SOMETHING SMELLED LIKE PANCAKES. IT made my stomach churn.
I loved pancakes.
I rolled out of bed, brushed my teeth, and combed my hair, then padded out to the kitchen to find Christian at the stove, shirtless, his hair wet. I loved him like this, the casual side of him not many got to see. Like this, he was mine.
But when I wrapped my arms around his waist, he tensed. Uncertainty flickered through me. He’d been quiet the past couple of days, and an insecure part of me was obsessing over what it could mean. Things had been well since he’d opened up to me last week, but I hadn’t asked him for more, either. It was pathetic, I knew, but I was scared the next question would push him away for good. And to test it felt like toeing the edge of the dark.
“Are you hungry?” he asked when I stepped away from him.
I looked at the plate of pancakes on the counter and wrinkled my nose. “Not right now.” Grabbing the orange juice from the fridge, I poured a glass.
The next words out of his mouth caused me to choke as the first refreshing sip slid down my throat. “We should get married.”
I coughed, eyes watering. Slowly, I set the glass on the island and wiped some juice off my chin.
“I don’t think I heard you right.”
He turned to face me, his eyes deep and unfathomable. “I said, we should get married.”
My chest flared from hot to cold. “What?”
“You heard me, Gianna.”
My pulse raced. “We’ve only been seeing each other for, like . . . a month.”
He let out a sarcastic breath. “You’ve been mine for fucking years.”
The conviction in his voice fluttered through my blood, settling in my heart. The shock had thrown me off-balance, and I didn’t know how to react. I walked around the island to put some distance between us; to find some space to think.
I turned toward him. “I told you how I feel about marriage.”
He shook his head, his eyes flickering with something heavy. “You know those aren’t realistic expectations. Maybe for another woman, but not you.”
I hated that he was right. That eventually, if I did stay, all it would take was one man to be interested enough in me. It seemed Made Men just couldn’t fathom that a woman could remain single and happy.
My blood pulsed in my ears.
My hands were clammy.
“I told you, I would run.”
“And I told you, I would find you.” His tone was dark. “You know this is where you belong, Gianna.”
I’d never been fond of leaving, but I did know I couldn’t willingly go back into another marriage to a man I didn’t know. I only understood the edges of Christian, not the deep, dark center that made him, and until then, I’d never truly know him. But now that the shock had settled, I realized I didn’t hate the idea of marrying him. That sent a prickling sense of anxiety through me; it showed me how deeply I was under his spell. I loved him. And I feared what I would forfeit just to be with him.
I swallowed. “Proposals usually come with rings and bended knees. Sometimes, a nice dinner.”
“We both know, that would have made you panic.”
When did he learn so much about me while I remained in the dark about him? Bitterness bit at my chest. Why couldn’t he just open up to me? Was I not good enough? Too lowly?
“I wasn’t lying when I told you I wouldn’t marry again.”
“Things change, malyshka.”
I would have laughed if someone had told me Christian Allister would ask me to marry him just a few weeks ago. I would’ve never been able to fathom what it felt like to fall for someone, to care about them so much it hurt. Things had changed. I used to hate him, but now, I couldn’t imagine being happy without him.
“Why?” It rushed out of me, my eyes burning with emotion. “Why do you want to marry me?”
His jaw ticked in thought. “Some people might see you . . . differently by being with me unmarried.”
My heart dipped and squeezed in disappointment. This was all about appearances? I guessed I should have known.
“I don’t care how people see me.”
“I do,” he growled. “I don’t want anyone to think you mean less to me than you do. You might not see it now, but eventually, it’ll get to you, Gianna, and you’ll resent me for it.”
Maybe what he was saying was true. But, in the end, how much could I really mean to a man who refused to share with me the basic facts of himself? Who didn’t trust me? Who grew distant and closed off at the simplest questions?
“I can’t marry another man I don’t know.”
His voice was rough, dipped in something sharp. “I’ve told you more about myself than I’ve ever told anyone else.”
“That’s not a good enough reason for me to marry you, Christian.”
“Fine.” He shook his head, his eyes flashing with darkness. “How about because I love you, Gianna? Because I think I have since the moment I saw you? Because if you weren’t in this world anymore, I would find a way to take myself out of it?”
My heart stopped.
Went cold.
And then lit with fire.
We stared at each other, silence and the vehemence of his voice touching my skin with rough fingers.
