is his mission in life.
“Can you get rid of these?” I ask Yan.
“Will do.”
“The awards, too. I want them gone.”
“If you want.”
I pause, staring at the scissors in my hand. “Where does Adrian go during the day?”
I hate to admit that I miss him and his words, no matter how few they are. Since the day at the hospital, he’s been the one person who can get me out of my head.
It’s a strange change of dynamics. Before, the only time Adrian and I could get along was when he was fucking me or sexually punishing me. But during these past couple of weeks, his touch has never gone in that direction. He’s only held me, made sure I ate, and helped me shower and change clothes. He sat with me underneath my wool blanket as I watched a mindless movie and then maneuvered my head on his lap so that I was more comfortable. His fingers stroked my hair back in a way that made me nearly purr like a kitten.
I’ve been feeding off that care like a starved animal who’s never had affection.
“He works,” Yan says.
“I know that, genius. Where? With whom?”
“He mostly works at home with Kolya.”
I pause at that information. Aside from the first restaurant date, Adrian and I only ever meet here, so I never considered the notion that he has a separate home.
“He doesn’t go to do mafia things?”
Yan smiles at that. “He does those mafia things at home. He doesn’t go out unless absolutely necessary.”
For some reason, that makes me feel more at ease. At least he’s not in danger of being shot in the streets like all those mob bosses I read about.
And yes, I might have searched about the mafia’s history in New York. But the articles are filled with stuff about the Italian mafia and their hits. There’s little to no information about the Bratva. I’m not surprised, though. Taking Adrian’s secretive nature into account, I assume the rest of his organization is similar to him.
But I still haven’t been able to get those images of assassinated mob people out of my head, and I recently started having nightmares about Adrian suffering from something similar.
Wait. Does that mean I’m worried about him?
“Miss.”
I stare up at Yan. “Yeah?”
“Let me help you up.”
“I can get up on my own.” I get on my good knee, pull my crutch over, and lean all my weight on it to stand. Yan’s body is turned toward me, ready to catch me if I fall, but I manage to stay upright, keeping my cast off the ground.
“What about…her?” I whisper.
He raises a brow. “Her?”
“Kristina Petrov.” I haven’t talked to Adrian about his engagement since that night in the hospital, and part of the reason is because I wanted to live in this peace for a while. To not think about the fact that I took another woman’s fiancé.
“I believe he ended it.”
“You believe? As in, you’re not sure?”
“It’s better if you ask him about it.”
“Tell me, Yan. What’s going on?”
He runs a hand through his long hair. “You didn’t hear it from me.”
“Cross my heart.”
He smiles again, and I’m struck by how pretty he really is. If he hadn’t chosen the mafia life, he would’ve been a perfect model.
“So?” I urge.
“Remember when I told you Boss is expected to marry Kristina?”
I nod.
“Just because he wants out of it doesn’t mean he can. Not only is Igor, Kristina’s father, a powerful member of the Bratva who will take no disrespect, but the Pakhan himself is also against ending the engagement.”
My heart shrinks and any semblance of peace I managed to feel the past couple of weeks crumbles. “So, what? He will marry her?”
“I don’t know. He’s thinking of solutions to get out of it, but if he doesn’t come up with a reason that will satisfy both Igor and the Pakhan, he’ll be put in a bad position and might lose his power within the Bratva.”
My stomach churns and its contents nearly spill to the ground.
Either Adrian marries Kristina or he’ll lose his power.
I know exactly which option he will choose. He lives for power, control, and patterns. He’ll never sacrifice his work for someone like me.
Besides, I shouldn’t want him to. It’s not like I love him or anything.
My chest squeezes as I softly thank Yan and hobble back to the bedroom. He brings in large bags from the kitchen and gets rid of the torn clothes and everything in the closet.
As I sit on the bed, the only thing I can think of is how Adrian will marry Kristina.
The beautiful Russian Kristina, who was basically made to be his wife.
A dark emotion simmers underneath my skin, one even I don’t recognize, but there’s one thing I do recognize.
I need to stop him from marrying her.
Another week goes by and I fall into a loathsome routine. My lack of purpose is eating away at my soul. I’m so used to conditioning or rehearsing, and now that all of it is gone, I feel a hole eating away at my soul.
I try going out to the park and Yan accompanies me, sometimes with another guard named Boris. I hate it when Boris joins us, because Yan doesn’t act as carefree as when it’s just me and him.
Then I go back home and start dabbling in cooking to occupy my time. Adrian doesn’t like that, however, because my leg is still in the cast and he says I stand for too long.
But I need to do something; otherwise, I’ll go out of my mind waiting for him to come back.
I’ve become attuned to his footsteps. They’re heavier and more powerful than Yan’s, but still silent enough considering his build. Like right now.
His scent sometimes precedes him, or maybe I’ve gotten so used to him that I can smell him, even from a long distance away. I can get lost in that wood and leather scent, like it’s the only one I’ve ever smelled.
I scramble to my feet from my position in front of the TV and go to meet him. Adrian is removing his coat and hanging it by the entrance, revealing his white shirt and black pants. Not a day has passed where he hasn’t looked breathtakingly beautiful in a rugged sort of way.
Dangerous, too.
But I guess some part of me yearns for that danger, or I wouldn’t have fallen for him so easily. And I need that danger to make me forget about the black hole eating away at my soul.