“You don’t mean that,” I breathed.
“I meant every goddamn word I said.”
The pressure in my chest grew so tight it brought a rush of tears to my eyes. The only other person who had ever told me she loved me was my mother. And now, it felt like a light had popped and burst inside me, filling me with something warm, sticky, and possibly heartbreaking.
Indecision pulled me in two different directions. I wanted to give in so badly I ached. But the part of me who’d felt isolated, alone, unworthy in my past marriage stood firm in my decision. If I married him now, gave him all the cards, I’d never win. He would never give me more when he didn’t have to. I could see it in his eyes: full of fire but steady with conviction.
“I won’t marry another man I don’t know,” I said quietly.
His teeth clenched.
I gave him a chance to fill the silence between us.
He didn’t.
A tear ran down my cheek, and my throat tried to close around the words before they could escape. “I can’t be with you and only get half of you anymore.”
Something conflicted flared in his eyes.
I turned to leave, but his words stopped me.
“Try and leave me, Gianna.” It was a threat, but there was something else—something rough and untamed—behind it. Something close to panic.
My gaze met his. One last parting look, and then I walked out the door.
Once I was in the hall, my pulse jumped at the sound of a glass breaking. I imagined my orange juice pooling on his kitchen floor right next to where my discarded heart lay.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting on my couch, not sure what to do with myself or where to go, when my front door opened.
My eyes shot to his, but he didn’t hold my gaze as he shut the door behind him. He always held eye-contact. He’d gotten dressed, not even sparing the tie clip and cufflinks.
“You want to know what made me this way? Fine.” His voice carried something bitter. “I’ll tell you.”
He paced further into the room, stopped a few feet in front of me, and then let out a caustic breath, like he couldn’t believe he was doing this. Like he already regretted it.
My lungs grew tight with uncertainty, then inflated with relief that he was giving in.
“My mother would do anything for a few bucks, Gianna. Anything to get her high. Heroine was her drug of choice, but she was far from particular.”
I swallowed, now understanding why he’d been so unpleasant when he’d gotten me out of jail even though we’d met before. The drugs. He’d probably been disgusted with me.
“Somehow, she got mixed up with a pimp in the Bratva. We all knew when she had a client because they would always knock three times and it would shake the entire one-bedroom apartment we lived in. It was a never-ending cycle. Couldn’t get any sleep with the sounds of fucking going on in the other room until four in the morning.” He twisted his watch on his wrist. Once, twice, three times.
“You think I’m good-looking now?” His gaze filled with sarcasm. “You should have seen me as a kid.”
My chest went cold as horror bubbled up inside.
“A few of her clients seemed to be more interested in a pretty five-year-old boy than my mother. And she wasn’t hesitant to oblige them. You know what I remember as being the most irritating? I had a United States quarter I kept under my pillow. It was the only thing I owned”—his voice turned acidic around the edges—“and they always fucking touched it. Would pick it up, smile, and toss it back down.”
The backs of my eyes burned, a few tears escaping. I let them roll down my cheeks while he continued.
“Eventually, my mother remembered she had two sons. The money could really come in then.” His eyes flared with contempt. “That was the first man I ever killed, malyshka. Stabbed him in the back with a kitchen knife. I was seven by then. A couple of men showed up, disposed of his body, and she never sent anyone to my little brother again.”
I didn’t know if he expected me to be judgmental or horrified about what he’d done. I felt neither. Some men deserved to die.
A grimace touched his lips. “Nobody cleaned up the blood right. It just sat there for years, this red, lingering stain.” He finished it thoughtfully, as if he was picturing that stain right now. “Russians are superstitious, and eventually, they became too fucking scared to touch me. My eyes disturbed them.”
I moved to the edge of the couch, taking a shallow breath.
“But this fairy tale isn’t over yet. I think I was thirteen when she stumbled home, drunk or high, probably both. She fell on top of me on the couch, mistaking me for one of her clients.” A bitter breath escaped him. “She tried to fuck her own son.”
Bile turned in my stomach, rising up my throat.
“That was the night she fell asleep on her back on the floor. She started to gag, but instead of rolling her onto her side, Ronan and I stood there and watched her choke on her own vomit.”
My face went pale.
I covered my mouth.
He let out a mocking noise at my expression. “Sorry I couldn’t give you the white-picket-fence story you’ve been waiting to hear.”
I ran to the bathroom and threw up everything in my stomach.