Nowadays, I don’t get to see him for long or touch him enough. Well, I don’t touch him, anyway, since he’s the only one who does that. Even though he doesn’t leave until after I wake up, he usually spends the entire night on his phone, typing away. Sometimes, he steps out to talk to Yan and Kolya. He barely sleeps by my side and he’s stopped initiating sex.
From the day he barged into my life until the evening of my accident, he never once spent a night without fucking me. And now that the sexual touch is gone, I feel an emptiness like nothing before. I went years without sex with other people, but it never had the impact these past twenty-one days have. Actually, it’s been twenty-five since that day he fucked me against the wall.
And no, I’m not counting.
It doesn’t help that he’s getting more attractive, too much for his own good. Or maybe I’m just getting sexually frustrated.
Adrian releases a breath when he sees me in the entrance leaning my useless leg against my other one. “You shouldn’t put pressure on your injury, Lia.”
“It’s okay.”
He narrows his eyes.
“It’s fine. Jesus. Are you the vocabulary police?”
“Only when it comes to that word.” He reaches me in two strides and picks me up, carrying me and the crutch in his arms. It’s the closest I’m able to get to him lately, and that’s probably why I make it a habit to greet him at the door every day.
I wrap my arms around his neck and search his harsh but ethereal gray eyes and the light in them. There are exhaustion lines on his face, and it takes everything in me not to smooth the crease between his brows.
Yan refuses to divulge much about Adrian’s business, but I can tell he’s been overworking himself lately. If anything, coming here is taking more time and effort than he probably should give.
I want to ask about Kristina, but fear of his answer always stops me. What if I’ve been a mistress all along and I just don’t know it yet?
Adrian sets me on the sofa and places the crutch by my side. “Wait here. I’ll get dinner.”
“I ordered takeout. It’s on the counter.”
He raises a brow. “Are you finally listening to me, Lenochka?”
I lift a shoulder. “I didn’t like the scent of food when I was cooking.”
Adrian observes me for a second, and it’s intrusive, as if he’s peeling away the exterior and trying to peer at what’s inside. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being the subject of his interest. It always feels odd, yet strangely endearing, for a cold man like him to care about me.
He’s cold to the world, but not to me.
Then he strides into the kitchen. The TV is on, broadcasting some cooking show, but my entire attention is on his agile movements, on the easy and purposeful way he moves around the room, setting out the food with plates and utensils.
Soon after, I hobble to the table and he sits beside me with the containers between us. I ordered Lebanese because I had it in my teens, and it’s remained on my mind ever since. Since I can eat anything—and that’s not just limited to salad anymore—I’ve been stuffing myself like a pig. I don’t even know where I got the sudden appetite from.
Adrian doesn’t comment on my choice of cuisine, digging in without any fuss. Now that I think about it, he’s never mentioned disliking anything.
“Is there any food you don’t eat?” I ask.
“Not really.” He stares at his phone that’s lying on his lap.
“Not a fussy eater?”
“I didn’t have that luxury when I was growing up.”
I recall what he said about his mother being a mistress who killed his stepmother. That she was a villain.
“Were you poor?”
He chews slowly and swallows. I think he uses that time to consider his reply before speaking it aloud. “Not really. My mother was a doctor, but she didn’t like cooking, so I had to fix my own food.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. It’s better that way.” His gaze slides from the phone to me. “Are you a fussy eater?”
“I hate seafood.”
“Really?”
“I can’t stand it. I feel like I’m eating the sea’s cockroaches.”
That makes a small smile crack on his beautiful face. I love it when I’m the reason behind his smile. Could be because they’re as rare as hell or that he looks lethally attractive.
“No cockroaches. Noted.”
We fall into easy conversation about food and different cultures and I’m impressed by how much Adrian knows. He’s definitely more well-traveled than me.
After we finish eating, he takes the empty containers to the kitchen, disposing of them while still watching his phone. It finally rings and he picks up after a few seconds, his tone firm. “Volkov.”
He listens for a beat and his face relaxes as he answers with a thick Russian accent, “Name a time and place, Don.”
Don?
As in, the Italian mafia?
“I’ll see you then,” he says, hanging up.
When he returns to the living room, he appears less tense than he did earlier.
“You have to go somewhere?” I ask.
“Not today.” He pauses. “But starting tomorrow, I might not come over for a few days.”
“Why?” My voice is spooked.
“Business.”
“Are you sure it’s not because of your fiancée?”
He frowns. “I told you she’s no longer my fiancée.”
“Is it as easy as you make it seem?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Tell me, Adrian. Am I your mistress?”
“Why? What are you going to do about it?”
“I begged you not to put me in that position.”
His eyes darken, and I can see him wanting to put me in my place using his domineering power like the other times. I brace myself for it, but he just releases a long sigh. “You’re not.”
“How can I be sure?”
“You’ll have to trust me.”
“Yeah, right.” I stand up abruptly and the world spins. A strong sense of nausea hits me and I clutch my stomach from the force of it.
Adrian is by my side in a second, grabbing me by the arm. “Lia? What is it…?”
“I think I’m going to throw up,” I manage between gritted teeth.
Adrian lifts me in his arms and hurries to the bathroom, then carefully helps me lower myself in front of the toilet. I grab it and empty my dinner in violent heaves.
Strong hands stroke my back in soothing circles as my stomach releases ugly sounds.
By the time I finish, Adrian is crouching by my side and says with utter calm, “Let’s get you to the doctor.”
“Why?”
“I think you’re pregnant.”
